Xavier looked out at the packed crowd from backstage. They had to be over capacity.

El Molino had been built sometime after the 1906 earthquake and fire that had destroyed so much of the city. The building had started out as a theater but over the decades it had been bought and sold by various investors who had repurposed it with each sale. Sometime in the ’90s it had been turned into a warehouse, then had sat unused for a number of years until it was sold again. Somehow the stage had survived all the sales and remodeling, and the new owners had turned the place back into a club, adding poles to the stage for the dancers. Initially the club had done well until poor management and rising crime in the surrounding neighborhood sent it on a steady slide toward ill repute and seediness. It was only in the last couple of years that the neighborhood had seen a revival. The club had been put under new management, cleaned up and was currently enjoying the title of hottest spot in the city.

The popularity of the club was what had drawn Xavier in. That, and the lush semi-burlesque feel to the place. For his audition he’d used a track he’d first heard on an indie streaming station that played mostly European bands. The song, Dark Paths, was by Whipsnade, a 90s British band that had never gained much traction in the US. The group had split up a few years back, he thought, but the sound was still raw and sexual enough to get any crowd worked up. All Xav had to do was move to it.

He’d looked up the video while he was still working on fine tuning the routine and their lead singer was right out of a wet dream. The svelte, raven-haired vocalist was moody, angry and sensual all in one super-hot package that oozed sex appeal, both in the way he moved on the stage and how he sang. Xav hadn’t consciously imitated the singer, but he gave a few nods to his performance in his stance and the rough, almost tortured expression he threw at the audience in his routine.

It had not only landed him this gig, but the manager had liked it enough to request he do it every night.

The lights went down, and Xavier moved out onto the stage. Usually, a few layers of clothes were part of every routine, the peeling down was a slow build up to the climax. For this song, though, the clothes, or removal of them, was almost inconsequential. The whole dance was a tease. The long-sleeve black fishnet shirt showed more than it hid, and the painted-on leather pants were laced up the sides loosely enough to show a line of skin from hip to ankle. The first chords of the song slid out over the crowd, and Xavier moved with the music like honey poured from a jar.

* * * *

“You gotta see this, man. You’ll flip!”

Barclay Johnson Francis—former international porn superstar, now director and agent—had a grin on his handsome, dark-skinned face that lit up the gloom of the rain-washed street. Rayne Wylde had allowed himself to be led down this narrow, ill-lit passageway, assured that the Lexus was too wide and there was nowhere to turn around at the end. He wasn’t worried. He had been in more dangerous cities than San Francisco, and if there was any trouble, he was more than capable of getting himself out of it. Not that he thought he would have to. Clay, elegant in his casual suit jacket and pants, moved with grace in spite of his muscular bulk but one look from the big man would probably be enough to make most would-be muggers cast about for easier targets. They passed clusters of people chatting and laughing on the sidewalk as Clay led him toward the entrance to the club that was their destination.

The door staff were coolly efficient. After a few words from Clay, and a few taps on a tablet, they were ushered in, passing the waiting queue and were shown to a table, with a good view of the stage, in a booth that was already crowded. The venue was set up for an imminent performance. Rayne had caught a glimpse of dancers gyrating on the raised platforms as they came in. He managed a disparaging laugh as Clay settled in the seat opposite.

“Cage dancing?” he queried dryly. “I thought you were trying to shock me, babe. You’ll have to try harder than that.”

The lights went down, and the music began to swirl through the darkness of the club, quieting the chattering audience and drawing their eyes to the stage. Clay said nothing but his grin grew wider, and Rayne suddenly understood why. It had taken his travel-fogged mind a little while to realize the music was familiar.

“That’s…” he began, lifting an imperious finger toward the stage.

“Shhh…” Clay reached out and caught his hand, drawing it back down to the table, focusing him. “I told you you’d freak, man!”

Down below them on the stage, a lean figure melted from the shadows and the fog, pretty much as he himself always used to do. Dark Paths had been a traditional Whipsnade show-opener, and as Rayne settled back in his seat to watch the show it still sounded pretty good, over ten years since he’d written it. The visual accompaniment was quite a treat as well.

Rayne was mesmerized, elbows propped on the rail around the booth, hands folded under his chin as if in prayer while the golden-skinned, sinuous, blond youth writhed and disrobed on the stage. Unblinking, he followed every smooth undulation of muscle and flesh with silent, fascinated appreciation. A quiet chuckle escaped Clay, and Rayne let his gaze flicker to the other man’s face.

“Something funny?”

“Not at all. I knew you’d hardly be able to take your eyes off him,” Barclay answered with a smirk. “It’s a shame P.J. wasn’t up to this. He’d have loved it.”

When a young woman scrambled up from the crowd and lunged for the sexy little stripper, Clay laughed appreciatively and shook his head. Rayne sucked in a largely unnecessary breath as he watched the dancer bend her back down toward the stage. He had to draw his lips between his teeth to hide the extension of his fangs as the lad leaned over her in a suggestive pose, apparently running his tongue into her exposed cleavage. The dancer’s sun-gold hair tumbled forward over her neck, hiding his real intent but he pressed her back so far that her nipples escaped the confines of her tiny, tight, strapless top. Rayne caught his breath, not sure what he wanted most, the girl or the boy. The young man on the stage was coiled over her so that his spine arched, and Rayne could count every vertebra of his back, all the way down between the firm globes of his delicious arse. The thought of stroking his tongue into that smooth, waxed cleft, then turning to suck on the girl’s prominent tits almost made his cock jump out of the waistband of his low-cut pants.

When she drove her nails into the soft flesh of the dancer’s arms he had to look away. He was close enough to smell fresh blood, even above the sweat and perfume of the crowd. It was a scent that called to his damned soul. The flavor of life.

“Hot stuff, yeah?” Clay called out to him over the fading strains of the music on the club’s PA and the shrieks and whistles of the audience.

Rayne nodded agreement, but not for the reasons Clay assumed. He had not come here tonight thinking of his next meal. Now the lure of blood was reeling him in, even as a pair of security guys mounted the stage and peeled the woman off the blond dancer, letting him escape backstage.

“Wanna go to Nitrogen next?” Clay asked, apparently unfazed, as he rose to his feet.

Rayne shook his head, still fighting the extension of his dog teeth. The aroma of blood was making him dizzy.

“I’ll give it a miss if it’s okay with you. Gonna hang around for a while and grab a drink. I’ll get the doorman to call me a cab.”

Clay smirked again but all he said was, “Enjoy!”

* * * *

The energy of the crowd still coursed through Xavier’s veins as he stuffed the collected cash that had been thrown up on the stage or tucked in his thong into a money pouch. He examined the twin trickles of blood running down his arm and muttered under his breath. “For fuck’s sake. You couldn’t move any slower before pulling her off me?”

The security guy, Rod, who had escorted him to the dressing room, shook his head. “Hey, don’t blame me, you’re the one that let her get her claws in you,” he said in his typically unflappable way.

“I’m gonna need a goddamn tetanus shot or something,” Xav grumbled dabbing at the small cuts with a paper towel.

“You know, that little hellcat would leave stripes down your back,” Rod observed.

Xav just snorted.

“If you’re done being a princess?”

Xav flipped him off. “Whatever!”

He threw the paper towel in the trash and put his money in his locker, then pulled on a pair of micro briefs in a shimmery black fabric that covered not much more than the thong, and a pair of chunky heeled boots, before heading out to the floor to mingle.

The usual cluster of customers were hanging around the area just off the door that separated the backstage area from the main room. Xav put on a smile for them and flirted back with the ones that tried to get his attention, but he kept moving. From experience working the clubs he knew the guys hanging around the stage door were either broke and desperate, or drunk, or both. Drunk, he could handle but he was here to make money, not let people chat him up for free.

He made his way a little closer to the bar to a corner where several long sofas were placed in a cluster and customers sat drinking and admiring the dancers. One guy caught his eye, beckoning him over. Xav sidled over to him and leaned down so he could be heard over the thump of the music.

“Hey pappi, buy me a drink?”

“You’re beautiful,” the guy told him.

“Thank you. Dancing really works up a thirst.”

The guy seemed to catch on and signaled the cocktail waitress for a couple of drinks. She went to the bar while Xav sat and chatted. When she came back, she handed them both cocktail glasses. The customer’s glass was filled with whatever he’d been drinking before, and his own glass held ice water with a lime garnish and a swizzle straw made to look like a cocktail. He’d get tipped out at the end of the night for every drink bought for him.

Xav sipped the water. “Are you new in town? I haven’t seen you here before.” It was his standard opening gambit to get them to relax and talk. There was a certain rhythm to the hussle. Get them to buy you a drink, or two if they seemed especially anxious, then ask if they wanted a dance and, if they went for that, see if they wanted a private room. Most of the time he could get them to at least pay for a couple drinks and a dance, although it wasn’t every night he could get some guy to shell out the five hundred to go private.

His current client was an easy sell, and he wasn’t even halfway through his first drink before he asked Xav to dance for him. On his way back to the bar to request a favorite track, he caught a flash of sharp-boned profile and a tumble of sleek black hair from a client at the other end of the long glass counter. It was just a moment, lost among the countless bodies and eager faces thronging around the bar area. Some were people he knew, vaguely. Most of El Molino’s customers were regulars but there were plenty of tourists at this time of the year as well. The stranger looked familiar in a way that sent a spike of heat through him but was not anyone from his close circle of friends and co-workers. And now he was gone again, lost to Xavier’s view among the crowds of thirsty patrons.

He pushed the sensation of heat and excitement down and focused on the job, letting his hips roll in time with the pulse of the song as he returned to the area by the sofas. By the time he reached his mark, he was almost prowling, using arms and legs and his whole body to capture the sensual rhythm of the music, dipping and weaving around his mesmerized client. The man didn’t take his eyes off Xavier, his hungry gaze rolling up and down his body as Xav undulated around and over him, never quite touching. The club made its money offering exotic dances, but it was not a lap-dancing club and physical contact was at the dancers’ discretion and only in the private rooms. And from the look on his companion’s face that was where they were headed after this dance.

As he rose and turned gracefully to the beat, wiggling his backside in those tiny briefs for the client’s delectation, he caught sight of the black-haired stranger at the bar again.

And a shiver ran through him because the stranger, who was not a stranger, was watching him now, a glass in his hand though he did not drink. The lights caught on the sheen of his sleek hair and the buckles of his faux-leather jacket. Eyes that Xavier knew—even from this distance, were an impossible shade of green, like the slice of fruit in his mineral water—watched him with quiet purpose.

The shiver became a tremor, and Xav almost made a misstep but recovered just in time to stop himself stumbling, turning the movement into a part of the dance just as the rhythm of the song conveniently juddered and changed direction. Before he turned away, he thought he saw the man at the bar smile, a tiny quirk of his pale lips that was as close to humor as he was going to get.

He had to be hallucinating. Maybe something in the stuff he’d put on his arms was making him feverish. Because he’d just imagined that Rayne-fucking-Wylde was in his bar. And that wasn’t possible. Was it?

To test his hallucination theory, he did a slow turn, looking away for just a moment as he did. When he looked back at the bar a sharp stab of disappointment hit him. The singer was gone, probably never there to begin with. Well, this was turning into a weird night. He stifled a sigh and scanned the other side of the couches, gauging who might be a likely client to buy him another drink as the song came to a close and Ralf at the bar queued up an old number by En Vogue.

“Can we go somewhere a bit quieter, maybe?” the first patron asked hopefully, wafting a couple of fifties.

Xav opened his mouth to gently dismiss this offer, even though he needed the money pretty badly. Before a word could leave his mouth, however, another voice, close by his left ear, interrupted.

“Sorry mate, he’s taken.”

Xav turned his head so quickly he thought he’d given himself whiplash. His first, ridiculous thought was he’d been spot on with the height assessment. The speaker was a couple of inches shorter than him though he stood in a way that made the most of every single inch. That stare, which he’d imagined was enhanced by the cameras or studio lighting, was just as sharp and icy pale in real life, his eyes framed with the longest eyelashes he’d ever seen on a man.

“Who the fuck are you?” the first customer demanded, scowling. “I was here first.”

“And you’ve had your five minutes. Now fuck off and let the grown-ups talk,” the singer told him, shaking his head as if at the impertinence of the man.

“Holy shit!” Xavier exhaled, finally getting a word in, although a second later he silently cursed his typical eloquence and plastered a charming grin over the cracks in his composure.

The pale gaze never wavered but the sensuous, full-lipped mouth below it curved in a slight smile at his impulsive exclamation.

“Unholy shit, even!” Rayne Wylde remarked in a quiet, smoky tone that was unexpectedly lower in timbre than his singing voice.

Beneath the very eye-catching jacket, the singer wore a fitted black shirt in a gauzy material, with a hemline that stopped short of his waistband, and had the fingers of both hands tucked into the front pockets of his tight jeans, braced around the eye-catching swell of his crotch. He had a striking face, too, with good bone structure and a clear complexion that didn’t need stage makeup, although he was wearing a few strokes of kohl and a shimmer of silvery lip gloss. Though slight, he had an impressive ‘don’t fuck with me’ attitude that Xavier recognized all too well because he often resorted to the same defense mechanism.

Seeing that he had lost Xavier’s attention the other man called him something unflattering in Spanish. That got Xav’s attention all right. He spun around and plucked the money the guy was still clutching right out of his hand, at the same time giving one, sharp whistle while his other hand shot up in the air.

“Hey! You can’t—” The man made a grab for the money Xav had taken but Xavier had already moved out of his reach.

Like magic, two big men in tight black T-shirts appeared, seemingly out of thin air and grabbed the man before he got anywhere near Xavier.

“That’s my money!” the man sputtered indignantly.

“Consider it the cost of being rude,” Xav told him, giving a little wave as the bouncers did their job and hauled the guy off.

Xav spun around again, half expecting Rayne to be gone, but he was still right there behind him, looking vaguely amused.

“You’re Rayne Wylde.” Brilliant. Absolutely Brilliant. How much smoother could he possibly be?

“So I’m told,” the singer answered, unfazed by this astute observation. “I think I’m better looking, to be honest.”

His voice was sexy as hell, even more so with the edgy accent that you couldn’t fully hear when he was singing. He also had the cutest, upturned pixie nose.

“I’ve watched the Dark Paths video—and other videos of you live—about a million times. I don’t forget a face, even one I haven’t met in person. What are you doing here?”

“Having a drink. Watching cute guys take their clothes off. Mostly.” Rayne shrugged. “I came with a friend. He’s local. Thought I needed to experience some of the nightlife while I was in Frisco. Though he buggered off and left me at the first excuse.”

Xav grinned at him. “You think I’m cute?”

“I said, mostly.” The singer’s lips twitched, and he shook his head. “I’m kidding. You’re not cute.”

He waited a beat. Three beats. Xavier’s cheeks grew hot, but he was determined not to show that stung. Again, he caught a flash of that not-quite smile.

“You’re smokin’, actually.”

About every coherent thought abruptly vacated Xavier’s head. Rayne Wylde thought he was hot. Holy shit.

“Were you here earlier? Did you see my stage set?”

“I was, and I did. I came over to tell you how much I enjoyed your dance to my song.”

“You liked it?” God, he sounded like a stupid moonstruck kid!

“Yeah, though I hope you’ve got permission from my publishing company to use Dark Paths,” the singer said, with a deadpan expression. “They’ll come down on your head like a ton of bricks if they think you’ve skimmed them out of performance dues. They’re a bunch of tightwads like that.”

“The club handles all the licensing stuff, I’m just here to keep horny guys coming in the doors.”

“Lucky horny guys,” Rayne remarked and licked his lips.

“Did you want another drink?”

“I am a bit thirsty.”

Xav recalled that the singer had been holding a full glass at the bar but if he’d drunk it all he didn’t look as if it had affected him.

“If we stay here, I have to keep getting you to buy drinks, or dances.”

“I’m not hard up, if that’s what you’re wondering,” Rayne said, with a sharp-edged grin.

“It’s not that.” Xav chuckled. “If I talk too long to someone who isn’t buying, management gets pissy.”

Rayne nodded his understanding. “I’d like to take you out for a normal drink somewhere but I get it if you need to make money. What do you want to do?”

It was still early, and Xav had a full shift in front of him and a club full of dudes ready to give him their money, and yet, standing in front of the sexy singer with the smoky voice and intense eyes, Xavier’s plans for the evening abruptly changed.

“I was just getting ready to leave.”

“You always walk home in your undies?” Rayne asked, that bright-eyed gaze shifting down to take in Xavier’s long legs and briefs for a moment, then returning to his face. The not-quite smile was back on his lips again.

Xav held up the two fifties he’d snatched from the pushy guy. “This, and my tips from earlier aren’t bad for a couple hours. Let me get some clothes on, and we can go somewhere else. If you go left when you get outside there’s an alley with a side door. Give me five minutes, and I’ll meet you.”