Love is Always Write Anthology Volume 3

SINN
    by Adrianna Dane
    CHAPTER 1
    Will took another sip of his beer, leaned against the bar, and watched the dancers gyrating on the dance floor. His sights were fixed to the tall blond with the wild, naturally curly hair, more wave than tight curl. There was an intensity about him. His black T-shirt, darkened and drenched with sweat, clung to his tightly-packed chest. Black leather pants settled close to lean hips, hugged his richly-muscled thighs, enhancing every nuance of swivel, screw, and thrust. Every flex of his tight ass as he whirled on the dance floor, drew hungry, covetous eyes from more than one corner of the nightclub.
    Will was a patient man, perhaps more so than most. He'd waited this long, a few more hours wouldn't hurt. The cold draft soothed his parched throat. His gaze circled the club, studied the occupants, then returned to the dance floor. Laced leather thongs encircled the rocker's bulging biceps, slender whips of leather trail free lashing, swinging with the heavy metal rhythm. A grin crossed the blond's features as a Medusa's Thorn tune blasted through the room; the blond's voice–as lead vocalist screamed the lyrics. Sinn Midnite, up and coming rhythm guitarist, lead singer, songwriter.
    Fuck me, beat me, you'll never keep me. A strong bass and gut-pounding drumbeat pulsed and throbbed through the nightclub igniting the dancers.
    The blond surged forward and cupped a hand around the nape of his dance partner, yanked him forward and ground his mouth against his partner's lips. The shorter, younger man was engulfed by the more assertive, tall blond. A thin reed blown, claimed, and tossed about by the fierce tornado; it gobbled him up with little compassion. Lust - dance lust - blood lust. Crushing force. The music screamed, it jarred, it incited.
    No way to break me, no way to destroy me. It'll be me killing you first .
    Blinding yellow and red lights strobed across the dancers. Will remained intrigued by the potent foreplay occurring on the dance floor. The smaller man with the straggly purple and black hair was no match for the more dominant blond. The younger man easily gave way beneath the dynamic dark energy of the rocker. Will surmised there was no way for him not to break beneath the driving onslaught. The possession would be fast and it would be final.
    The blond knew exactly how to play him. Or would have, if he hadn't lacked self-control. On stage, Sinn's angry forceful immersion into music worked for him. Here, that very same passion worked against him. An instrumental genius, most certainly. But here, with this instrument in his hand–this instrument of opportunity required a steadier hand than his–a very different sort of skill.
    The blond cupped his prey's ass, drew him up close until groins and rigid, clothed cocks ground together. It was apparently too much for the younger man. Too much excitement, too much rubbing, too much handling. His eyes rolled back. Will saw it, expected it.
    The man shuddered as he came; then sagged against the blond. Frustration was evident on the blond's face. Disappointment. Aggravation. Too fast, too easy. He shoved the man away. Still recovering from the throes of his orgasm, the man stumbled back, trying to catch himself before falling to the floor and being trampled by the other dancers. Already forgotten, the blond spun away, the man of no further concern to him, already used up, as he sought out other, more challenging quarry amongst the club-goers.
    Sinn wore his sexual intensity well. He exuded an irresistible animal charisma that was difficult to ignore. Of course, his notoriety didn't hurt anything either. Arising onto the Seattle rock scene seemingly out of nowhere, with the wild looks and predatory nature of a panther, the voice of a seductive exiled angel, and the rowdy demeanor of Satan's spawn, he'd easily garnered attention and had quickly earned himself a rabid following.
    Finally he strolled off the dance floor toward a black cocktail table where he picked up and drained a glass of beer. A waiter brought another as though magically summoned and set down the full glass to replace the empty.
    Another man, black ponytail, dressed in black jeans and ripped white T-shirt strolled up to the table. He stopped and with easy familiarity he stroked a big tattooed hand across Sinn's leather-encased ass. Sinn turned toward him; they exchanged a few words. He drew close to the man, then lunged like a rattler and bit his ear. The man jumped