Page 58 of Counterpoint
“God, Adrian, please!” He needed every second of this, every inch of Adrian in him, every bite. “Fuck!” The roar of his blood, the way Adrian hit him inside so perfectly. “Can’t. Gonna.”
“Good,” Adrian bit Dom’s shoulder through his shirt. “I want to feel you come, Dominic. You fucking beautiful man.”
Everything hazed and he screamed Adrian’s name, spilling all over the couch cushions underneath him. And for the first time in his life, he thought maybe being Dominic was better than Domino.
When Adrian pulled him upright, there was that loving concern that always made Dom’s heart ache. “Hey, you okay?” Adrian seemed to be searching his face, his hand so gentle against Dom’s cheek. “Babe?”
“Yeah,” Dom croaked. “That was just so fucking—” Perfect. He laughed as his heart and mind tumbled over and over. “I’m fine.”
“All right.” A peck on the nose, and Dom closed his eyes. “Let’s go get cleaned up, and I’ll cook dinner.”
The rest of Friday was spent laughing and eating, then snuggling on the same couch—though they avoided the cushions that were damp from Adrian’s cleaning.
“I stain-proofed them, but I have no idea if that stuff actually works against jizz.”
Dom laughed. “I guess that’s not something they’re gonna put on the can.”
Adrian pulled him close. “Might be good marketing, though.”
“You just call up the company and tell ’em. I’m sure they’ll love it.”
The laughter that poured from Adrian was contagious, as was the warmth, and Dom’s head spun again. He wantedthis, this companionship. What he’d glimpsed that Ray and Zavier had. Someone who understood him and needed him just as much. But living this meant no more band, no more touring. No more Domino.
Fingers touched his cheeks. “What can I do to chase away that sadness?” Adrian’s voice was thick.
Dom shook his head. “Take me upstairs and teach me joy.”
Adrian shivered, and there was that feather touch again, and those eyes so full of light, and something Dom didn’t want to name because it felt too deep.
“Dominic.” Adrian breathed his name, and it was a brand and a promise. He seemed to want to say more, but then drew Dom off the couch. “Let’s go.”
Chapter Eleven
Saturday, they headed into Manhattan. Dom was pleasantly sore from yet another round of Adrian fucking him deep into the mattress, and each step reminded him of that odd juxtaposition of fierceness and tenderness Adrian possessed. The orders and control and the soft questions that asked for consent.
Zavier was right about Adrian being a good man. And Dom had been right when, in Zavier and Ray’s house, he’d said he might fall in love. There was nothing for him to catch, no way to stop the plummeting fall he felt in his stomach every time Adrian smiled, or when Adrian had read clips of interesting news from his tablet while they’d shared homemade pancakes that morning.
“There’s a photography exhibition a friend told me about. Said some of her work was in it.” There was something sly about the way Adrian said that, about his smile that made Dom’s blood heat. They ended up in Chelsea at a gallery that was eerily close to the photography studio the band had marched into from the recording studio on Thursday.
Which seemed so very far away now. A dream, even. Domino’s snarls and smirks. Giving the camera the finger. All of it.
They had to let their eyes adjust when they entered the gallery. Even with powerful lights illuminating the photographs hanging on the walls, the brilliant summer sun and clear blue day had been brighter by far. And when Dom blinked away the sun, he was struck blind again—mentally.
The photographs, the whole exhibition, were pictures of skin and rope and leather. None explicit. All erotic. Adrian handed him a postcard with that same damned smile.
Strength in Submission, the glossy page read, with details of the photographer, Det Newhar, plus two of their works. “You know the photographer?”
“This is the first time I’ve seen their work,” Adrian said. “Though I did design a website for them.”
That was interesting. “You design websites?”
“Freelance, for the right people. Started doing that in California for extra cash. And I like the creativity.” Adrian pulled Dom to a wall of photographs, sepia in tone. Dark skin—a masculine chest—with leather across it and a sheen of sweat. Another with a cuffed hand, the side of a face, eyes hidden by fingers, but lips parted, almost as with a sigh.
Beautiful. Heart-stopping. Dom wanted to see those eyes. Hear if that was a moan or a breath. Know what the person captured—both on camera and by leather—had felt. His heart hammered against his chest. At the same time, he knew exactly the emotion. Felt them so viscerally, he trembled.
Adrian put his arm over Dom’s shoulder, pulled him closer, and the shaking stopped.
“Do I...”
