Filming had started. Quinn stood at the side of the set, dressed in the buckled boots and red satin thong, tapping a supple riding crop on his palm.
“Scene One!” Gerry called on set. “Take twelve!” The crew yawned; the sound man popped in a new stick of gum, and off it all went again. Gerry sighed and bit his lip.
Quinn knew Gerry was chanting his stress management mantra to himself. He often did that when he and Quinn were in bed together. Quinn didn’t mind at all—it was a useful flag to let him know when he was using just enough kink. Or too much.
“Here we see Santa’s helpers,” came the seductive voiceover (actually Pam the sandwich girl), “looking after his reindeer.”
Quinn sneered at Tomasz. “Your cue, Adam Antler.”
“f**k off about the antlers.” Tomasz glared back. He was dressed
