Fuck fuck fuck, how he wanted. And it looked like Gardner wanted, too. It was too much, and he had to have it.

Their eyes were locked. Gardner tilted his head, a gesture, come here. Theo smirked, performing, trying to regain some sense of control, and shook his head, and crooked one finger.

You come, he thought. Give the fuck in.

And then he thought he might choke on the off-time thumping of his heart as Gardner did.

Gardner was none too gentle getting through the crowd. He shoved aside the man—entirely forgotten—in front of Theo, getting a bitchy look and then a hasty retreat in response. And Theo couldn’t blame the man. Gardner looked, for once in his life, a solid, confident threat. He was thick with muscle and taller than Theo remembered him, and there was something dark behind his eyes.

Something that screamed.

And then Gardner stopped, stood still, and those cobalt eyes flashed, once, and then shied away.

Ha, Theo thought. Not as tough as you pretend.

This was his world.

He was in control here.

He thought that, defiant, and ignored the voice which mocked him—a voice that sounded too much like his father—saying that he was weak, that he would never be normal, that he could never resist Jack Gardner. So the fuck what, he nearly shouted back, just let me, let me—

He reached out, one hand on the back of Gardner’s neck, one hand low around his hip.

Let me have him.

Gardner shook, a fine trembling, and Theo lined them up, hips and chests locked, and started to move, taking Gardner with him. Dancing in a club was altogether different from the dancing they’d done at school affairs, room between bodies and adult eyes watching for anything untoward, because nothing was like this, nothing was like this vertical sex, the hysteria, the need. Nothing was like fucking with your clothes on in front of a hundred other people.

Gardner exhaled. It sounded—agonized, and so fucking good, and Theo laughed low in his ear, and Gardner dropped his head to the crook of Theo’s neck, wild hair along the side of his face.

He wondered if they’d get to the begging.

“Fuck, Theo.” Gardner grabbed him, thrusting slow and strong. “Just—please.”

So that was a yes on the begging.

“You ever done this before?” His breath was soft on Gardner’s ear, and he was jealous and possessive thinking of him with anyone else—thinking about him wrapped up and sweating with Margaret, maybe—and then he bit the tender skin of his earlobe and sucked.

Gardner’s voice was almost too quiet to hear over the pulsing music of the club. “I’ve never done anything.”

A hot thrill ran through Theo, like victory, like a final confirmation of superiority, like ownership, and then a low, sweet bloom of something he didn’t want to call tenderness.

Responsibility.