It took an effort of will to stop his fingers drumming against his thighs as Don stood outside the club, steeling himself to walk up to the entrance.
He expected to have to talk his way in; maybe bribe the guy on the door. He’d forgotten, for a moment, the effect his looks had on other gay men. It wasn’t fair, Don thought, that such a trivial thing as looks affected how the world treated you. It wasn’t right—but then, perhaps he should be thanking God for a face and a physique that opened doors instead of shutting them?
Prayers of thanksgiving didn’t seem appropriate in a place such as this, though. It was dark in the club, stiflingly hot, and indistinct music throbbed out a sound that seemed to be all bass. Shadowy figures moved in the gloom, dressed in straps and studs and yes, chains,
