Page 1 of The Broker

ONE

Noah

I’d never struggled so much to close a deal, and it had nothing to do with negotiating terms or one party being difficult. In fact, the man standing in front of me was as eager as I was to get this thing done.

The issue was the naked guy on the other side of the room.

The man’s wrists and ankles were shackled to the large St. Andrew’s Cross that was anchored to the brick wall, but he didn’t seem concerned about his restraints. No, his excited gaze was locked on to the woman approaching him, and when she reached out to run a hand across his bare chest, the man’s hard dick jerked.

The woman was fully clothed in a strapless pleather corset and matching knee-length skirt. Everything was so tight, cinching her waist to be impossibly small, it was as if an invisible hand squeezed her body. It forced her curves up, making her breasts threaten to bulge out over the top of the corset.

Normally I wouldn’t mind, but—

Goddamn, it was hard enough to focus right now. I didn’t need to add a nice, big pair of bare tits to my distraction.

“This was one of my first custom pieces,” Clay said. “It took me twenty hours, but I’m more efficient now. I shouldn’t have an issue meeting your client’s deadline.”

My gaze snapped back to the man before me.

The first time I’d met Clay Crandall, I’d struggled to believe him when he mentioned he made high-end BDSM furniture. The guy looked so reserved, so conservative, so... well—nerdy. Even down to the pair of glasses he wore.

He looked like the type of guy who was more likely to get off staring at spreadsheets than people in bondage.

But that was a rookie mistake on my part. I’d been in the lifestyle long enough to know better than to judge or make assumptions. There’d been all kinds of different people at the sex club I’d belonged to for years in New York. My first time here at Club Eros had shown me Nashville’s scene was no different.

I ticked my head toward the St. Andrew’s Cross, doing my best to ignore the couple playing there. “The pictures don’t do your work justice.”

Clay flashed me an appreciative smile.

I’d looked through the entire photo gallery he had available on his website. In a flat, two-dimension world, the sleek, tasteful furniture looked sexy, but in real life? It couldn’t compare. The furniture was stunning.

Without it, this side room of Club Eros was what you’d expect from a sex club. Its walls were red and the floor black, and the space felt... borderline average. Maybe even a bit boring. But the rows of black folding chairs had an aisle down the center, and it led your eye straight back to the stage-like platform.

Perched on it, two large wooden beams crossed in an ‘X’ and stretched across the brick wall. Even when the St. Andrew’s Cross wasn’t in use, the piece had to be a showstopper. It elevated this clichéd room into something that oozed sex and whispered about power. It legitimized Club Eros.

And it was exactly what the club in New York was looking for.

On stage, the woman was teasing her partner. She’d turned her back to him, rubbing her ass against his erection. When he moaned, she shimmied up the sides of her skirt over her hips, exposing her utterly bare lower body.

It was impossible not to let my gaze linger on the slit between her legs. I had come to the club to do the deal with Clay, not to play, but my dick throbbed with longing.

I hadn’t fucked anyone since the move, and it’d been a month. No, wait—it’d been longer. More likefivefucking weeks. My hand was getting quite the workout these days.

Clay eyed the couple but seemed... indifferent. Like this was something he’d seen enough times that it no longer held any interest for him. Or perhaps his disinterest wasn’t with the act so much as it was with the people performing it.

The man and the woman on stage were only a little older than us. Both looked to be in their forties, and each was decent looking. But they couldn’t compete with Clay’s boyfriend and girlfriend, who sat in the back row of folding chairs, watching the impromptu show and politely waiting for us to finish our meeting.

My first time at Club Eros, it had been ‘exhibitionist night,’ and Travis and Lilith had taken the stage first. But before their scene began, a man, who I’d later learn was Clay, appeared with a piece of furniture that looked like a padded sawhorse. It had black legs, a black leather top that was trimmed with red accents, and silver rings dangled from multiple spots.

These rings gave Travis plenty of places to thread his rope through and tie his partner down. And while they performed, Clay stood to the side and watched like a boss supervising an employee.

The show had been straight fire, but more than once during it, my gaze had left Lilith’s naked body and drifted down to the bench beneath her. I was friends with the owners of my club in New York, and knew they were planning to add a dungeon. A piece like that would be a great addition.

So, I’d sought Clay out to ask where he’d bought it. He gave me his card, I sent the website address to my owner friends and found myself brokering the deal for a small commission. Four custom pieces—the largest order Clay had ever received, he’d told me. But he was sure he could deliver them on time.

I barely knew him, but judging by his exacting personality, I felt confident he was telling the truth.

“Assuming your client wants to proceed,” Clay’s voice was professional, “I’ll need fifty percent down so I can order materials.”

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