Dante - Daryl Banner Page 0,37

to the after party, which we’ll host here. If, uh, that’s okay? Or maybe not. Phew, this is overwhelming.” He blinks, then faces me. “What do we do now?”

“We edit, and we figure out what we want to tell that world.” I gesture at my office area—a giant table with my computer, artfully surrounded by an organized assortment of camera parts, and folders filled with model releases and paperwork. “And we don’t have much time to do it.”

Tye approaches the desk. “Feels like I’m … getting a peek behind the curtain of genius.”

“If you’re gonna be my more-than-a-client, you gotta stop glorifying my damn process.” I laugh as I take a seat at the desk and turn on the computer. “It’s a lot more tedium, meticulousness, and patient repetition than it looks like.”

“Wow.” He still looks fascinated, undaunted.

I smirk proudly. “Well, c’mon. Take a seat.”

Tye grabs an overturned crate, pulls it up next to me (very close), and sits. Our legs are pressed together as I start opening up his galleries full of photos on my computer. Before our eyes, we see all of our work in thousands of tiny thumbnails, from the very first night we shot together, all the way to our latest shoot where he broke Jaime’s toy wheel—which I ended up not having to pay for, since Jaime said it was old, and apparently only required a ten-dollar repair of a new shackle. “It doesn’t even feel like I’m looking at myself,” says Tye, amazed. “This is so strange.”

“Look at this first shoot.” I scroll through all of the shots, pointing. “Then the next. And the next, this one, when you first took off your shirt, threw it over your shoulder, and posed against the alleyway wall. See how your confidence grew? See how …? Look.” I show him a specific photo where he looks like some kind of cocky, teenage god, ready to turn the world upside-down. “Look at you. That look in your eye. That hungry look.” I chuckle in disbelief myself. “I told you, you’ve always had it. You just need to see it for yourself. This is what I’ve been saying all along. This is why—”

“Why you stalked me that one night at Manic Men, looking for me?” he teases.

I purse my lips in thought, then turn to him. “And we’re gonna pretend your ass wasn’t looking for mine, too?”

Tye gapes at me. Then rather quickly, he finds he can’t argue. “Yeah, I was looking. So what?”

“So I think we’ve been looking for each other … for a lot longer than just one night on the town.” I put an arm around his back, giving it a rub. “You ever been someone’s muse before? Because you’re sure as fuck mine … and you’re about to become the envy of our dark little corner of the world.”

“Doesn’t seem so dark anymore,” admits Tye, peering into my eyes with searching desire.

That look he’s giving me is a dangerous one. I have hours of editing to do, and I’m seconds away from shoving it all aside and having my way with the blue-eyed boy of my literal dreams.

“Can the edits wait a sec?” Tye puts a hand on my leg, then slides it to my inner thigh. “I … really feel like I need to be tied up and tormented a little bit before I lose my mind. I have anxiety.”

“Damn, boy,” I sing out.

“You’re like my only medicine, Dante.”

“Oh, I’m Doctor Dante, now?”

“You’re the only thing that makes me feel good and complete. Whole. Happy. Myself. You can call yourself whatever … as long as I’m yours to play with. Doctor. Daddy. Dom. Or just plain Dante.”

I smirk. “Boy, there ain’t a damned thing plain about Dante …”

And with that, I grab hold of Tye, throw him over my shoulder as he yells out in surprise, then carry him to the studio, already filled with a dozen ideas of what I’m gonna do to him.

19

The venue for Enchaîné is on the corner of 10th and Howard, with tall glass windows that show off the entire interior like a fancy fetish fish tank.

And the walls inside are filled with one grand masterpiece after another. Tye and I stroll through just the front of the gallery, stunned at the beauty of the pieces that have been curated for this event. I see the work of men and women I’ve admired and looked up to for years, which is pretty moving.

“I don’t feel like a muse,” murmurs