edited by

Sarah Frantz

Riptide Publishing

PO Box 6652

Hillsborough, NJ 08844

www.riptidepublishing.com

This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents are either the product of the authors’ imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual persons living or dead, business establishments, events, or locales is entirely coincidental.

O Come All Ye Kinky

Copyright © 2012 by Ava March, Alexa Snow, Elyan Smith, Jane Davitt, Joey W.

Hill, Katie Porter, Kim Dare, and L.A. Witt

Cover Art by Imaliea, http://imaliea.deviantart.com/gallery

Editor: Sarah Frantz

Layout: L.C. Chase, http://lcchase.com/design.htm

All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic or mechanical, including photocopying, recording, or by any information storage and retrieval system without the written permission of the publisher, and where permitted by law. Reviewers may quote brief passages in a review. To request permission and all other inquiries, contact Riptide Publishing at the mailing address above, at Riptidepublishing.com, or at marketing@

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ISBN: 978-1-937551-51-3

First edition

December, 2012

Also available in paperback:

ISBN: 978-1-937551-80-3

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About our

Charity

Twenty percent of all proceeds from the sale of O Come All

Ye Kinky will be donated to the Domestic Violence Project of the National Leather Association–International.

The goals of the National Leather Association (www.nla-i.com)

are “to role model the power and pride of all adults who

engage in Safe, Sane and Consensual sexual expression” and

“to support individual and organized political activism,

visibility, and education in order to eradicate stereotypical

beliefs, misconceptions, and media misrepresentation about

the Leather/BDSM/Fetish family in the community at large.”

The vision of the NLA-I Domestic Violence Project

(www.nlaidvproject.us) is to provide services, information, and referrals to victims of domestic violence throughout the

BDSM community and other non-mainstream groups.

To learn more, to join the NLA, or to donate directly to the

Domestic Violence Project, please visit their websites.

About

Christmas is a time of love and joy, and the New Year is a

time of renewal. But they are also times of stress and strife,

family drama, pressure and heartache—a potent mix of high

expectations and conflicted emotions. Add in power exchange

relationships, kinky gift swaps, and unconventional love in a

sometimes unforgiving world, and you have a formula for a

sizzling anthology of stories that tug at your heart.

Whatever your desires, we invite you to explore new fantasies

and old with these eight kinky tales of holiday happy.py

endings.

Tree Topper, by Jane Davitt

Martin’s new to the scene, and his sub Stan has recently

stopped taking him seriously. Their tree has floggers, clamps,

and cuffs underneath it, but will they ever be used? Frustrated

and confused, Martin knows it will take more than a star to

guide him on his way to becoming the Dom Stan needs—but

their path to happiness might be shorter than he thinks.

’Twas the Night, by Ava March

Percival Owen yearns for the nights when he can kneel before

his lover, even though no self-respecting gentleman willingly

submits to another. Michael wants his first Christmas with

Percy to be perfect, but is frustrated by Percy’s inability to ask for what he wants. The gift Michael offers Percy—and that

Percy offers in return—is the best Percy could ever hope to

receive: his will to submit.

Fireworks, by Katie Porter

Rachel’s job is taking her to Tokyo, which means leaving

behind her lover and submissive, Emma. When she summons

Emma for one last hurrah on New Year’s Eve, Emma answers,

hoping desperately to be able to break through her ma’am’s

emotional barriers and find the spark of love among the

glittering fireworks.

Candy Caning, by L.A. Witt

Nate is dreading the annual Christmas visit with his family,

during which they will ignore or insult his partner and

Dominant. Stephen tries hard to take Nate’s mind off the trip

with the promise—and threat—of a three-foot-long candy

cane. It’s a race to see if Nate’s resolve or the candy cane will shatter first.

Submissive Angel, by Joey W. Hill

After Robert found Ange bleeding in an alley, he employed

the man in his vintage toy store as an act of charity. However,

this Christmas, the eccentric young dancer will offer his

thanks—and himself—to teach a brokenhearted Master how

to open himself to love again.

Open Return, by Elyan Smith

Fifteen years ago, Zach left the small Midwestern town he

grew up in, confused and scared and determined to figure

out who he was. Now transformed, he’s drawn back by the

memory and promise of the dominant couple he left behind.

Laura and Scott are still together, and as the year draws to a

close, they explore old feelings and new ones as they discover

they’ve all been waiting for Zach to come home.

Ring Out the Old and In the New, by Alexa Snow

Recovering from a mugging on the London Underground,

Evan has barely left the house in weeks. His partner and Dom,

Russell, finally manages to drag him outside on Christmas

Eve, but it’s the surprise that Russell has waiting for him back home that helps Evan get past his trauma and remember

what’s important: being on his knees for the man he loves.

His Very Last Chance, by Kim Dare

Drew screwed up. So when his master, Kingsley, summons

him on New Year’s Eve, he knows he deserves the punishment

in store for him. Everything changed for Kingsley when he

overheard Drew running his mouth to his friends on Boxing

Day. Now, there’s only one way he can possibly ring in the

New Year: starting over fresh, either with an ending or a new

beginning.

For my play partners:

Thank you.

-SSGF

Table of Contents

Tree Topper, by Jane Davitt . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 1

’Twas the Night, by Ava March . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 39

Fireworks, by Katie Porter . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 74

Candy Caning, by L.A. Witt . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 113

Submissive Angel, by Joey W. Hill . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 144

Open Return, by Elyan Smith . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 207

Ring Out the Old and In the New, by Alexa Snow . . . . . . 244

His Very Last Chance, by Kim Dare . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 269

Tree Topper

Jane Davitt

star? Why not the angel I saw when I was getting

“M W “I D “A P

out the tinsel?” Stan rummaged around in the box

of tree decorations before straightening, an angel

in his hand. “Found it! Please, Martin? The star’s so boring.”

Martin suppressed a sigh. He yearned to bend Stan over

that box again and deal out a few swift slaps to Stan’s up-

thrust ass, but if he did, they’d end up in bed, the decorating

abandoned. He wanted the tree finished this afternoon.

Outside, it was snowing lightly, flakes spinning lazily through

the air, the perfect background to festive activities. Stan was

ruining the mood with his complaints about everything from

the size and shape of the tree they’d bought at the last minute, to the setting on the thermostat. And now, apparently,

Martin’s taste in tree decorations.

“I like the star.”

“Then why do you even have the angel?” Stan swept his

hand through his dark hair, all pout and petulance.

“It was my grandmother’s. I don’t feel good about

throwing it out, but I never liked it.”

Saying that aloud had probably doomed him to coal in

his stocking, but it was the truth. The angel had an insipid

smile and garish pink and gold wings. The star was an airy

1

twist of silver wire and crystal, breathtakingly beautiful when

it caught the glow of the tree lights.

“You don’t like anything I like.” Stan let the angel fall back into the box, forgotten, then turned, flirtatious now, his dark

gray eyes sparkling. “I bet you don’t even like spanking me

anymore.”

Martin caught himself before he could fall into that trap

and assure Stan that, yes, he really did. Stan would insist he

prove it.

“If we don’t get the tree finished, where can I put your

presents?”

“If I was five years old, not twenty-five, that might work,”

Stan told him, his chin tipped up at a challenging angle.

Martin wasn’t buying the attempt to seem indifferent.

Stan loved gifts, cooing over small tokens with genuine

delight.

“Just untangle the lights,” he said. “They go on first.”

“Every one knows that, stupid.” Stan paused as if waiting for something, then heaved a sigh, his shoulders slumping.

“Lights. Right.”

Jesus, he was sick of Stan’s games. If Stan wanted Martin’s

hand punishing his ass, why didn’t he kneel and beg for it

instead of fraying Martin’s temper with his whining and

increasingly unsubtle provocations? Martin would’ve made

Stan wait until they’d finished the tree, but he wouldn’t have

turned him down.

It was humiliating to know that Stan had minimal respect

for him these days. Affection, yes, but no respect.

Martin could still remember the incredulous joy he’d felt

the first time his hand had connected with Stan’s bare ass, all

nervousness lost in that crisply resounding slap and Stan’s

2

open-throated moan of pleasure. Delivering a spanking had

once been the pinnacle of his fantasies.

Now he thought of it as more of a stepping-stone, except

the next stone was out of reach and he was stranded at the

start of his journey.

Stan was sitting on the floor now, shoulders slumped,

listlessly untangling a strand of lights, masterfully depicting

dejection.

Martin bit his lower lip, dragging his teeth over it until it

stung. There was no point in decorating in a strained, tense

atmosphere, jarringly at odds with the carols playing in the

background. Hating himself for doing it, he cleared his throat

and prepared to compromise.

“I don’t appreciate being called ‘stupid,’” he said, forcing

his voice deeper. “I think you need a reminder of who you are,

boy.”Stan tossed the lights aside and winked at him before

composing his features into a semblance of penitence. “I’m

sorry, Sir. I know I’ve been behaving badly.”

Martin moved from the couch to a straight-backed dining

chair and patted his lap. “Over my knee.”

Stan rose and took a step toward Martin, a faintly

triumphant smirk on his lips. Resentment at the falsity of it

all turned Martin’s annoyance to anger. He snapped his fingers

and then pointed to the floor. “No. On your knees. Crawl to

me and beg for your punishment.” Stan arched his eyebrows

skeptically, the unspoken Really? making Martin flush and swallow hard to quell his embarrassment as his confidence

drained away.

Fuck.

“Oh, just get over here,” he said wearily.

He didn’t bother to peel down Stan’s jeans for the few

lackluster swats he administered. His cock was lax and

3

disinterested, the brief spanking leaving him weighed down

by shame at his failure to be the Dom that Stan deserved.

“I’m going out to get more tree lights,” he said when Stan

had flounced off his knee, as disappointed by his spanking as

Martin. “Throw the others out. They’re not worth the effort

of untangling.”

“You’re ready for a change, huh?” Stan’s smile was stiff,

hurt.“I’m talking about the lights,” Martin snapped. “It wasn’t

a coded fucking message. Jesus, not everything’s about you.”

There. Another rule broken. Good Doms didn’t swear at

their subs.

Martin ran his errand in a daze of misery. He’d told his

parents he wanted to spend Christmas with Stan, holding

firm in the face of their disappointment. They’d included Stan

in their invitation, but Stan had refused to go.

“I don’t do parents, okay? Mine suck and yeah, yours

sound nice, but I just don’t do that happy-families-around-the-tree crap. Go without me. I’ll be fine.”

At the time, choosing Stan over dry turkey and gentle

nagging about his lack of a promotion had been an easy

decision to make. Now Martin was regretting it. He’d taken

time off from his accounting job, Christmas Eve through to

New Year’s Day, sacrificing some weekends in November to

do it. Stan was at community college, studying graphic design

after five years of drifting from job to job, so he had three

weeks free.

It should have been idyllic: the two of them holed up snug

and warm, or braving the chill to ski the slopes outside their

4

town with a group of friends. Martin had printed off recipes

to try, planning indulgent brunches, romantic suppers.

He’d ordered online, too, erotic toys that deserved better

than to be called that, given how serious they looked, all black leather or shining steel. Maybe “tools” fit better.

And maybe it didn’t matter, any of it, because Christmas

was going to be a disaster.

In the line to pay for the lights, a display of red and green

bag clips caught Martin’s eye. The springs on the clips were

strong enough that, if used on flesh, they’d hurt like hell, the plastic teeth leaving precise, dark bruises behind. He reached

out to take a packet, then let his hand fall to his side. Why

bother? Stan wouldn’t let him use them. He paid for the lights

and headed back to his car, veering between blaming Stan for

not taking anything seriously and cursing himself for allowing

Stan’s attitude to persist. How could he have so deep a need to

dominate and yet be so inept at doing it?

When he’d met Stan at a party six months earlier, he’d

known what Stan was after five minutes talking to him,

despite his own lack of experience. A slow, powerful beat of

arousal had thrummed through him as Stan’s easy flirtatious

manner became deferential, appealing. They’d gone back to

Martin’s apartment, and then, oh God, it’d been so good.

Fantasies he’d never thought would come true fulfilled, Stan

responsive, encouraging, so understanding when Martin had

confessed that he’d never done this, not really, just wanted—

He wished he knew where his steps had faltered. It hadn’t

been a single defining moment, but a series of them. The time

he’d brought out a flogger and Stan’s eyes had widened, not

with anticipation but wariness, the sharp shake of his head

safeword enough. Or the night he’d cuffed Stan to their bed,

planning to torture him so deliciously, make that lithe body

5

strain at the bonds. He’d wanted Stan begging with every

squirm and whimper for a mercy Martin would grant only

when he was ready . . . but Stan had panicked with one ankle

still free, his chest heaving as he struggled for breath, and the cuffs joined the flogger on a high shelf.

Once released, Stan had brushed Martin’s concerned

questions aside with a shrug and a grin, his composure

restored so quickly that Martin wondered if he’d misread

Stan’s reaction to the bondage. “Of course you didn’t freak me

out. Cuffs? That’s D/s 101. It’s nothing. Just not in the mood

to be tied down. You know how it is. Another time, huh?”

That time had never come. If Stan wanted only the

occasional playful spanking, Martin would have accepted

that. His love for Stan didn’t center on Stan’s willingness to

sub for him. It was certainly a factor in why he found Stan

so attractive, but taken out of the equation, there was plenty

left to build on. But Stan had been cheerfully frank about his

previous boyfriends. With the exception of the last one, Neal,

who sounded like an asshole, Stan had enjoyed subbing for

them. From everything he’d said, what they’d done to him

had gone a hell of a lot further than anything Martin had

attempted.

So obviously it wasn’t the flogger or cuffs Stan had an

issue with, but the inexperience of the man using them.

Martin pulled into his parking space and stared up at the

apartment building. It was too cold to stay in the car feeling

sorry for himself, but he had to make a conscious effort to get

out, the boxes of lights tucked under his arm.

Once inside the apartment, he looked around for Stan.

Stan’s laptop was open on the dining table, its screen lit up,

but there was no sign of its owner. Martin called out a greeting as he walked over to the table to set down the lights.

6

“In here,” Stan yelled from the bathroom. “Nosebleed.”

“I’ll get some ice,” Martin called back, sympathetic but

not overly concerned. Stan’s nosebleeds were frequent and

messy in the winter when the heating was on around the clock

and the apartment air was dry.

He glanced at the laptop. Stan had Skype open; no video,

just an ongoing conversation in the message box. Martin was

a page-at-a-glance reader, so good manners made him avert

his eyes. Then his brain caught up to what he’d read. He sat in

the chair Stan had left pushed askew, and scrolled back to the

start of the conversation.

Stan had the right to talk to his friends and exes in private,

of course, but not this one. Not Neal. It wasn’t nosiness that

made Martin read, but an instinctive urge to protect Stan

from the Dom he’d left so abruptly, breaking a brand-new

contract in the process. Martin didn’t know all the details,

but that was telling in itself; Stan had shared plenty about

his other partners. Neal had been summed up in a few terse

sentences: “Didn’t work out, so I left him, my job, hell, the

state. I needed the space. I didn’t trust myself around him, and I sure as fuck didn’t trust him.”

Neal had initiated the conversation, peppering Stan with

trivialities until Stan had relaxed. Viewed objectively, it was

a clever seduction. The talk had eased into a playfully erotic

inquisition, Stan’s answers becoming shorter, his discomfort

with the intimate tone plain in the typed words.

Martin scanned the lines quickly, snatching at phrases,

skipping through twenty minutes of talk in as many seconds,

his heart thudding, a seashell roar in his ears.

I’m not needy. Martin gives me everything he’s got.

I’ve seen pictures of him on your Facebook, puppy. He’s cute for an older guy, but what’s a nice pain slut like you doing with a teddy bear for a Dom, hmm?

7

I’m not like that!

We both know you are.

I don’t like that sick shit you’re into. I don’t need it.

Lying to me? Really?

I’m going now.

Not until I give you permission. Tell me what the last thing was he did to you.

No.

Nothing to tell, is that it?

He spanked me. I pushed him all afternoon until he lost it.

Satisfied?

Hard? Did you cry for him?

No . . .

I would have made you scream.

He’s not like you. I love him. Didn’t love you.

Did I ever ask you to? You were mine. My slut. My slave.

My boy.

Yeah, and you blew it. I left. I’m Martin’s now.

So come back to me. I’ll punish you for leaving, but you’ll

love it, I promise.

Fuck off!

Oh, that was a big mistake, pup. What happens to you when

you’re disrespectful?

I don’t remember. I have to go.

Tell me. Now. Or I’ll send your teddy bear some pictures of

you. Nasty ones. The ones you begged me to delete.

You’re an asshole, you know that?

Tell me.

Fine. The soap for my mouth, the ruler for my hands, the

cane for the backs of my legs, and the small cage for as long as it takes me to remember what I am.

Good boy. Now come back to me.

8

No fucking way. Ever. I’m with

Martin saw a splash of blood on the keyboard from the

nosebleed that had made Stan break off his conversation.

Anger blazed through him, directed solely at Neal, who had

no business upsetting Stan by acting as if he were still Stan’s

Dom with the right to control him.

“I didn’t feel safe with him,” Stan had said when Martin

had pushed for more details. “The stuff we did, oh God, yes,

it was good. Extreme, but I loved it. I had friends who warned

me about him taking things too far, but I didn’t listen. The

day after I signed a contract to go 24/7 for six months, I . . .

realized they’d been right. Tore it up, left it on the bed, and

got the hell out. He didn’t try to get me back. Don’t know

what I would’ve said if he’d tried.”

“Then you moved here and met me,” Martin had said,

awkward in the face of Stan’s distress. He’d wanted to ask

more questions, but Stan was his now, safe, and it was clearly

upsetting Stan to discuss Neal, so why put him through that?

Stan had smiled, sunrise-bright. “Best thing that ever

happened to me.”

Martin eyed the laptop with loathing, consumed by a

longing to punch a man he’d never met.

God. He slammed the laptop shut with a hand that was

visibly shaking, stood, and turned to see Stan watching him,

his expression blank.

Silence stretched between them, pulled taut until it

snapped, leaving an empty, waiting space.

“I read it,” Martin said. “All of it.” His voice rasped in his

dry throat. “Do you want to go back to him? Back to someone

who can give you what you want, control you the way I can’t?”

“You didn’t read it right if you think that’s ever gonna be

what I want.” Stan walked over, his face pale, damp from a

9

recent wash. “I’m sorry. That was the first time he’s gotten in

touch since I left. I panicked—guess you noticed—but in a

way, it’s a relief. I knew he’d try something to get me back and now he has. It’s over.”

“He might try again.”

Stan shrugged. “I’ll set up a new account and block him.

He’s three states away. He won’t come knocking on our door,

don’t worry.”

“That’s not what’s worrying me.”

“Then what is? I’m not going anywhere until you kick me

out.” Stan’s eyes widened. “Oh God. You want me gone and I

just gave you a great excuse?”

“No!” Martin pulled Stan into a tight hug. “That’s not

what I want.”

Stan tipped his head back and met Martin’s gaze. “Then

what is? Because if we’re being honest here, things aren’t

working, are they? You’re not getting what you want from me,

whatever that is.”

“I want . . .” Martin paused, struggling for the perfect

words. “More,” he said finally. “I know I’ve scared you with

how far I want to take things, and I’d never push you past your

limits, but God, there’s so much we could do if you trusted me

enough. And you can, I swear it.”

Stan shook his head, his forehead creased with

bewilderment. “You’ve never scared me or come close to my

limits. I wish you would. Hell, I’ve been acting out for weeks

trying to get you to punish me the way I need.”

“But . . .” If Stan was bewildered, Martin was lost. “Okay,

let’s talk this out.”

He went over to the couch and sat. Stan followed him and

slid to his knees at Martin’s feet, his spine straight, his hands 10

resting at the small of his back. It was done with unthinking

grace, a simple pose Stan must have adopted a thousand times.

Martin swallowed, aroused by the sight, but

uncomfortable discussing their relationship with their

positions so clearly defined as unequal; Stan owning his

submission, while he just . . . drifted. If Stan went to his

knees, he should have been ordered there. “You don’t have

to do that.”

“I want to.” Stan’s voice was fierce, even angry. “Martin—

Sir—I want to.”

Martin ran his hand over Stan’s hair. “I love seeing you

like this.” It was a confession.

“Then order me to my knees more often!” Stan rolled

his eyes, caught himself and ducked his head contritely. “I’m

sorry, Sir. I didn’t mean to dictate to you.”

“Stop it!” Martin stood, leaving Stan on his knees.

“Stop playing at it when we both know you don’t mean it.

I’m not a Dom, not really. Just someone with a head full of

kinky fantasies. You don’t respect me and you’re just fucking

humoring me now with all that ‘sorry, Sir’ crap.”

“I’m trying to give you what you said you want,” Stan

said quietly, no hint of resentment showing. He was holding

position as if hoping his show of submission would bring

Martin closer. Instead Martin walked over to the window,

turning his back on Stan with a jerk of his shoulder he knew

was childish. “I’m trying to give you more.”

“What I want?” Martin swung back to face Stan,

shouting now. “I want to flog you, to cuff you, to make you my submissive, take it all the way, and you let me see that

wasn’t going to happen.” He could taste the bitterness of that

admission coating his tongue, making him gag. Stan’s head

sank lower, his shoulders curved inward, hands fal ing to his

11

sides. Martin could hear him breathing, smal , desperate gasps

as if Stan’s chest was too tight to allow him to fill his lungs. In a quieter voice, Martin said, “You laugh when I try to discipline

you, ignore any rules I lay down. I can’t do this anymore.”

Stan raised his head enough to meet Martin’s gaze, his lips

parted on a shocked O. Martin didn’t let him speak. “I love

you, but I can’t take the crumbs you toss to me and pretend

they’re enough to satisfy me. They’re not. I’m starving here. I

need you. I want to own you, use you, hurt you, oh God, I want to make you cry, it’s so good what we do together. I want you

on your knees when I come home, waiting, naked, a crop or

a paddle in front of you. Want you to tell me anything you’ve

done I need to punish you for and deal with that before you

get your first kiss. Want to make you earn the right to sleep

with me, never leave your skin unmarked.”

He couldn’t stop. The words poured from him, sharp with

longing. “I told myself that didn’t happen, not really, not for

men like me, then I met you and the things you said you’d

done . . . And I tried them and you just—you made me feel—

God, you made me feel inadequate. Pathetic. And I want to

be so strong for you.”

Stan straightened, his hands resting on his thighs. When

he spoke, his voice was tentative, as if he was choosing every

word. “Martin, I never—you were new to all this and I didn’t

want to shock you or make you do something you weren’t

ready to try, but I’ve never thought of you like that. I swear

it. Never.”

“Then why didn’t you let me use the cuffs on you that

time?”

Stan bit his lip. “Yeah, okay, I can see how you’d get the

wrong idea, but if you did it now, I’d love it. I’m ready. Will

you?”

12

“Not until you tell me why you panicked. You’ve got to

see that’s something I need to know before we try it again. If

it wasn’t me, was it the cuffs themselves? Or maybe you don’t

like your hands and feet being tied at the same time. I don’t

know. Don’t make me guess and get it wrong again. Tel me.”

Stan’s face lost all expression, his voice clipped at first,

then shaking after a few words. “Fine. It was the first time I’d been in cuffs since the night before I left Neal. The night we—

he—celebrated me signing that fucking contract. He tied me

down and he flogged me hard, no warm-up the way I like. But

I didn’t get scared until I used my safeword and he didn’t stop.

He wouldn’t talk to me or look me in the eyes. Like I wasn’t

real to him. Like I didn’t matter to him. And I was tied down.

I couldn’t get away. That was what scared me the most, not the

pain itself or the shit he did after the flogging. I was screaming my safeword until he gagged me, and when I couldn’t speak,

could hardly breathe, I was still screaming it inside my head.

And no, it’s not the one I use with you.”

Cold inside at the thought of what Stan had endured,

Martin crouched beside him, hugging his rigid body until he

began to tremble. Martin murmured disjointed, repetitive

phrases, telling Stan he was safe, loved, that Martin was there

for him, always. Stan’s distress gradually eased, tense muscles

slackening, as if once shared, the memories of his last night

with Neal lost their razor-edge.

“I was scared for a moment when you tied me that time,”

Stan whispered against Martin’s neck, long minutes later.

“Didn’t expect to be. I thought I’d gotten over it. Then the

cuffs went on and I couldn’t move. For a moment I was in that room with him, struggling and screaming and so fucking

angry and scared. But you—Martin, you’re nothing like him, I

know that now, and I want it all back, all of it—the bondage,

13

the whips, the clamps, the rules—but I need you to be a

fucking hard-ass with me because you’ve let me get away with

everything and I’m lost. Can’t find my inner fucking sub, and

I miss him.”

Martin pushed back Stan’s hair from the flushed, hot face.

Unshed tears made Stan’s eyes look huge. “Is that what you

want?” he asked. “My help in finding him?”

“Oh God, you have no fucking idea how much I want

that. Want you.” Stan put his hand on Martin’s face. “I know

you’re not like Neal. You’ve put up with me like this for weeks

and never lost your temper once.”

Martin couldn’t let that undeserved praise pass. “No, I

did, God, so often. I just walked away so you wouldn’t see it

on my face. Getting angry felt like failing. But I’d never do a

scene angry, you know that.”

“Some people would. He would. Did.” Stan rested his

head against Martin’s shoulder again, nestling in closely. “Be

my Dom for real? I know I’ve been a jerk, but please?”

Martin stroked Stan’s back, his thoughts chaotic, though

he kept his movements gentle. He was sure that short-term

it’d work, with both of them full of good intentions, but what

if he hindered Stan’s recovery by pushing too hard? So much

he wanted to do with Stan, but if it mirrored anything Neal

had inflicted . . .

Stan pulled free of Martin’s embrace and wrapped his

arms around his body, giving himself the comfort Martin

evidently hadn’t provided. “What do I have to do or say to get

a second chance with you?” The raw anguish in Stan’s voice,

so different from the lighthearted flippancy Martin was used

to hearing, jolted Martin out of his reverie. Shit, he’d left Stan hanging, waiting for an answer. How much else was he going

to screw up?

14

“Nothing. You’ve got it. Second, third—as many chances

as you want. Always.” He rushed the words out, trying to

make up for his long silence. He couldn’t let Stan down again.

He wouldn’ t.

Stan stared at him, his eyes intent, and let his hands fall to

his sides, opening up to Martin again. “Really?”

“Yes, of course.” Except, Jesus, all this could’ve been

avoided if he’d had the guts to force the issue and make Stan

open up about Neal instead of assuming his inadequacies

as a Dom were the problem. He’d always been like that,

shouldering the blame as if it were a positive trait, not thinly disguised cowardice. Easier to explain Stan’s fear of a flogger

and cuffs as being caused by Martin’s inexperience than to

be a responsible Dom, a caring partner, and listen to what

Stan wasn’ t saying about Neal. “But let’s be honest here, you deserve better than me. You can do better than me.”

“Even if that was true, and it isn’t, I want you. I love you.”

Anxiety still shadowed his eyes, but Stan was resilient,

able to bounce back from disappointments that would’ve

left Martin depressed for days. Stan blinked away the tears

he’d refused to let fall and leaned in to brush his mouth over

Martin’s. The light kiss was a clear signal that he’d moved past his emotional meltdown and expected Martin to do the same.

Martin drew back before Stan could kiss him again. “I

love you too, but that’s not worth much if I can’t see when

you’re covering up some major trauma.”

Stan glared at him, exasperation replacing worry. “Martin,

if you get all self-sacrificing and noble on me, I’ll cuff myself to the fucking bed until you change your mind. I should’ve told you why the flogger and the cuffs triggered me so we could

work through it together, not left you to guess and make two

and two equal pi. What we’re into doesn’t work unless we’re

15

honest with each other, and I wasn’t. I’m sorry. And if it’s

ruined things between us, I’m really sorry.”

“We both screwed up, and you’re not taking all the blame.

I failed you as a Dom and that’s all on me.”

Stan gave a relieved sigh. “Great, progress. We both suck.

Let’s forgive each other and move on. Me to my knees, you to

wherever you like because you’re the fucking Dom.”

Martin put his hand over Stan’s mouth. When he felt

Stan subside—gratifyingly quickly—he took his hand away.

“Okay. Let me just . . . don’t talk.” He began to organize his

ideas so he could give Stan clear, direct instructions. This

wasn’t the time to be indecisive.

“We start over,” he said finally. “For real, this time.”

“Yeah?” Stan gave Martin a hopeful smile that blossomed

when Martin nodded. “God, I can’t fucking wait.”

“That’s one debit for swearing,” Martin said firmly. “Try

again.”

And if it was going to work, this was when he’d know.

When they’d both know.

Stan’s lips parted on a sigh, his eyes closing for a moment,

his face slack with relief. “Yes, Sir.”

Martin nodded. “Better.” He could do this if he believed

he could, and for the first time in a while, he did believe.

After a steadying breath, he launched into his hastily prepared

speech. “We’re going to think about this for the next two

days. I’ll draw up some standing rules.” He had some in mind,

tweaked and refined over the years as his fantasies matured,

lacking only someone to use them on. “You’re going to give

me a list of what you enjoy and what you don’t, and a separate

list of anything you won’t do. I don’t want the second and

third list to be identical.”

16

He’d asked for that at the start of their relationship, but

verbally, and it’d gone from a conversation to sex, with little

resolved.

Stan looked intrigued. It beat tolerantly amused. “I . . .

yes, Sir.”

“Until Christmas Day, we’re going to be busy. I’ll expect

you to be well-behaved, but we’ll use those days to adjust. No

sex. We’ll take that off the table. You’ve used it to get around me too often. No jerking off either. The next time you come,

it’s going to be with my permission. The day after Christmas,

the rules are in place, and I’m going to use the rest of my

vacation to whip you into shape.”

“Literally, Sir? Please say yes.”

The yearning in Stan’s voice was such a fucking turn-on.

“You should see what’s going under the tree,” Martin told

him. “Yes, literally.”

There wasn’t time to buy anything more online, but he

could drive over to Newberry and pay Leather and Chains a

visit. He’d ordered from their catalog but never dared to visit

in person.

“Sir looks as if he has plans for his sub,” Stan said demurely.

“My sub has no fucking idea,” Martin said with relish.

“Now go over to the dining table, drop your pants, bend over,

and stay there until I decide I’m ready to give you what you

just earned.”

That got him another respectful, sincere, “Yes, Sir.”

The view was so enticing, Martin kept Stan there for

a full fifteen minutes before delivering a solid slap with his

hand—then told him to stay for another five minutes until

the imprint had faded completely.

Midnight on Christmas Day couldn’t come soon enough.

17

He slapped Stan’s ass lightly. “Get dressed. You’ve got a

star to put on the tree.”

“Do we have—” Stan broke off, ducking his head. “Sorry.

Old habits. Yes, Sir.”

11:58. The dishes were either soaking or stacked in the

dishwasher, and the packaging from presents had been put

into garbage bags with zero regard for recycling for once.

Martin stretched out, lazy and replete on the couch, and

watched Stan finish off a small dish of candy while playing a

new game on the Wii. Snacking didn’t seem to interfere with

racing a sports car.

The day had started early, with a bottle of champagne

popped at breakfast. The first glass had been mixed with

orange juice, but it’d still left Martin with a pleasant buzz as they’d settled into an orgy of gift opening. After that shared

bottle, though, they’d both moved on to non-alcoholic

drinks, and Martin was sober now and not particularly tired.

He wanted to do something. Stan probably expected the

new regime to kick in fully when they woke up, but that had

never been Martin’s intention. He’d completed the necessary

groundwork the day before. Stan had a short list of rules he

was expected to obey, including an extension of the ban on

jerking off without express permission, and a weekly routine

to follow. Martin had gotten hard writing it out. Stan had

scanned it quickly, color rising in his face, before walking

around the table to kneel at Martin’s feet, the piece of paper

still in his hand. “Yes. To all of it. Yes.”

Stan’s likes and dislikes overlapped with Martin’s for the

most part, though some of what Stan enjoyed was outside his

18

range of expertise or desire. Like fisting. Hot to read about,

but to do? Maybe sometime.

Midnight.

Martin sat up and said, “Come here,” feeling a thrill at

what was really his first order. Fresh start, both of them on the same page . . . yes, this was most definitely a moment.

Stan didn’t look away from the screen. “Sure, just give me

a minute.”

No doubts. “Now.”

Something in Martin’s tone must have resonated with

Stan because his head whipped around, the controller in his

hand fal ing to the carpet.

Martin felt the connection between them snap into place,

acutely aware of the shift in Stan’s expression from surprise

to excitement, then a quiet pleasure. Stan picked up the

controller again, but only to kill the raucous soundtrack.

Then he crawled across the room to kneel at Martin’s feet,

his breathing slow and steady.

“Good boy,” Martin said, and tapped his finger against

Stan’s cheek. “But I had to give an order twice. That’s two

debits. Keep track of them.” It amused the accountant in

him to think of Stan starting off each day owing nothing and

racking up debits or credits to be paid off in full at bedtime.

“Yes, Sir.”

“Don’t assume you know how you’ll clear your debt,”

Martin told him. “Ten debits could mean ten minutes of

corner time, your nipples clamped or weights on your balls.

I’d love to watch you try to stay still for me and punish you

for failing.”

Stan’s breath hitched, but he didn’t reply.

“Or ten minutes of my mouth on you and if you come,

the debits get doubled.”

19

That got him a fleeting upward glance.

“You can still talk to me,” Martin said. He supposed

subs only answering direct questions in a scene was a way of

focusing their mind and fostering respect, but as long as Stan

didn’t chatter or forget who was in charge, he wanted to hear

from him. “You’re mine. I want to know you, inside and out,

and I’m not a mind reader.”

“What do you want to know, Sir?”

Good question. “Well, there’s no part of your body off-

limits to me now; how does that make you feel?”

Stan rolled his shoulders, the restless gesture conveying

his reluctance to share, but he didn’t keep Martin waiting

long. “My body never was off-limits to you so it shouldn’t feel

different, but it does. I’m wondering what it’s going to be like when I’m naked and you look at me or touch me, and you’re

not touching my body, you’re touching your sub’s. It’s going to be different.”

“For me, as well,” Martin agreed. “So let’s try it. Get up

and undress. Put your clothes in the hamper and come back

to me.”

Stan moved through the orders he’d been given with the

slow fluidity Martin associated with him in this headspace. It

certainly wasn’t the way he usually moved, his hands gesturing,

fast and choppy, all animation and fizz.

Naked, a faint flush on his face, his nipples tight, his

cock hard, Stan was stunning. He stood for a moment, giving

Martin time to look him over, then, at Martin’s nod, picked

up his clothes and walked away.

The pale flesh of his ass was eye-catching, but Martin

wanted it marked in a dark rainbow, each bruise, each stripe a

confirmation of what they were to each other.

20

Stan returned and took up a position in front of Martin,

hands behind him so his chest was arched, offered up.

“Hands behind your head.” Giving orders and knowing

they’d be obeyed felt so fucking good after months of having

them disregarded or reinterpreted to suit Stan’s mood.

Posed like that, the soft dark bushes of hair in the hollows

of his armpits exposed, Stan looked vulnerable, uncertain,

as if he were off-balance emotionally. Martin was startled by

how much he relished causing that discomfort.

I’m a sadist, he thought, and accepted that truth without guilt or shame for the first time, because he was what Stan

needed.

He stood and began to touch Stan, murmuring for him

to stay still, running his hands and fingertips over Stan,

sometimes lightly, sometimes dragging his palms or nails

roughly enough to leave skin flaring warm and red.

“Mine,” he said against the back of Stan’s neck, and saw

the fine hairs rise and felt Stan shudder to hold back a moan.

“Mine,” he said, pinching and twisting nipples to a hard,

hot, swollen state until sweet, salt tears stood in Stan’s eyes

before Martin made them fall with the brush of his thumb.

He said it over and over, exulting inside, but letting

none of it show, inflexible, cruel, playing with Stan, stroking, pinching, slapping, relentless, absorbed and intent, but always

aware of Stan’s reactions.

Stan who was swaying, panting, his eyes sometimes

closed, sometimes wide open, dazed and glazed, answering

every “mine” with a “yours, yes, yours, Sir, please . . .” Beautiful.

Just so fucking perfect.

Martin slid his hands along Stan’s arms to clasp his wrists,

releasing Stan from the pose he’d held for so long.

21

“You did so well,” he said, rubbing Stan’s arms to ease the

cramped muscles. “It should make me want to be kind to you,

but it doesn’t. I just want to do more.”

Stan smiled, his eyes focused on Martin as if he were the

only person of importance in the world. “Yours,” he said,

reminder and affirmation.

To know he could’ve had this months ago if he’d grasped

firmly, not hesitantly held out his hand, was maddening, but

Martin pushed his regrets aside.

He hadn’t planned anything specific, beyond tossing a

few things he thought he might need into a box. He’d wanted

whatever happened between them to build naturally, but as

he’d wrapped gifts, a fantasy unspooled that had left him hard

and aching to come.

Their apartment was a corner one, on the top floor. The

young couple next door was away skiing; the elderly man

beneath them was staying at his daughter’s for a few days. They

could make some noise for once, though there was something

to be said for gagging Stan just for the visual. Martin planned

to house-hunt soon. He wasn’t sure how far the sounds of a

paddle striking flesh carried, but if they could find a small

house with some space around it . . .

“I’m going to get some things. Down on the floor. Rest

for a few minutes.”

Stan chose to go into child’s pose. Not for the first time,

Martin reflected on what a deliciously submissive pose it was,

Stan surrendering, relaxing every muscle, his forehead to the

floor, his back curved.

Martin helped himself to some of the gifts he’d given

Stan that wouldn’t be on display if his parents ever made the visit they’d been promising, then retrieved the box from the

cupboard he’d stored it in.

22

Stan moved to his knees at Martin’s signal, his curiosity

evident.

“You’re wondering why there’s wrapping paper in here.”

“Yeah—uh, yes, Sir.”

Martin set the box down and took a seat on the couch.

“I’ll let you snicker when I tell you why, because it’s kind of

sentimental.”

Stan waited, his lips pressed firmly together.

“You see, I got a lot of stuff today, things I wanted, things

I didn’t know I wanted until I saw them . . . But I got you, too, when I thought I was going to lose you, and—this is where

the violins kick in—that’s going to be at the top of every wish

list every year. Go on. Roll your eyes if you have to.”

“I can’t laugh at you saying I’m just what you’ve always

wanted,” Stan told him. “And for what it’s worth, I’ve spent

the last few days feeling like a kid who’s peeked at his presents beforehand and knows he’s getting everything he wanted.”

Martin raised his eyebrows, suspecting Stan meant that as

a confession. The gift wrap on some of Stan’s gifts had looked a little creased. “And just how does a kid like that feel?”

Stan’s cheeks were flushed, his eyes bright with mischief.

“Uh, naughty, for sure, but . . . safe? Happy?”

“I guess I can deal with any naughtiness.”

“Looking forward to it, Sir.”

Martin studied Stan thoughtfully. Just a little too much

ebul ience sneaking back in. He dragged the box toward him

and took out the wrapping paper and a tape dispenser. “Yeah,

so am I.”

“I don’t think there’s enough there for what you have in

mind.”

There was too much amusement in his voice for Martin’s

liking. “And I think you don’t know what I have in mind.”

23

Martin made a “come on” gesture with his fingers, all business

now. “Safeword?”

“Uh, can I choose a new one, Sir?” Stan cleared his throat.

“New us, new safeword?”

“As long as it’s the last time you change it. I don’t want

you to have to think about which one’s the current one. And

use them. I mean it. If anything makes you flash back or feel uneasy, we stop. I want this to be perfect for you. For us. That won’t happen if you’re forcing yourself too far.”

That got him a warm smile. “You’re good at making me

feel safe, you know that? I will, I promise. ‘Star’ for ‘stop’ and

‘angel’ for a time-out?”

Martin appreciated the nod to what had triggered the

upheaval in their relationship, but he was eager to begin.

“Fine. Stand up.”

Wrapping Stan from head to toe was an intriguing idea,

but the thin paper tore so easily that it wouldn’t be practical

on a large scale. Pity.

That didn’t mean he couldn’t use the paper to gift-wrap

Stan’s cock, though. It was sticking out, an impudent, hopeful

thrust, bobbing with every breath. Martin took out the

large scissors and heard Stan’s breathing quicken. With Stan

before him, standing straight and tal , he set about cutting a

rectangle from the wrapping paper, spreading it out on the

couch beside him. He made sure each crunch of the scissors

was slow enough to draw the sound out, marveling at the way

Stan reacted as if the blades were a threat to him.

Bloodplay was something they’d agreed didn’t appeal,

but when he’d finished cutting the paper, Martin stood and

walked behind Stan, the scissors in his hand. Closed as they

were, there was no risk of cutting Stan’s skin unless he used

24

the point. “You’re going to want to stay very still,” he said. “No talking.”

Stan made a soft, questioning sound that turned into a

yelp when Martin pressed the flat blades of the scissors against his ass.

“Sir! Oh God.”

“Three,” Martin said reprovingly, arousal stiffening

his cock until it ached for a touch. He reached around and

brushed his fingertips over Stan’s cock, feeling the taut skin of the shaft and the rounded head, slippery with pre-cum. At the

same time, with the utmost care, he dragged the blades across

the swell of Stan’s ass, turning them sideways.

Stan kept his mouth closed, but he whined, far back in his

throat, goose bumps breaking out over his arms.

“Yeah, I like hearing that,” Martin said into Stan’s ear. “Beg

me to stop if you want, but bear in mind that I’m enjoying

this.”Stan was working to get his breathing regular. He was

sweating lightly, a damp sheen across his back that would taste

salty against Martin’s tongue.

“I trust you, Sir. I want to be good for you. Don’t stop.

Please.”

“Don’t tell me what you think I want to hear. It’s too close

to lying. Four.”

“That’s not fair!” As he’d hoped, that injustice brought

the real Stan to the surface. Martin didn’t want polite, scripted responses.

“And that’s five. Unless you think you’re allowed to be

disrespectful to me?”

“No, Sir. I’m sorry.” Stan didn’t turn to look at Martin,

but there was an edge of worry in his voice as he added, “I

really am, Sir.”

25

Martin moved to face Stan and held the scissors to Stan’s

mouth. “Show me how sorry you are.”

Stan lowered his eyes, then kissed the long, flat blades, a

delicate, careful kiss, unhurried and infinitely humble.

“If I dragged the points over your skin, would you trust

me not to cut you or would you flinch?”

Stan pursed his lips, considering it. “I don’t know. I’d

try to stay still, Sir. If I didn’t, it wouldn’t be because I didn’t trust you, it’d be because I—because I wasn’t good enough.

If I begged you to stop, it’d be because I don’t want to let

you down by disobeying you, not because I was scared. I’d

safeword if I was and I’m nowhere near that.”

That flood of words sounded more natural. Martin

turned the scissors so he was gripping the blades, and used

the rounded handles to rub and press against Stan’s nipples,

still reddened from Martin’s earlier pinches and twists. They

looked good like that. Martin wanted to keep them so tender

for a day that Stan would wince when a breeze flowed over

them, cry out if they were licked.

“I’m going to push you. Make you see what you’re capable

of. You’re not going to get away with being lazy or cutting

corners. I’m going to train that out of you, whip it out of you.”

Stan moaned, the smal , eager sound slipping past his lips

on an exhaled breath.

“Soon,” Martin told him. “Half the whips and floggers I

got for you I don’t know how to use safely.” He didn’t mind

admitting that. It wasn’t as if Stan didn’t know that he was

inexperienced. “I signed up for lessons when I went over to

Leather and Chains. They’ve got a beginners’ class starting

in January. I’ll get to practice on a dummy, then on you. Six

lessons, covering everything from basic safety, to flogging, to

caning, to wax play.”

26

“Thank you, Sir. I didn’t expect you to go to that much

trouble.”

“I want to hurt you, but not by being clumsy. It’s as much

for me as it is for you. I hate feeling so new to all this.”

Martin tossed the scissors onto the couch, and picked

up the tape. “Hmm. Now that I think about it, I’m not sure

this will work.” He went to the kitchen drawer that held an

assortment of odds and ends and came back with a large roll

of silver duct tape. “Much better.”

He set to work, ripping off sections of tape, using Stan’s

arm as a convenient place to stick them, the lengths ranging

from an inch or two to six inches. Then he took the paper

he’d cut and ripped a piece off it. “Unwrapping presents is the

best part,” he remarked. “I like this paper. Very festive with the dancing snowmen.”

He wrapped the paper around Stan’s cock, using some of

the smaller pieces of tape to form a loose cylinder. The head

popped out of the top, the effect more obscene than a cock

cage would’ve been.

“Of course, that could slide off,” Martin said, working

the cylinder up and down Stan’s shaft a few times, his grip

tight enough to crease the paper and make Stan grit his teeth.

“Close your eyes.”

He pinned Stan’s cock back against his stomach using

three pieces of tape, making sure they adhered firmly to flesh

and paper. As rigid as Stan’s cock was, the tape was under

some strain, but it held. When it came off, it was going to

take hair with it, but he was prepared to be kind and rip it off quickly. Martin wasn’t worried that it would hurt too much.

He’d tried a piece on his arm once and though it’d left his skin tingling when he took it off, as long as the adhesive wasn’t on

for too long, it would be more symbolic than painful.

27

Stan glanced down when Martin told him to. “God, did

you use enough tape?”

The belated “Sir” he tacked on didn’t save him from

another debit, and Martin, his mouth tight, wrapped Stan’s

balls with a piece of tape. To hell with the paper. Stan was

going to feel this piece coming off.

“I’m not bearing a grudge for the months when you acted

like an order from me was something to ignore. I should’ve

cracked down on you sooner. But if there’s one thing I’m

touchy as hell about and I’ll punish every time, it’s you

showing a lack of respect. So don’t. It pisses me off.”

Stan swallowed, the bob of his Adam’s apple making his

throat ripple. “Sir, please let me . . .” His voice trailed off and he sighed. “I want to say I’m sorry, but that’s not enough. Let

me show you? Please?”

Intrigued, if not entirely mol ified, Martin nodded. Stan’s

anxious expression melted into one of relief. He exhaled, a

long, sighed-out breath, then dropped to his knees and bent

forward, pressing his mouth to Martin’s bare feet, kissing

them with the same assiduous care he’d shown the scissors.

“Yours, Sir,” Stan murmured. “Yours to punish, here to

give you pleasure, even if you get it by teasing me or torturing me.” He paused, and Martin felt the lips against his foot curve

in a smile. “Especially if that’s how you get it. And I always respected you, Sir. I just wanted you to . . .”

“Careful,” Martin warned him.

“I wanted the Dom I knew was in you to bring out the sub

in me, Sir. I’d been hiding, running scared.”

“But not now.”

“You know I’m not scared of you, Sir.” Stan glanced up at

him, and for a moment, Martin felt their positions flip as Stan

said slowly, “You might enjoy marking me up, making me

28

scream or beg, but that’s not cruelty, it’s just what we are.” He shivered, smiling dreamily as if he were picturing something

in his head. “I think you could do a better job of it than any

Dom I’ve had, because you use your imagination.”

“Flatterer,” Martin said. “Get up.”

Two scraps of paper went over Stan’s nipples, and the

final, much larger piece across Stan’s ass, taped down as before.

Martin ran his hand over Stan’s ass and felt him push up into

the caress like a petted cat. He reached between Stan’s legs and fondled his taped balls, hanging stiffly now. “I bet you can’t

wait for the tape to come off these.”

Stan whimpered, but it was more for show to Martin’s

ears. It didn’t matter; when that first piece of tape came

off, Stan wouldn’t be doing anything but yelling. Which

reminded him . . .

“Ball gag. Just in case you get too loud. You can use

another signal for your safeword.” He grinned. “A jingle bal .”

’ Stan barely stopped himself from roling his eyes when

Martin handed him a cat toy: a plastic ball with a bell inside.

Clever boy.

“Open up.” The gag was a festive red, though that was by

chance, not design. He’d chosen it because he liked the style

and they were sold out of black. Martin buckled it in place,

then traced Stan’s forced-wide lips with his finger, before he

ripped away the paper and tape over Stan’s left nipple.

Stan exhaled, a convulsive shiver running through him as

if he’d been drenched in icy water.

“Easy one to start with,” Martin said, thumbing Stan’s sore

nipple. The skin surrounding it was sticky with the residue of

the tape, but a shower would take care of that. “Let’s move

south. I’ll help you to stay still by tying you down.”

29

Stan glanced at the hal way leading to their bedroom, but

Martin shook his head. “We’re staying in here. I don’t want

the paper on your ass torn. If it is, I’ll replace it, which means you get the tape taken off twice. Don’t look so worried; there’s not much hair on your ass. Go and lie down on the floor by

the table.”

The dining table was sturdy enough that there was no

possibility of Stan moving it far, so Martin bound Stan’s wrists to the legs on one of the narrow ends, using some utilitarian

quick-release straps. When the first one was in place, he waited a beat. Would this trigger a flashback? God, he hoped not.

Stan had been so eager to try it again, so sure he was ready.

But Stan’s breathing remained steady so Martin fastened

the second strap without lingering over it, still watchful, alert.

The two armchairs were heavy enough to use as anchors and

stood on short wooden legs. He pulled them over, positioning

them wide apart, and soon had Stan starfished on the floor.

“Those black cuffs aren’t at all Christmassy, are they?”

Some garland wound around each one solved that problem,

the thick silver strands glinting as Stan flexed his hands and

feet, testing his bonds. Maybe he should have stood Stan in a

bucket and decorated him instead . . .

Martin found he was enjoying these preliminaries. Stan

was settling into his headspace, relaxing as he was immobilized.

There was none of the panic Martin had been braced for, only

a waiting expectancy.

“Your nipple looks so bare now. Didn’t I give you some

clamps?”

He had—vicious little ones, with hooks to add weights.

Martin had tried one on himself before wrapping them, and

taken it off after a few seconds, his eyes watering, his nipple

throbbing.

30

When Stan had unwrapped them, he’d bitten down on

his lip hard, staring at them for a long moment before turning

to kiss Martin, pressing up against him with all his strength,

his mouth avid, passionate.

Really, once they’d gotten into opening the kinky presents,

it’d been pure foreplay. Martin had spent that thirty minutes

or so rock-hard, cursing himself for saying that sex was off the table on Christmas Day. Stan’s mouth on him would’ve felt

good, but this was better.

He got the clamps and attached one to Stan’s bare nipple,

watching Stan jerk and writhe as he rode the first wave of

sensation. Martin remembered how the pain had taken his

breath away, a focused spike of agony driven into his chest,

then radiating from that central point.

“God, I wish I could hear you scream.” He touched the

gag, pushing his thumb underneath a strap to touch sweat-

damp skin. “Maybe we can go away somewhere in the spring,

a cabin in the woods, hell, hire a boat . . . Go somewhere you

can make all the noise you want for me. Sound good?”

Stan nodded, his eyes wistful.

“We’ll do it,” Martin promised. “And I’ll take the gag out

soon.”

Martin ran his fingertips over the line of tape across Stan’s

lower stomach, partially stuck to the dark hair surrounding

Stan’s cock.

“Slowly first.” He picked at the corner of the tape and

freed enough to grasp with his finger and thumb. It took a tug

to get started, then he met resistance as the hairs stuck to the tape refused to come out. Stan was holding still, if barely, but then, it hadn’t really started to hurt.

Using more effort, Martin tugged sharply and smiled

as a section of the tape lifted, taking a dozen hairs with it,

31

leaving the skin underneath red and irritated. Stan raised his

ass instinctively, a garbled, choked sound emerging from his

stuffed mouth, but Martin put his hand on Stan’s hip and held

him down.

Inch by inch, he freed the tape, doing it slowly but

without pausing. The paper wrapped around Stan’s cock was

damp with pre-cum at the top, split here and there because

Stan’s cock had thickened as it grew harder. Stan’s face, when

Martin spared it a glance, was flushed, tears trickling from his eyes. Beautiful.

He ripped a short piece off in one go, just to see how Stan

would react, and watched Stan go rigid, his head thrashing

from side to side, though the ball stayed in his hand.

Martin knelt back on his heels, his cock taut and swollen,

pushing against his jeans. Why was he waiting? He stood and

stripped, careful not to seem too eager, even more careful not

to touch his cock and trigger his climax. Stan’s gaze locked

onto Martin’s erection and he raised his ass again, offering

himself mutely.

“Later,” Martin said. “I just need to take the edge off.

You’re very distracting, sweetheart.” He didn’t call Stan pet

names often, but when he did, Stan reacted with squirming

discomfort, even annoyance. Martin had no scruples about

using one now to add a certain piquancy to Stan’s experience.

It got more of a reaction than “slut” would have.

He paused long enough to rip the tape off Stan’s other

nipple and replace it with a clamp too, then stood, straddling

Stan’s hips, and jerked off. This was a favorite fantasy of his—

coming on someone, their face, their chest, their well-spanked

ass. He loved the idea of using them as nothing more than

a surface for his spunk to land on, untouched by anything

of his but that warm rain of cum, left to dry on them until

32

their skin was itchy, smelling darkly earthy. Asking for it with previous partners had gotten him disgusted looks, so he’d

been hesitant to mention it to Stan. Emboldened by the new

understanding between them, he’d brought it up and Stan

had grinned, produced the list Martin had told him to make,

and pointed at a single line. “Huge turn-on for me too, Sir.”

Kneeling over Stan and using his mouth would’ve felt

good too, but Martin didn’t want the hassle of taking off the

gag, only to replace it a few minutes later.

He worked his cock hard and fast, not interested in

dragging this out. His climax came in a swift rush, the ecstasy

close to pain after holding back for so long. Cum jetted out,

one long jolt after another, spattering down on Stan’s waiting

body, patterning it from navel to neck. Martin grunted,

groaning out his enjoyment, his hand slackening as his balls

emptied.

“God.” He went to his knees between Stan’s spread thighs,

panting harshly. “I needed that.”

Stan jerked his leg, a display of petulance that had Martin

saying, “That makes seven debits now,” though he supposed

it was hard to blame Stan, given how close Stan’s own climax

had to be.

Martin finished removing the tape around Stan’s

shaft, and slid off the paper cylinder, the three lengths of tape hanging from it decorated with hairs.

“You’re regretting running your mouth to me, I bet,”

he said, starting in on the tape cocooning Stan’s balls. That

couldn’t come off quickly, though Martin had taken care not

to press it too firmly against the hairy skin, but Martin did his best to make the process short. Stan was still partially erect,

and what Martin had planned next should bring him back to

full hardness.

33

He petted Stan as he worked on the tape removal, with

words and his hand, telling him how well he was doing,

how pleased his Dom was with him. Garbled, frantic moans

came though the gag, but Stan was squeezing the cat toy, not

releasing it, accepting the pain of each hair ripped out, not

fighting it. Martin could still feel that connection between

them, one formed from a shared purpose, but he wanted to

take the gag out now and hear Stan speak. He missed that.

When the last piece of tape fell to the floor, still holding

the curved shape of Stan’s balls, Martin sighed. He got a piece

of paper towel, wet it with warm water, and cleaned his spunk

off Stan’s skin. “I’d leave it there until you shower, but you’re going over the table next, and I don’t want it messed up. In

fact, one of your chores tomorrow will be polishing it.” And

he had some ideas how to make that fun for both of them . . .

He took off Stan’s ball gag and the cruel little clamps,

enjoying the sounds Stan made as his crushed nipples suffered

the aftermath of their brief ordeal. Every curse, every groan,

every open-mouthed panted breath was like a small gift.

Martin used more paper towel to wipe the drool and tears

off Stan’s face. “Want some water?”

Stan ran his tongue over his lips, red and swollen. “Maybe

later, Sir.” He sounded hoarse, but he nuzzled into Martin’s

hand when Martin cupped his cheek. “Thank you, Sir. That

was . . . different.” He smiled, a brief twitch of his lips. “God, you were right when you said I needed that gag. I’ve had much

worse, but I was expecting it to hurt a lot so I reacted as if it did, even when it didn’t, and made it worse for myself.”

“We’re not done yet,” Martin reminded him before

Stan got too chatty. So Stan had deepened the intensity of

the experience for himself through his apprehension? That

opened up all kinds of possibilities. Sensory deprivation was

34

on Stan’s “Don’t Enjoy But Will Do” list and now Martin

thought he knew why. “I’ll untie you, then I want you over

the table. If you need a break, you know what to say.”

Stan inhaled, visibly bracing himself. “Yes, Sir. I’m fine.

Just . . .” He glanced down at his erection. “Umm, that’s not

going away.”

Martin laughed. “Yeah, well, I’d be worried if it did.”

Stan was unsteady for a moment when he got to his

feet. Martin held him until he felt Stan regain his balance,

physically and emotionally, stroking Stan’s back down to the

edge of the paper covering his ass, and kissing the side of his

head gently. He had no intention of losing the quiet moments

like this. They were as much a part of what he wanted with

Stan as the spankings and bondage. Martin took good care

of his belongings. He wasn’t going to do less with the man he

loved.

“Ready, Sir.”

Martin tapped his fingers against the paper over Stan’s

ass. “You tore it here and there, but not too badly. Good boy.

Bend over the table. No, wait, let me put a throw there. I don’t want the edge to bruise you.”

The irony of that didn’t escape him, but there was a

difference between accidental bruising and purposeful.

Stan bent over obediently once the throw was down. The

paper tore some more, but the tape stayed in place.

“I’m going to use a flogger on you to shred the paper,”

Martin told him. “I don’t think it’ll take long, but just in case you get bored . . .”

He brought the box over to the table. Most of it he

didn’t need, but lube, a condom, the flogger, and a plug were

definitely going to see some use.

35

With a grin, he popped his finger through the paper,

level with Stan’s hole, widening the rip enough for the plug

to go through. He slicked up the thick plug, then drizzled

more lube over the crack of Stan’s ass, watching it trickle

down to coat the darker, wrinkled skin of his hole. Using the

plug to push the lube inside, he ruthlessly opened Stan up,

ignoring Stan’s harsh, rapid breathing and frequent, plaintive

repetitions of “Sir! Please!” Stan was close to coming, yes; he

knew that. And if he did, he’d be punished, but that was no

reason for Martin to deny himself the pleasure of fucking his

sub with a plug.

The plug in place, seated firmly, Martin picked up the

flogger and ruefully eyed the paper over Stan’s ass. It was

already hanging in tatters, but he wanted to use the flogger

on Stan before he fucked him, so better to go ahead as if the

paper were still intact.

The flogger was black suede, with thirty-six tails, and it

was, according to the webpage, intended for warm-ups and

cool-downs. That suited Martin. He’d bought another with

more bite, but as he’d told Stan, he wanted some instruction

before using that. He’d practiced with this flogger, using a

pillow as a target, and felt reasonably confident that he could

place his strokes accurately and with the force he intended.

“Sure about this?” he asked, needing to hear it. Martin

wanted Stan to reclaim the joy in submitting that Neal had

taken, but if Stan wasn’t ready, he’d wait. He had his own

doubts to overcome, his own needs to meet, but the desire to

protect Stan made them irrelevant.

But Stan sounded reassuringly desperate when he moaned,

“I’ll beg you for it on my knees if you give me permission to

move, Sir.”

Good enough.

36

With his first stroke, he discovered the difference between

walloping a pillow and striking flesh. The sound the flogger

made cutting through the air thrilled him; the exultant cry

from Stan, pure delight and relief, as if he’d been waiting

for that blow for a long time, made him close his eyes for a

moment.

Then he opened them, drew back his hand, and let the

long, supple strands fly.

Later, in bed, Stan’s head pillowed on Martin’s chest, his

hand resting over Martin’s heart, Martin tried to analyze what

he’d done and pinpoint his mistakes for future reference. He

couldn’t. The scene had left him as euphoric as Stan, who’d

cried out when he was allowed to come the first time, pushing

back to get Martin’s cock in him as deeply as it would go.

Martin couldn’t pick it apart without leaving the memory

broken, and it was too precious for that.

“You know how I wanted the angel on the tree?” Stan

said, punctuating his question with a yawn.

“Yeah?”

“Changed my mind.”

“You like the star, after al ?”

Stan chuckled sleepily. “Sorry. No, if anything’s gonna top

our Christmas tree, it’s you, Sir. You’re the toppiest thing in

the apartment.”

Martin groaned. “You know I hate puns. Forget a debit,

that just earned you a spanking.”

The debits Stan had built up during the scene, eleven

by the time it’d ended, had been taken care of with the

application of eleven clothespins to Stan’s thighs and balls, left 37

there as Martin jacked him off, taking his time. Holding Stan

cradled against him, in control of Stan’s climax and suffering,

had been the perfect ending to the night.

“Now, Sir?” Stan raised himself up on his elbow, as if

prepared to get across Martin’s knee at a word. He probably

was. Martin had a feeling his vacation was going to be spent

trying to satisfy an insatiable sub. He wasn’t too worried. He

was feeling pretty insatiable himself.

“Isn’t one of the rules that punishments don’t get carried

over to the next day?” He tossed the covers off them and gave

Stan’s ass six slaps, making them count. “Now go to sleep.”

Stan sighed, pulled the covers back over them, and

wriggled closer. “Yes, Sir,” he murmured. “Love you, Martin.”

“Love you too,” Martin said and gave Stan’s ass a final pat,

no more than that, just to feel the fading heat against his palm one more time.

38

’Twas the Night

Ava March

December 25, 1820

London, England

“M W “I D “A P ercival Owens stepped out of his mother’s town house, a sigh of relief deflating his chest at finally

being free of the drawing room. As he lingered on the

last stone step, waiting impatiently for the footman to shut

the door behind him, he shoved his hands in the pockets of

his greatcoat. His fingers curled around crisp, folded paper.

I will expect you at eight in the evening on Christmas Day.

A short note. One line was all that was needed. And that

one line had been foremost in his thoughts since he’d received

the note yesterday morning.

With a smart snap, the footman shut the door. Instead of

going east toward his apartments, Percy turned left onto the

walkway, toward the direction of Michael Barlow’s tidy town

house on the outskirts of Mayfair.

The rain that had made the family carriage necessary to

attend church services that morning had abated, yet the chill,

damp air held the promise of more rain soon to come. Thick

clouds obscured the full strength of the moon, but the golden

39

light spilling from the windows of the houses he passed kept

the night from near pitch darkness.

The streets were relatively quiet, with only an occasional

carriage passing him. Most people would be tucked safely in

their homes, gathered around the Yule log or playing merry

games, celebrating the Christmas holiday with loved ones.

Whereas his holiday would be marked by something

entirely different.

Shame washed over him, familiar and unavoidable.

He knew exactly what would transpire when he arrived at

Michael’s home. Well, perhaps not exactly. Michael made the decisions. Percy merely did as bid.

But he wanted to do as bid. Needed Michael to take

control. Wanted that large hand to palm the back of his skul .

Wanted to be told to suck Michael’s cock. To be bound and

restrained. To be buggered and spanked. To let Michael do

all sorts of wicked things to him no self-respecting gentleman

should allow.

Yet he did allow them. When he was with Michael, all

those wicked things didn’t feel quite so . . . wrong. He didn’t feel so wrong.

Percy quickened his pace. The sooner he reached

Michael’s, the sooner that sense of calm would wash over

him. The worry and the shame gone. Wiped away for a few

precious hours.

If only it could be longer. If only Michael could come to

care—

He gave his head a firm shake, throwing off the thought

before it could fully form. A handsome, successful man like

Michael would never want him for more than a very obedient

bed partner, and it would do no good for Percy to even begin

to hope for more.

40

The yearning tamped firmly down, he headed north at the

next corner to cross Oxford Street. It seemed like no time at

all before he was standing before the third door on Henrietta

Street. A check of his pocket watch proved he had not arrived

late.Michael was expecting him. There would be no need to

knock. The servants dismissed for the evening, Michael in the

study, perusing the Times or a report from his estate manager.

Percy stepped up to the door, reached for the brass knob

with a hand that shook only slightly, and turned it.

The faint click of the front door shutting made its way to

Michael Barlow’s ears. A smile spread across his mouth. Percy

had arrived.

Setting the Times on the couch cushion next to his hip, he looked to the clock nestled in the evergreen boughs draping

the fireplace mantel. Percy had followed his instructions.

No surprise there, though. Percy always did as

commanded. No questions, no hesitation, no needs of his

own to interfere. In fact, he couldn’t recall a single instance

when Percy had asked anything of him. Not for so much as a

touch or a kiss. Not even when he was gasping and groaning

in pleasure, fingers clutching the coverlet, had Percy allowed a single plea for more to fall past his lips.

A furrow touched Michael’s brow. While he preferred

his lovers not to be of the overly demanding sort, he couldn’t

help but find such blind acceptance of his whims a bit

disconcerting.

The sound of footsteps approached the study, and then

Percy walked into the room. He glanced to drapes closed

41

tightly over the windows, then shrugged his greatcoat from

his shoulders, revealing a plain brown coat and trousers.

“Good evening, Michael,” he said, finally looking at Michael.

Coat folded over one arm, he shifted his weight, discomfort

mixed with acute need radiating from him.

Michael did his best to keep the frown hidden from view.

They’d been meeting for months. The uncertainty of a new

relationship should have been behind them by now, yet the

proof that it wasn’t stood just inside his study.

Patience, he reminded himself. Percy was young. Just

three-and-twenty compared to Michael’s own thirty years.

And while Percy had never explicitly stated it, Michael had the

sense his prior relationships had been confined to a handful of

hasty encounters.

“Good evening, Percy.” He tipped his head toward a

wingback chair, the one that held the navy coat he’d discarded

a good hour ago. “Did you have a pleasant dinner with your

family?”

A grimace flickered across Percy’s genial features as he

folded his greatcoat over the back of the chair. “I wouldn’t go

so far as to classify it as pleasant. My mother still wants me to distinguish myself by becoming a barrister.”

“Did you inform her that you’d rather not?”

He shrugged. “It would not do any good to argue with

her.”“I beg to differ. If you prefer your position as a clerk, you should tell her so.”

“I reminded her I’ve been in Mr. Miller’s employ for a

year, but to her, that’s a year too long.” He shook his head, his shoulders slumping. “Rather than listen to her go on about it,

I left early and walked here instead of taking a hackney.”

42

It took considerable effort for Michael to hold back his

opinion of Percy’s social-climbing family. Anger on his behalf,

or even compassion for being tied to a family that refused to

appreciate him, wasn’t what Percy needed. “A reminder as to

the length of your employment is not akin to a statement of

your preferences,” he said, careful to keep his tone firm yet

even. “Honestly, there’s no hope at all she’ll ever stop pushing you to become a barrister if you don’t make your wishes

known.” For that, he received another noncommittal shrug.

Holding back the sigh, he flicked his fingers toward the other

wingback chair across from the couch. “Sit.”

Percy rounded the chair then stopped short, his gaze

on the brown leather bag on the chair’s cushion. Simple yet

sturdy, a bag fit for a barrister’s clerk.

“Happy Christmas.”

Shocked hazel eyes met Michael’s. “For me?”

“Yes.”

“Truly?”

“Yes,” Michael repeated, uncertain if he should be amused

or concerned at Percy’s disbelief.

“Thank you.” Percy reached down, feathered ink-stained

fingertips over the engraved initials on the small silver oval on the bag’s flap. “But . . . P J O. How did you know the J?”

Trust Percy to notice the smallest detail first. “I ran into

your elder brother at my club the other day. Pulled the name

from him.” Percival Joseph Owens, the Joseph coming from

his grandfather.

A wrinkle marred Percy’s brow, his eyes clouding with

acute anxiety. “Oh, does he suspect . . . Did he ask . . .?”

“Not to worry. He hasn’t the slightest suspicion of the

degree of our acquaintance.” Michael waved a hand to the

present. “Do you like it?”

43

“Yes. Most assuredly. It’s perfect. Thank you.” The words

rushed out of Percy’s mouth, eager and pleased, the briefest

of smiles lighting up his face. He ran a reverent hand over the

smooth leather. “But . . .” There was that wrinkle again. “But

I have nothing for you. It didn’t occur to me. In my family,

the presents are given to the children, never among the adults.

But I should have thought to—”

“Not to worry.” He knew Percy’s position didn’t pay him

much, and that even though his mother possessed an ample

fortune, she rarely pressed a few extra pounds into her younger

son’s hand. The man needn’t spend a shilling on him, nor did

he want him to. “Truly. Don’t fret over it.”

Teeth digging into his bottom lip, Percy nodded once,

ever obedient. “If there is anything I can do for you, you need

only to ask.”

“Perhaps I shal .” He lowered his voice. “Later.” He swore

he could detect the frisson of anticipation grip Percy’s body.

“For now, have a seat.” Once Percy sat, Michael asked, “Would

you care for a drink? I had the kitchen make some wassail

before they departed this morning.”

At Percy’s nod, he got to his feet and crossed to the

console table.

Hands clasped over the leather bag on his lap, Percy

glanced about the study, to the evergreen on the mantle, the

holly sprigs on the corner of his desk, the punch bowl on the

console table. “You’re one for the holiday?”

He needn’t sound so surprised. “Yes,” Michael said,

handing Percy a half-full glass.

“Did you spend the day with family?”

Instead of taking up his spot on the couch, he leaned a

hip against the edge of his desk. “No. They’re up in Cumbria.

Wasn’t of a mind to travel this year. I took dinner at the club

44

since the kitchen had the day free.” And then he had spent the

rest of the evening alone, waiting for Percy.

Percy nodded once, then took another sip of the spiced

punch. A little nervous wiggle in the chair. A fleeting glance

to Michael. A glance full of stark, desperate need.

Michael couldn’t keep the command from his lips a

moment longer.

“Stand up, Percival.”

Glass clinked as Percy set the tumbler on the side table.

He carefully put his gift on the floor, then stood. Hands at his sides, eyes downcast.

“Remove your clothes.”

The only sounds that broke the silence were the swoosh

of fabric and Percy’s quick breaths. There wasn’t one fumble,

not one rushed tug at a stubborn button. His ink-stained

fingertips made efficient work of removing his coat, waistcoat,

and cravat. He whisked his shirt over his head, ran a hand

over his short light brown hair to smooth it, then pushed his

trousers down his legs.

After folding the garments and placing them on the chair,

he turned to Michael, eyes once again downcast and arms at

his sides.

The light from the candles flickered across his pale skin,

his erection jutting eagerly from between his legs. Michael

resisted the urge to reach out and wrap a hand around that

beautiful prick, to coax a whimper from Percy’s throat, and

instead simply took pleasure from the sight before him.

At a good five inches below Michael’s own six feet, Percy’s

body was compact and softened to the perfect degree, with

just a bit of extra flesh on his frame. Not so much as to cause a protruding belly, but just enough so he wasn’t all hard muscle.

45

The fire crackled in the hearth. Michael waited. Waited

until the rhythm of Percy’s chest slowed, until his breaths

turned even, the ragged quickness gone. Until the line of his

shoulders finally relaxed.

“Upstairs,” Michael said, calm and without a hint of

command.

Percy turned on his heel. Michael pushed from the desk

and grabbed the folded clothes.

He could have had Percy undress in the bedchamber, but

then he’d have been denied the pleasure of following a naked

Percy up the stairs, that generous round arse bouncing with

each step he took.

Once they reached the bedchamber, Michael saw to

lighting the candles and the fire in the hearth while Percy

waited at the foot of the four-poster bed. Pul ing a small key

from his pocket, Michael dropped to his haunches and then

unlocked the trunk next to the writing desk. He made to

reach inside the trunk but stopped, hand hovering over a pair

of leather cuffs.

It hadn’t escaped his notice that Percy’s reluctance to

voice his preferences extended into the bedchamber. The man

embodied the very definition of a compliant lover. That wasn’t

to imply Michel didn’t enjoy his evenings with Percy—he

most assuredly did, and Percy’s reactions screamed he enjoyed

them as well. But it was Christmas. And Percy had made him an open offer. Perhaps there was something Percy could give

him that wouldn’t cost the man even a halfpenny. A gift that

could benefit them both.

He wiped the smile from his expression, then stood.

Percy’s gaze went to the writing desk, the surface clear of

leather goods, dildos, and plugs, then to Michael’s empty

hands. Confusion filled his eyes.

46

Stopping before him, Michael let the smile touch his lips

in an effort to reassure Percy. “Earlier you said that if there

were anything you could do for me, I need simply ask. I’ve

decided what I want. Call it a gift, if you will. I want your

voice tonight.”

A furrow crossed Percy’s brow. “I don’t understand.”

“I want your voice. I won’t do anything to you unless you

ask for it.” That furrow became heavier. “It’s not difficult, I

assure you. Shall I show you how it works?” He didn’t wait for

an answer. “Kiss me, Percy.”

Without hesitation, Percy raised an arm, cupped Michael’s

jaw, and lifted onto his toes. Soft lips brushed across Michael’s.

He held back the impulse to deepen the kiss, to take control

of it, and simply savored his first kiss from Percy. The first kiss Michael had not had to take. The chaste press of his lips, the

light puff of his breath across Michael’s cheek.

A flick of Percy’s tongue, a short fleeting taste of the man’s

delicious mouth, then those lips were gone.

Michael cleared his throat, gathered his senses. “That’s

what I want from you tonight. The gift of your voice. I will

do whatever you want. Bind you in any fashion you desire.

To the bed, to a chair, tie you down on the floor. I’ll redden

your arse until you’re sobbing for more, tears streaming down

your cheeks, bugger you until you can barely sit tomorrow.

Prepare you for my cock and then make you wait an hour for

it. Anything. You just need to ask. So do you agree?”

The discomfort, the uncertainty was back, tightening

Percy’s shoulders, compressing those soft, sweet lips,

convincing Michael that his instinct in this had been spot-on.

And so he held onto his patience and waited for Percy’s

answer.

47

“But . . . I-I . . .” Looking about the bedchamber, anywhere

but into Michael’s piercing blue-gray eyes, Percy rolled one

shoulder, the pop and crack of his joints echoing in the quiet

room.

He couldn’t possibly ask for what he wanted. He needed

to follow Michael’s commands—Michael’s voice, Michael’s

hands, Michael’s body’s desires. Then he wouldn’t have to

think about what he was doing. He could let go, give in to

that wicked part of him, and simply follow and feel.

“It’s only the two of us, Percy. No one else will hear you

but me.”

He nodded, a quick jerk of his head. Of course he knew

that. Michael always dismissed his servants for the night

before he arrived. The footman and maid gone, the drapes

drawn to hide their illicit activities from innocent eyes.

A large hand touched his upper arm. Nerves strung so

tight he couldn’t stop the flinch from seizing his muscles.

“It’s all right.” Low and gentle, Michael’s voice barely

registered above the pounding in his ears. “Will you look at

me, please?”

With effort, he pulled his attention from the large four-

poster bed. He wanted to be there, with Michael. Wanted

Michael’s weight covering him. Needed the press of his skin

against his own. He did not want to be here, Michael a good

foot away and gazing at him with what could only be true

concern.

At least it wasn’t disappointment. He should count

himself fortunate in that.

“Why? Why do I have to ask tonight?” The question

popped out of his mouth before he could give it any

consideration.

48

“Because I like hearing your voice. Because it’s good to ask

for what you want. Because I want to discover what you prefer

above all else. And you don’t have to ask. I would never force you to do anything you don’t wish to do. You do know that,

Percy, don’t you?”

“Yes.” Michael might stuff him full with the fattest dildo

in his trunk, bind him with fifty knots, keep him on the

razor-sharp cusp of a climax for what seemed like hours, yet

he always felt safe in his hands. Hell, he felt safer with Michael than he’d ever felt with another.

“Will you tell me why you’re reluctant?” Michael rubbed

his hand along Percy’s arm. “Why the notion of asking

unsettles you so?”

He concentrated on the soothing drag of Michael’s palm,

the way the warmth of Michael’s hand penetrated his muscles.

The frantic beats of his heart began to lessen. His eyes drifted shut. “Because I shouldn’t want those things.” His lips barely

moved. The words barely made their way out of his mouth.

Yet the brief pause of those lul ing drags indicated Michael

had heard him well enough.

“What things?”

“Everything. All that you do to me while we are in this

room.”

“Who told you that?”

“No one needed to tell me. It’s bad enough that I allow

you to do those things to me. That I want them.” Oh God, how he wanted them. “I can’t . . .” A wince squeezed his eyes closed tighter. “I can’t . . . ask.”

“Yes, you can.” Fingertips lifted his chin. “Yes, you can,

Percy.”

Reluctantly, he opened his eyes. Slowly, as if fearing what

he would find. But he knew exactly what he’d find. The low,

49

comforting baritone of Michael’s voice had painted the

picture in his mind before Percy’s lashes had even begun to

sweep up. Michael, so calm and strong, the patience that

always seemed to lurk in the depths of his eyes now filling his

gaze.“When we are together, nothing is wrong. Nothing is

forbidden, as long as we both want it.”

“But it’s—”

“Yes, what we do is against the law, but we aren’t inflicting

harm on anyone. The torment you impose on yourself, it’s not

necessary. Believe me, it’s unnecessary,” Michael stressed, his

eyes boring into Percy’s, demanding he believe him. “If you can

trust me in anything, trust me in this. A bit of discretion—all

right, more than a bit—is all that’s needed.”

“I do trust you. But it’s not just that we are both men.

I know sodomy is against the law, I know we need to be

discreet. It’s unnatural to want another man, but if that was

all I wanted, then . . .” He gave his head a shake, dislodging

Michael’s grip on his chin, and dropped his gaze to his feet.

A year ago, he’d come to terms with his preference for men.

He wouldn’t go so far as to label it acceptance, but he had at least stopped fighting that particular desire. “But that’s not all I want. Surely there is something wrong with me if I want so

desperately to do as bid. If I want so desperately for you to use everything in that trunk on me.”

Silence filled the room, pressed against his ears. Unable

to remain still, Percy shifted his weight, suddenly acutely

aware he was naked as the day he was born, his now soft cock

dangling between his legs. Whereas Michael, save for his coat,

was fully clothed, complete with a neatly tied cravat and a fob

chain attached to his iron-gray waistcoat.

“You have been with other men before, correct?”

50

“Yes. A few,” he added, not wanting Michael to think he

bent over for just anyone who would have him. Not that there

were many who had wanted him.

His attention fixed on his bare feet, he sensed rather than

saw Michael’s nod.

“Have you ever been with someone like me? Someone

with more eccentric tastes in the bedchamber, who enjoys

dominating another man?”

“No.” Until he’d met Michael, the wickedest thing he’d

done was allow another to bugger him. But Michael had an

uncanny ability to pluck his deepest, darkest desires from

the bottom of his depraved soul and present them to him

wrapped in a neat leather bow, so to speak. Hell, after being

with Michael, now just the scent of leather could get him

aroused.

Michael let out a sigh.

Percy fought back the cringe. That sigh had sounded

so . . . disappointed. His muscles drew even tighter, bracing

for the next words from Michael’s mouth. Bracing for the

request to leave Michael’s house and never return again.

“You have my apologies.”

Apologies?

Why in God’s name was Michael apologizing to him?

Michael let out another one of those disappointed sighs.

“I suspected, and I should have taken a moment to have a

discussion with you before now. Percy, there is nothing wrong

with you. Some men prefer to submit to another. Having such

an inclination is not wrong, and in case you believe thus, it

does not make you weak, either. It takes great strength to give

up control.”

Great strength? An absolutely ridiculous notion. Now

Michael was pandering to him. Brilliant.

51

“Will you tell me what’s going through that head of yours,

what’s causing that frown?”

He pulled his attention from his feet, met Michael’s gaze.

“Men are supposed to be strong, to take what they want, to

crave power and status and distinguish themselves in the

world.”

“They are supposed to want to be barristers, for example?”

“Yes. They’re supposed to be like you. Well, you’re not a

barrister, but that point matters not. You say it takes strength to give up control, but it doesn’t. It’s easy.” He knew that for a fact. Nothing Michael could say could change it.

“For you, perhaps. But not for everyone. I can’t give up

control the way you do. Just the thought of allowing another

to restrain me?” Michael shook his head, his dark eyebrows

drawing together, as if the mere suggestion made him want

to lurch back in protest. “And it’s not because I think others

would look on me as weak or believe me wrong for wanting

such a thing. Rather it’s outside my abilities. When you give

yourself over to me, I can’t help but feel more than a bit of

awe because it is something I could never do.” Michael took a

half-step closer, cupped Percy’s shoulder with one large hand.

“Strength takes many forms. The strongest of us are those who

own our desires, both inside the bedchamber and outside of

it. What we do in this room is not wrong. Having a need to

submit to another is not wrong. Giving voice to your needs is

most assuredly not wrong.”

He couldn’t deny that Michael’s argument held some

logical sense, though it sounded more like Michael was talking

about having confidence in oneself. He wasn’t convinced

submitting made one strong. He definitely would need time

to thoroughly think that one through.

52

“Percy, there is nothing more natural in all the world

than to indulge your desires with someone, whatever those

desires may be. All that matters is that we both enjoy our time

together. And I do so enjoy our time together.”

At a loss for what to say, Percy nodded.

“Have I eased your mind at al ?” Michael asked with a fair

hint of uncertainty, as though he truly, honestly cared about

Percy’s answer. As if he cared about him.

He swept his gaze over Michael’s face, over his strong,

handsome features. The worry creating a crease between

his brows, the tension in his jaw, the slightly fuller bottom

lip compressed by the lines bracketing his mouth. And it

occurred to him. He, Percy, had the power to ease Michael’s

mind. His answer alone would do the trick because Michael

cared for him. Cared enough to want him to be free of the

burden of shame and guilt whenever he stepped out of this

room.

Michael did not need to care. The last three months were

proof alone a clear conscience was not a requirement for Percy

to suck Michael’s cock or bend over on command. Yet . . .

If he said no, he knew in his bones Michael would put a

stop to their evening. Would not allow them to proceed again

until Percy could answer in the affirmative.

Michael well and truly cared for him. Why exactly, Percy

hadn’t a notion. But he could refute it no longer.

He gave himself a moment to allow that astounding fact

to sink in.

And since that was indeed the truth, Michael would not

lie to him. Would not say whatever Percy needed to hear.

Michael actually believed there was nothing at all wrong with him. Hell, he’d encouraged Percy to own his desires. Had all

but commanded him to not be ashamed of them.

53

“It still feels . . . wicked.” The sound of his own voice

echoed in his ears, startling him.

Had he said that out loud?

Bowing his head, Michael leaned closer, breaching the

half foot of distance between them. Warm breath fanned

Percy’s neck. “Yes. But that’s part of what makes our nights

so enjoyable,” he whispered into Percy’s ear, as if it were a

scandalous secret only the two of them shared.

. . . Our nights . . . They were their nights—his and Michael’s. No one else’s. Therefore whatever they chose to do

together could not be wrong.

A sense of calm settled over him, and at the same time, he

felt somehow lighter.

“Yes, you’ve eased my mind.”

He felt Michael smile against his ear. “Thank you.” Then

Michael straightened, though his hand remained on Percy’s

shoulder. Steady and comforting. “Now back to the original

question. Do you want to try asking, or shall we attempt that

some other time? The choice is yours completely.”

Michael had asked for Percy’s voice as a kind of gift, and

not just any gift, but a Christmas gift. He should at least try.

If he was going to own his desires, there was no better way to

start, after al .

He took a deep breath, gathered his courage. “All right.

I’ll give it a go. But if . . . I . . .”

“You can stop at any time,” Michael said, filling in the

void. “And if you do, the evening does not have to stop if you

do not wish it. We can continue on as we have in the past.”

Reassured, Percy nodded.

But what to ask for?

Given he and Michael had spent a good number of nights

together, Percy was rather intimately acquainted with the

options available to him. And there were a lot. Too many.

54

Clearing his throat, Percy briefly glanced to the

floorboards beneath his feet, as if they held the answer.

Not a bit of help at al .

Well, he could follow Michael’s example. He was good at

fol owing.

“Will you kiss me?” Oh hell. Was that his voice? He

sounded like a meek, uncertain miss.

A warm smile curved Michael’s mouth. One of those rare

ones that made Percy want to snuggle up to the man’s side. “It

would be my pleasure.”

Michael’s hand slid down his arm, curved around to rest at

the small of his back. Michael had kissed him countless times

and on countless places on his body, yet this . . . this was so

very different. Anticipation rushed through his veins, backed

by a heavy measure of . . . nervousness? Need? He wasn’t quite

certain. Michael’s dark lashes swept down as he leaned in to

press a kiss to Percy’s lips. A soft, slow kiss. Light and gentle.

A mirror image of the one Percy had given him.

Needing more, he wrapped his arms around Michael’s

neck, pressed up against the solid bulk of his muscles, rubbed

his bare skin against Michael’s clothed body. Yet Michael kept

the kiss frustratingly slow.

“Harder, please,” he whispered against Michael’s lips.

A low growl rumbled around him. Slanting his lips

over Percy’s, Michael deepened the kiss, claimed his mouth.

Tongue delving deep, possessing him. Doing exactly as Percy

had asked.

The concept of merely asking and receiving was . . . well,

bloody damned brilliant.

Percy clung to Michael’s neck, surrendered to the strength

and the power of Michael’s kiss. Of Michael himself.

55

The hand on his back splayed, coasted down to grab his

arse, hauling him even closer. The hard arch of Michael’s cock

nudged his lower belly, the soft wool of his trousers tickling

Percy’s skin. His head swam with lust, with need, with a

craving for more, so potent and thick.

Then Michael’s lips left his, the heat of his body gone.

Percy blinked his eyes open to find Michael gazing down

at him. The man arched one dark brow.

Oh, yes. He was in charge of orchestrating the night’s

events.

He licked his lips, savored the taste of Michael that

lingered there. What to ask for next?

His brain felt clunky and slow, his senses still awash with

the force of Michael’s kiss. Yet some part of his mind knew

exactly what he wanted, for his attention went directly to the

placket of Michael’s trousers and the blatant erection the soft

black wool could not conceal.

The raw hunger in Percy’s gaze was like a physical force.

Michael’s cock hardened even further, straining against the

confines of his trousers. Percy’s tongue darted out again to

swipe across his bottom lip.

Having to stand idle, even though it was a situation of his

own construction, was turning out to be more difficult than

he could have foreseen. He kept a firm hold on his patience,

kept his mouth shut and his arms at his sides. It wouldn’t

do to rush Percy, and he would not learn exactly what Percy

preferred above all else if he nudged him in certain directions.

For example, a direction that would get that amazing,

talented, and above all eager mouth onto his body.

56

Another swipe of that pink tongue across Percy’s lip.

Patience.

Hungry hazel eyes met his. “Tell me to suck your cock.” A

blush rushed up Percy’s neck, staining his cheeks and the tips

of his ears, yet Percy kept his gaze locked with Michael’s.

Pride swelled within his chest. It was all Michael could do

to keep the grin from his lips. He schooled his features into a

hard mask of command, dropped his voice to a low rumble.

“Get on your knees and suck my cock, Percival.”

The light brown fan of Percy’s lashes fluttered briefly, and

a little smile of absolute contentment curved his mouth. It

was as if he melted down to his knees, the motion seamless

perfection. And it didn’t escape Michael’s notice that Percy

hadn’t asked him to do something to him. Rather the opposite.

I want so desperately to do as bid. Percy’s earlier words sounded in his head.

Perhaps it wasn’t just the act of submitting, but the act of

serving, of fulfilling Michael’s desires, whatever they may be,

that called to Percy’s soul. It made sense. Percy preferred to

serve in his position of employment, after al .

Percy’s light brown forelock fell over his brow as his

nimble fingers made quick work of the buttons on the placket

of Michael’s trousers. A warm hand reached inside, wrapped

around Michael’s length, and pulled it free.

Intent on the task given to him, Percy did not glance up

once. He leaned forward, his lips parting, his tongue darting

out to swipe the bead of fluid from the head of Michael’s cock.

A content smile flittered across his lips again, and then he

opened his mouth wide. Soft lips slid over the crown, down

his length, until they touched Percy’s fingers still wrapped

around the base.

57

Michael reached out a hand, threaded his fingers into

Percy’s hair, palmed the back of his skul . Percy’s light brown

lashes drifted down to rest on his flushed cheekbones, then he

began serving Michael in earnest.

Satisfying suction and wet, slick heat. The firm grip of

his fist pumping in counterpoint to the strokes of his mouth.

Percy truly had an amazing mouth. And tongue. Each pull

back was accompanied with a flick across the crown that sent

a jolt straight to Michael’s ballocks.

The delightfully crude sound of Percy sucking his cock

filled the bedchamber. Percy’s deep breaths fanned his groin.

Hot, thick pleasure coiled slowly down Michael’s spine. He

was torn between the need to tip his head back, close his eyes,

give himself up to the decadent sensations, and the need to

keep his gaze pinned on the beautiful sight before him.

A sight that had captivated him since their first night

together. It was meant to have been a simple affair. A shared

drink in his study, a bit of conversation, a nudge or two to

confirm his suspicion Percy preferred men. But Percy had

been so nervous, yet at the same time so obviously attracted to

him, that Michael had thrown his intentions into the hearth

and followed his instincts. “Get on your knees and suck my

cock.” He had sworn then that Percy had sighed in gratitude as he’d promptly done as commanded.

The suction intensified around his length, jolting his

thoughts to the present. Percy didn’t quicken his pace, but

Michael felt the change acutely. The increase in determination.

The heightened resolve behind each stroke. Percy’s free hand,

resting on Michael’s thigh, flexed and tightened, as if resisting the urge to reach down and stroke his own leaking prick. The

orgasm that had been hovering quite pleasantly at the edges of

Michael’s senses began to barrel down upon him.

58

He cupped Percy’s jaw, tapped the pad of his thumb

against his hollowed cheek. The light touch was a stark

contrast to his tone. “Mind, Percival. I told you to suck my

cock, not bring me to climax.”

The intense suction instantly lessened. A few long luscious

strokes more, and Percy eased back, Michael’s cock slipping

free of his mouth, his fingers releasing Michael’s length.

Percy rocked back to rest his arse on his calves, his prick

so hard it arched up to brush his lower belly. Head bowed and

arms at his sides, he seemed satisfied to wait for Michael’s next command. As if he wanted the next command to come from

Michael.

While Michael wanted to learn what else Percy truly

preferred above all in the bedchamber, perhaps the time had

come for him to take back full control of the evening. Percy

had asked for a kiss, voiced his desire for Michael to deepen

said kiss, and told Michael to tell him to suck his cock. Three

requests, when not a quarter of an hour ago, Michael had

feared he would not be able to pull even one from Percy.

He opened his mouth, the command for Percy to get onto

the bed on the tip of his tongue.

Percy glanced up through the fan of his lashes, caught

Michael’s eye. “Tell me to lick your arse.”

Naughty, brave man. Hell, how Michael adored him.

“Percival Joseph Owens, I want you to lick my arse.”

A visible shudder went through Percy, his breath catching.

“Yes, Michael.” He reached for the waistband of Michael’s

trousers hanging on his hips, tugged the garment down to his

calves. One foot at a time, he removed Michael’s shoes, pulled

the trousers free of his feet. Then he stood.

Michael waited for him to fold the trousers, place them

on the chest of drawers, and tuck the shoes beneath. The man

59

was so tidy. A trait Michael could appreciate, though right

now, the trousers could remain strewn across the floorboards

for all he cared. Too impatient to wait a moment longer, he

made to tug on the knot of his cravat.

“Leave it on,” Percy said, with a glance over his shoulder.

“For now, please.”

He wanted him partially clothed? Oh, he definitely

possessed a wicked streak that rivaled Michael’s own.

As Percy turned from the chest of drawers, Michael

caught him by the upper arm. Pulled Percy to him. Slanted

his mouth over those plumped, reddened, wet lips, needing

to taste them again.

He coasted his hands down Percy’s back, the skin as

smooth as crushed velvet. Percy sagged against him, his innate

need to submit rendering him almost boneless. Michael

couldn’t help but marvel at the man in his arms as he swept his

tongue inside Percy’s delectable mouth. Percy might believe

otherwise, but he possessed a strength, a purity of soul, that

called to Michael’s own on a level he’d never felt with another.

Through sheer force of will, Michael broke the kiss and

released Percy. “Now get to work.” He turned toward the foot

of the bed and bent at the waist, resting his elbows on the

edge of the mattress. “And I expect nothing less than your best

effort.”

Cool air brushed his arse as Percy tucked the tail of

his shirt beneath his waistcoat. A creak of the floorboards,

then hands palmed his arse cheeks, spread them fully apart.

Anticipation soared through Michael. Oh hell, was Percy

good at this act. Almost too good. He’d never climaxed from

it alone, but Percy had brought him damned close on more

than one occasion. Warm breaths brushed against him, then

Percy placed a soft, reverent kiss on his hole. Starting with slow 60

licks, he wet the sensitive skin, leaving no spot untouched.

Then those slow licks turned to teasing swirls and light flicks.

A groan shook Michael’s chest. Damnation.

Yes, indeed, almost too good.

Widening his stance, Michael arched his back, pushing

into Percy’s grip, wanting more of that talented tongue.

Fingers clutching Michael’s cheeks, Percy gave it to him and

then some. The hot pants of his breaths scorched Michael’s

crease as he licked and stabbed, taunting Michael with the

tiniest hint of penetration.

The notion nudged hard against his senses. His hole

flexed, craving more. Craving the satisfying burn that came

from being stretched, opened, stuffed ful .

“Stop, Percy.” He looked over his shoulder, caught Percy’s

gaze over the curve of his hip. “Fetch the hollow steel plug

from the trunk.” With enough width, and lighter than solid

steel or marble, that particular plug would stay firmly in place regardless of what activities came next.

Hazel eyes flared. A swipe of his forearm across his

wet mouth, then Percy nodded, quick and eager. The next

moment, he was bent over before the trunk, putting his arse

on display. Michael let out a grunt. Soft yet firm and oh so

plentiful, the man had an arse designed to be buggered and

spanked.

The plug in one hand, Percy returned to stand at his place

behind Michael. His flushed chest worked under the force of

his quick breaths. Not from nervousness or trepidation. The

excited spark in his eyes said all too clearly he was thoroughly enjoying himself.

Michael flicked his chin toward the plug. “Suck on it.”

Opening his mouth, Percy slipped the length of the plug

inside. Hell and damnation, that was a pretty image, Percy’s

61

reddened lips stretched around the steel. Three strokes, and

he pulled it free, the surface glistening with moisture.

Michael waited. Let the anticipation ratchet, draw taut,

in Percy, in himself. All the while, Percy’s eager gaze remained locked with his. When Michael couldn’t wait another

moment, he spoke, his voice barely above a growl.

“Percival, push that plug in my arse.”

Michael’s crude command went directly to Percy’s groin.

His ballocks lurched up, tightening against his body. He

coasted a hand over the soft silk of the back of Michael’s

waistcoat, then down to palm the man’s arse and pull a cheek

back. Short dark hair dusted his crease and swept down

his strong thighs, the area around his entrance slicked with

moisture from Percy’s mouth. The rectangular end of the plug

clutched tightly in his other hand, he made to lift his arm,

then paused.

Michael hadn’t told him to fetch the oil, yet . . .

Leaning down, he spit on Michael’s entrance. With a

hand that shook slightly, he used the narrow end of the plug

to spread the moisture there. Then he pushed just the tip

inside. Careful and slow.

A part of his mind marveled that Michael was allowing

him to do this, yet another part oddly wasn’t surprised. The

man radiated confidence—the same confidence that drew

Percy to him. Michael pursued what he wanted without

regret, without shame, without hesitation. He sparked the

craving within Percy to be like him, to be that confident, that

sure of himself.

62

Dropping his head, Michael pushed back. “More, Percival.

Shove it in my arse.”

A thin whimper slid past Percy’s lips. Increasing the

pressure, he did as Michael demanded. He couldn’t tear

his gaze from Michael’s arse as the flared length of the plug

disappeared into his body, his entrance stretching, yielding to

the increase in width. Then his hole closed snugly around the

narrow base and the rectangular end settled against his skin.

With a gravelly, distinctly satisfied grunt, Michael

straightened. He turned to face Percy. His eyes were heavy-

lidded, the crests of his cheeks flushed the tiniest bit, his

thick cock standing stiff and hard between his bare legs. Yet

his cravat was still neatly tied, his waistcoat fully buttoned. A debauched, proper gentleman. “Well done.”

“Thank you,” he whispered. Just knowing he’d pleased

Michael . . . there was nothing quite like that feeling in all the world.

“Would you have liked the plug to be your cock?”

The question took him aback. “You’d let me?”

“Indeed, if you wish to try it. Have you ever buggered a

man?”

“No.” He’d never been with another who’d wanted that

from him.

“Then I can be your first.” Judging by the possessive

glint in his eyes, the notion seemed to please Michael. “Not

tonight, though perhaps soon?”

Percy nodded. “Perhaps soon.” A rather intimidating

prospect, to be responsible for Michael’s pleasure in such

a fashion. But the idea of Michael ordering him to bugger

him . . . of it being his cock, and not steel, sliding into Michael’s arse . . .

A heavy bolt of lust shot through him.

63

“Back to tonight. Is there anything else you wish to ask

for?”Michael had said earlier they could stop at any time, and

Percy found he was ready to shed the responsibility for the

night. It had been exhilarating—oh, most assuredly—and

even enlightening. But he yearned simply to do as bid again.

He shook his head. “Do with me what you will.”

That possessive glint made its way to Michael’s mouth,

curving his lips. “First, though, I find myself rather overdressed for what I have in mind for the remainder of our evening.

Since my valet is not available to see to the task, you will serve in his place.”

“Yes, Michael.” Taking a half-step closer, he reached up.

The backs of his fingers brushed Michael’s jaw as he tugged

on the white muslin, unraveling the neat knot. He’d removed

Michael’s trousers many times, yet to have the pleasure of

undressing him fully? To have that particular task entrusted

to him?

His breath stuttered. He gently pulled the length of fabric

from Michael’s neck. Michael kept his attention fixed straight

ahead, his chin slightly lifted, bearing Percy no mind. Just as

one would pay a valet no mind as the servant went about his

duties. After folding the cravat over his elbow, he set to work

on the buttons of Michael’s waistcoat. One by one, he slipped

each small fabric-covered button free, all the while resisting

the urge to lay his hands on Michael’s broad chest. To feel the

heat of his body seeping through the fine silk.

He stepped behind Michael, took hold of the shoulder

seams of the waistcoat. Michael shrugged, and Percy pulled

the garment free.

Percy pursed his lips. How did a valet remove a gentleman’s

shirt? As he’d never had a valet of his own, he hadn’t a notion

of how to accomplish the task.

64

But before the worry could fully grip hold, Michael

whisked the shirt over his head, solving the problem for him.

Determined to do his very best, he did not allow himself

to soak up the sight of Michael’s glorious bare back. Instead,

he quickly took the shirt from Michael’s outstretched hand.

Once he’d folded the garments and placed them on the chest

of drawers, he returned to stand before Michael.

“Well done. Now get on the bed, Percival.”

He scrambled onto the bed. There were so many

possibilities that he hadn’t a notion of what Michael might

want from him. The unknown somehow made everything

that much more wicked, and at the same time, that much

more . . . comforting.

Pushing the pillows aside, he positioned himself in the

middle of the large mattress on his back. And waited.

A satisfied nod, and Michael turned from the bed. With

each step he took, Percy caught a glimpse of steel between his

cheeks. Knowing the plug was in Michael’s arse right at that

moment . . .

He caught the groan just in time to keep it from rattling

his throat. He knew exactly how that particular plug felt. The

lightness of it, the way it’d moved with him, yet at the same

time lit up every nerve in his arse with each step he’d take.

After reaching into the trunk, Michael strode back to the

bed, a long leather carriage line held in one hand and a glass

bottle of oil in the other.

With a satisfying thump, Michael dropped the coiled line onto the mattress. “Arse up,” he murmured, grabbing two of

the pillows.

Planting his feet, Percy arched his back to lift his hips off

the bed.

65

Once the pillows were positioned under his hips to

Michael’s satisfaction, Michael grabbed the leather line.

The ropes beneath the mattress creaked softly as Michael

knelt on the bed beside him. Every movement was deliberate

yet efficient as Michael restrained him, his expression intent,

his dark brows scrunched together the tiniest bit. One end

looped and knotted above Percy’s knee to draw his leg back,

the line passed between two of the wooden spindles spanning

the length of the headboard, then wrapped and knotted

around first one wrist then the other. Michael didn’t need to

ask Percy to draw his other leg up for the line to be looped

above that knee, the end secured with a simple slipknot.

Arms above his head, legs back, arse exposed, Percy was

almost completely immobilized. A light tug of his arms pulled

his legs back further, past the point of comfort. Yet there was

just a bit of give in the line, enough to allow a little wiggle

and to keep the leather from biting into his skin. Designed

to control a strong team of six, the line was also broader

than the usual variety, making it the ideal width for the use

Michael had put it to. In his time with Michael, Percy had

quickly found he had a fondness for both knots and leather.

The security of a knot binding him, the thick, woodsy scent of

leather. Ropes were quite nice as well, but they couldn’t rival

the feel of smooth leather against his skin.

Michael ran a fingertip beneath the leather wrapped

above one knee, clearly testing to ensure it wasn’t too tight.

“All right?” he asked.

In his prone position, Percy nodded as best he could.

Oh hell. More than merely all right. Each beat of his heart reverberated in his prick, the hard length resting on his

lower abdomen. Fluid dripped from the small slit, wetting

66

his skin. And his arse . . . His muscles tightened. His arse was completely Michael’s to do with as he pleased.

A fact Michael demonstrated by dragging a fingertip

down from his ballocks to his entrance. Such a light touch,

yet there was no denying the authority, the command behind

it. “This gorgeous arse is much too pale. But first . . .” The

scent of almond oil filled the air as Michael poured a generous

amount into his palm. “I want you prepared for my cock. I

want you ready for me.”

Yes. At the first brush of an oil-slicked finger, Percy closed his eyes. A swirl of a fingertip over his skin and then that digit pushed inside. The teasing touch long gone, he took each firm

stroke, bottom lip held between his teeth. With no warning,

one digit became two. Then three. There was no other word

for it: Michael prepared him. Methodically. Resolutely. And the absolute lack of softer sentiment cranked the lust even

higher.

His prick ached for a touch. Needed it. Michael wouldn’t

have to do anything but wrap a hand around Percy’s cock to

trigger the climax building swiftly within. A fact he was certain Michael well knew. Hell, even his climax was Michael’s to do

with as he pleased.

Those fingers left him. Left him aching and empty and

wanting.

He heard the loud crack of skin against skin an instant

before the delicious sting radiated through him. Blow after

blow, the rhythm as consistent and solid as the man himself,

Michael smacked the exposed bottom curve of his arse,

alternating from one cheek to the other.

Percy reveled in each sensation. The brief feel of Michael’s

bare palm on his skin. The sharp fiery impact. The way the

67

sting flared and then seeped into his muscles, ratcheting the

ache to be filled. To be taken by Michael. The plea screamed

to the surface, yet ingrained habit had him tamping it down,

keeping it locked inside.

The sensations began to blur together. Every last trace

of tension left his body. He gasped for breath, felt the tickle

of warm moisture slide down his temples. Intense pleasure

saturated his senses, left him lax in the lines and almost at the point of sobbing in earnest.

And then there was silence. So immersed in Michael’s

rhythm, Percy’s breath stumbled when the next blow didn’t

come.

“Gorgeous.” Michael smoothed a hot palm over his

smarting skin. “How many was that, Percival?”

“Nineteen.” He could barely form his mouth around

the word, hadn’t a clue how he even knew the answer. Yet he

always did.

“Very good.” The mattress shifted beneath Percy. There

was a faint clink of glass against glass. A fresh hint of almond oil beneath the scent of male sweat. “Open your eyes. Look

at me.”

Percy forced his eyes to focus on Michael kneeling

between his spread legs. Met Michael’s intent gaze.

“Don’t look away.” With a hand on Percy’s hip to hold

him steady, Michael pushed his cock inside him.

A groan rattled his throat as he was stretched wide. So

damned wide. Without a single pause, Michael pushed deeper

and deeper. Until his groin pressed against the just-spanked

skin of Percy’s arse. Until he filled him completely.

His eyelids threatened to close. The pleasure . . . so intense,

so perfect. The empty ache finally, blissfully satisfied. Yet he 68

kept his gaze fixed on Michael’s as ordered, and earned the

ultimate reward.

He watched as lust took hold of Michael’s features.

Darkening his eyes to almost a midnight blue, pul ing his

upper lip, tightening his jaw. Michael took hold of Percy’s

hips with both hands and pulled back, teasing the rim of his

entrance with the head of his cock, then plunged back inside.

“Tell me, Percy. Do you like it when I fuck you?”

Percy bit his lip, almost hard enough to break the skin.

Tension threatened to seep into his muscles, to mask the al -

encompassing pleasure. Yet it wasn’t the demand, but the plea

in Michael’s eyes that finally pulled the truth from him.

He nodded once.

A deep growl rumbled from Michael’s chest. “Tell me. I

want to hear it.” Michael pulled back and slammed into him.

“Yes, yes.” The words tumbled past Percy’s lips before

he could yank them back. And once the words were free, he

couldn’t stop them. Did not want to stop them. It was as if

every word he’d ever tamped down demanded to be heard.

“Please, Michael. More.”

Buried hilt deep, Michael paused. “Very well done,” he

whispered, his features momentarily softening, telling Percy

louder than words just how much his voice meant to him.

And then he proceeded to give Percy exactly what he’d asked

for. The hard thrusts shook the bed. With each slam of

Michael’s hips, Percy’s cock slapped against his belly. But the

contact wasn’t enough. His senses teetered on the cusp of a

climax, and Michael held him there. Poised, ready, desperate.

He gave him more and more and more. Driving more pleasure

into his senses. Faster, harder, deeper.

69

Michael finally reached for Percy’s cock. Strong fingers

wrapped around his length. And the orgasm blazed through

him.“Yes, yes, yes!”

As the sound of his own shouts echoed in his ears, Michael

rammed into him to the hilt, filling Percy with hot seed.

Michael removed the wet cloth from Percy’s arse and

replaced it with another one. A chill swept over his skin. The

cold cloth was supposed to help soothe his reddened arse, or

at least that’s what Michael had once told him. And he had

to admit that even though he felt a bit ridiculous lying on his

stomach on Michael’s bed, a cloth draped over his bare arse,

the remedy wasn’t for naught. It did work.

The leather line was gone, put back in its place in the

trunk. Michael had also seen to the steel plug himself, wiped

the seed from Percy’s stomach before it could dry, and stoked

the fire in the hearth. A few more minutes, and Michael would

deem his arse sufficiently tended to and remove the cloth.

That would be Percy’s cue to drag himself out of Michael’s

bed, pull on his clothes, and leave. Until then, though, he’d

savor whatever was left of their night.

He watched as Michael crossed to the low cabinet by the

door. A little clink of porcelain, and he returned to the bed bearing a teacup.

“Drink this.”

Pushing up onto one elbow, Percy took the proffered cup.

“Thank you.” Cold tea, likely because the maid had heated it

before she’d been dismissed for the night, but it did wonders

for his parched throat.

70

Setting the empty cup on the bedside table, Michael sat

on the edge of the bed. “How do you feel?”

“All right.” He could don his trousers without discomfort.

“No. How do you feel?” Michael asked again, his brow

creased with concern.

Oh. Michael wasn’t referring to his arse, but to him.

“All right.” Michael’s hard stare demanded a more thorough

answer. “A bit tired, but all and al , right as can be. And no

regrets,” he added before Michael could press him again.

And he did not have any regrets. He actually felt rather

damned good. The worry and shame that usually began

to form over his head about now were wonderfully absent.

Gone. The only thing that kept the smile from his lips was

the knowledge that he would need to leave soon, return to his

lonely apartments. But there was no use bemoaning it.

Michael studied him for a moment. “Would you care to

stay for the night?”

“Honestly, Michael, I’m fine.” The man needn’t put him

up in a guest bedchamber, keep watch over him like some sort

of invalid. He was well able to see himself to his apartments.

“I don’t doubt that. Still, I’d like you to stay with me

tonight.”

With him? “But . . .” He now knew Michael cared for

him—their evening had been proof of that astonishing fact.

Yet . . . Michael wanted him to stay with him, in his bed?

“Truly?”

“Yes, truly.”

Before the smile could show itself, rational thought

descended, dampening that light, wonderful feeling sweeping

through his body. “But your maid. Your valet. I can’t be here”—

he nudged his chin to indicate the bed—“come dawn.”

71

“Yes, you can. I gave my staff the night free, including the

morning. They won’t arrive until noon. An early present of

sorts for Boxing Day.”

“You enjoy giving presents, don’t you?” And Michael,

bless his generous soul, had given Percy the most amazing one

of al —the gift of his own voice. Of accepting his desires, of

owning them. He wasn’t certain if he could ever repay him.

Michael tipped his head. “Will you stay with me tonight?”

“Yes,” he replied, unable to contain the smile a moment

longer.

A crisp nod from Michael, and he got to his feet, taking the

damp cloth with him. As he extinguished the candles, Percy

slipped beneath the coverlet and wiggled to the right, being

sure to leave enough space for Michael to sleep comfortably.

With the room lit only by the faint glow of the fire in the

hearth, Michael got into bed. The mattress shifted, the ropes

beneath creaking. Then an arm wrapped around Percy’s back,

pul ing him close to a strong, bare body.

“I want you with me, not on the other side of the bed.”

Percy didn’t need to be told twice. Resting his head on

the man’s broad shoulder, he eagerly snuggled up to Michael’s

side. Sleep tugged heavily at his eyes, but he didn’t want to

surrender to it just yet. He wanted to savor every detail. The

way the heat from Michael’s body warmed his own. The steady

rhythm of his breaths. The feel of Michael’s arm holding him

tight.Michael tucked him closer to his side. “I would have you

know that I’d welcome a call from you, whatever the time of

day or night. You needn’t feel compelled to wait for a note to

knock on my door. It’s always open to you.”

Percy lifted his head. He couldn’t make out Michael’s

features, yet the dark shadows surrounding them could not

mask the sincerity in the man’s tone.

72

“In fact, I would like for it to be only us. No others. If you

agree, that is.”

The rise and fall of Michael’s chest picked up a notch,

the steady rhythm gone. As if Michael wasn’t fully certain

he would agree. As if the man hadn’t a notion that he’d just

presented Percy with his fondest wish, the one he’d been

too afraid even to hope for. “There haven’t been any others,

not since our first evening together.” He wanted no doubt in

Michael’s mind on that point. “I’ve only wanted to be with

you. I only want to be with you.”

The tension eased from the strong body beneath him. “As

I with you. Hence my question. So do you agree?”

Shifting up, he pressed his lips to Michael’s, put his answer

into the kiss. Then, pul ing back, he gave Michael the words.

“Yes. I would like that above all else.”

They would need to be discreet, to appear only as friends

outside of this room. Yet the knowledge that he was Michael’s,

just as Michael was now his, would be more than enough to

compensate for the need for discretion.

Feeling happier and more secure than he could ever

remember, he snuggled back up to Michael’s side. “Will you

tell me your full name?”

“Michael Albert Barlow.”

“Thank you.”

“It was my pleasure, Percival Joseph Owens. Being with

you is always my pleasure.” Lips brushed the top of Percy’s

head. “Happy Christmas.”

Percy smiled against Michael’s chest. “Happy Christmas

to you, too.”

Tonight had truly been a Christmas he would never

forget, a Christmas he knew would be the first of many more

to come with Michael.

73

Fireworks

Katie Porter

eet me for New Year’s,” Rachel had said. “One last

hurrah.”

“M W “I D “A P

If she had no other choice, Emma would make

sure it was a helluva night.

As ordered, she’d packed every toy both she and Rachel

loved. Emma’s task was to arrange them in the final hotel

room they would share, while obediently ignoring the

suitcase Rachel had already deposited. Despite having done

so repeatedly during their long-distance relationship, getting

her collection through airport security always gave Emma a

case of nerves. She didn’t care what an anonymous TSA guy

thought when rifling through her checked bag, but she sure as

hell didn’t want her rattan cane bent or the falls of her flogger caught in a zipper.

Not that it mattered. Rachel always said the same thing.

“You, your clothes, and your mouth. And the clothes are

optional.”

Except Rachel had been very explicit about Emma’s New

Year’s attire. The backless scarlet dress nearly, nearly clashed with her hair. Her ma’am loved red in all forms: the clothes

Emma wore, the shade of her hair, and especially the way

Emma’s ass and back flamed when abused.

74

The elevator opened. Rachel stepped out.

While waiting in a corridor above the open atrium,

Emma had spied her ma’am in the midst of Craig Industrial

Exports’ New Year’s Eve party, but Rachel looked even more

voluptuous up close. Dark eyes. Darker hair. Twin French

braids were a deliberate tease. Emma adored when Rachel

looked adorable, while Rachel insisted that a good Dom

was never adorable. She always smiled when she said that, which was the closest Emma came to peeking past her lover’s

wickedly sharp defenses.

With Rachel in front of her now, Emma’s heart was a wild,

beastly thing. She needed to get a grip or she’d lose it within

the first few swats of the nasty English ruler.

“About time, dearest,” Rachel said, her voice cool and

controlled. “I was getting bored of the limp dicks at that

party. Needed my hands in your hair.”

She suited actions to words and grabbed Emma by her

long hair—grown out especially for Rachel. She dragged

Emma down the hal way toward room 617, where something

beautiful would come to an end. In mere days, Rachel would

leave for a business posting to Tokyo and sever the two-year

long-distance relationship that had fed Emma’s happiness.

The sharp snap of pain along Emma’s scalp flung away her

maudlin emotions. Taller, more toned, she was still the one to

be guided. Pulled. Owned.

Rachel unlocked the door and pushed Emma inside.

On a surprised exhale, Emma found herself jammed face-

first against the nearest wal , pinned at her nape. Rachel made

a purring sound, then scraped blunted, perfectly manicured

nails down Emma’s bare back.

“Perfect,” Rachel murmured. “Such a good girl, doing

exactly what you’re told.”

75

Rachel was practical. She was willful and rock solid,

except for her body—lush, curvaceous, mesmerizing. In

everything else, she kept her guard up. That included her

emotional relationship with Emma. The lack of deep intimacy

or promises was something Emma had learned to live with, as

much a part of Rachel as her ambition and talent.

“Thank you, ma’am.” She hissed in a strangled gulp of air

when Rachel’s fingertips dug deeper.

Rachel also liked things orderly. Emma had no doubt that

her back would be patterned with precise lines in sets of four.

Over and over. The same stretches of skin. She shivered, her

cheek still pushed against the hotel room wal . Her nipples

beaded against her silk bodice. No bra. Never a bra. Rachel

wouldn’t have been pleased, not even in that mocking “not

pleased” way that led to a fantastic beating.

“Turn,” Rachel said tersely. “I want your kiss.”

With a sigh of release, Emma did as she was told—really,

did what she needed. This was connection and intimacy, if only on a physical level. Their mouths met, simmering and tasting.

The promise of everything to come made her knees tremble

and the breath catch in her throat. Rachel caught Emma’s jaw

in one hand and pulled her hair with the other.

“So goddamn tal . Sit.”

She wrenched Emma toward a couch in their suite and

pushed her down. Rachel was in control in every way. She

was dressed in a black-and-white gown that flowed freely

down to mid-calf, but hugged her ribs and full breasts. Christ,

her breasts. Nothing better on the planet, except when she

wielded a belt across Emma’s back.

The kissing began again—turned hot and greedy and

promising again. Promises of more. Rachel caught the base of

Emma’s tongue between her teeth and bit down.

76

Oh, God. Just the beginning.

The bite turned fierce. Testing. Rachel had never gone

so far as to break skin, anywhere, but that was more of a

psychological limit than one based on safety. Emma didn’t

own a ring or a token from her distant lover, and that meant

no scars either. When Rachel left for Tokyo, she would leave

only a ghost to haunt Emma’s memories—nothing more solid

than digital photos and hoarded emails.

“Look at you,” Rachel said, so softly. Almost worshipful.

Emma always felt the most special, the most cherished, when

one of her hazed-out reactions drew a breathy comment from

her ma’am. “You’re halfway to gone already, just from a simple

kiss.”Emma dared a cheeky smile. “Simple? Hardly.”

“I was waiting for that mouth of yours to start pushing

my buttons.” Rachel hiked up the hem of her black-and-white

cocktail dress, shoved Emma back into the smal , firm couch,

and settled in for a good straddle. “Stick your tongue out

again. All the way out.”

Emma flinched on the first try. Such a small hesitation.

Rachel wrenched her hair so roughly that Emma gasped.

“Now. ”

The second time . . . Jesus, she always felt so vulnerable.

And a little silly. Humiliated. She hated being humiliated, and

Rachel knew it. Only on occasion did her ma’am’s debasing

demands overlap with pain.

The pain was the reward.

Rachel leaned in and kissed around Emma’s lips, tongue,

and even the tip of her nose. Ful , gorgeous breasts pressed

flush against her own, body to body. Softness against softness.

Emma relaxed under such pretty, sweet attention.

77

With the next kiss, Rachel shoved all the way to the base of

Emma’s tongue and pressed her teeth into that sensitive flesh.

Hard. Harder. Pushing limits. Pain and pleasure threatened

to short-circuit what few working brain cells Emma had

left. Everything centered on clenching teeth. Then dragging

teeth—dragging until, every time, she thought Rachel would

bite the tip right off.

“Again.”

And again. And again.

Emma sank into the rhythm, loved it, even though it was

the teasing S&M equivalent of teenagers making out in the

backseat of a little Japanese car—which they’d also done. That

had been a fun afternoon.

“Enough for now. I have other plans for us,” Rachel said,

their wet lips touching.

Emma’s tongue was slightly numb, although the rest of

her body sang and hummed and waited. She gazed up. Again

she found that look of both authority and wonder in Rachel’s

dark eyes. Rachel’s intensity, her amazing focus, would never

lose its attraction.

No, it would simply leave. Within hours. Rachel would

say goodbye and she’d mean it. She’d move to Tokyo, leaving

Emma behind. For good.

Oh, damn.

Rachel took hold of her lower jaw, owning every

movement, permitting only what she desired. “Would you

like to know my plans, little girl?”

“Yes, ma’am.”

A nasty, gorgeous grin shaped her mouth. “It’s New

Year’s Eve. And I’m going to make you into my own personal

fireworks display.”

78

Rachel eased back toward the suitcase she’d stashed before

the party, but she couldn’t take her eyes off Emma. Hands

open, palms up on her knees, Emma’s expression was . . . not

exactly placid. More like the embodiment of waiting. She was

the one person in Rachel’s life who’d consistently waited for

her, who’d kept wanting her, no matter what. Emma hadn’t pulled away the way everyone else had.

Those pale blue eyes were heavy-lidded with the

anticipation that never failed to set Rachel’s blood on fire.

Rachel had the most perfect, darling girl that could ever

be found. It was a miracle she’d managed to hold onto Emma

for two years. Career ambitions and the distance between

them had made it difficult.

Which was why her move to Japan was a good thing.

Emma could find someone to make it real forever. Rachel had

never managed to hang onto the important people in her life.

Parents who ridiculed that she was gay? See ya. High school friends who couldn’t understand her big city ambitions? Your loss. Not to mention girlfriends who’d withdrawn when she had kept her true self close and guarded. Rachel had left them

too—a means of beating them to the punch.

No one chose Rachel. The only safe place on the planet

was the one she made for herself. Now that safe place would

be in Tokyo. Good enough. Yet she had no delusions that

forgetting her redheaded girl would be easy.

It would be impossible.

“You’re beautiful, my darling.” Upon checking in, she’d

intentionally propped her unzipped suitcase on the luggage

stand, taunting and teasing Emma with possibilities—Emma,

who would never even think to riffle through it.

“Thank you, ma’am.” Emma smiled so easily. “You picked

the dress, after al .”

79

She had, while shopping together via Skype. Rachel

cataloged it as another instance of not good enough. They should’ve been able to do it in person, making naughty use

of dressing rooms. Not good enough was a damn hard refrain to live with, even if Emma didn’t realize it yet. With enough

time, she would—and her disappointment would snatch

away what was left of Rachel’s heart.

“Now take it off.”

Emma’s eyes went wide. “Now, ma’am? You’ve barely seen

me in it.”

“I didn’t ask for any lip.” She pitched her voice low and

mean, when she actually wanted to grin. Rachel was fairly

sure she’d never given it away, but she had a private nickname

for her girl: Emma the Mouth. She loved every dirty, smart-

assed, brilliant implication. “Strip. Now. Don’t make me say

‘or else.’ It’s too cheesy for words.” She lifted an eyebrow. “And you won’t get the smacks I know you came here for. Vanilla is

the worst threat for a pain slut like you.”

After Emma’s eyes widened, she blanked her expression.

“Yes, ma’am.”

Emma stood in a deliberate pose. Red silk draped over her

body, all the way to the floor. She removed it with a delectable combination of teasing and obedience. Underneath she

was completely bare, exactly as Rachel liked. Her hips were

slim but womanly. She had smal , perky breasts that proudly

beaded with pink nipples. All her skin . . . She was pale. So

very pale it made Rachel’s fingertips itch, made her teeth set

against the need to bite.

Not nibble. Bite.

Her girl never left their weekends without Rachel’s teeth

marks.

80

Emma clasped her hands in front of her neat, tidy pussy.

Bare, of course. She waxed because Rachel liked that too. That

obedience was as powerful as the aesthetic.

Rachel held down the shudder of pure excitement.

Dominating Emma was always so good, so damn easy, like

pul ing on a custom-tailored coat.

“Stretch across the coffee table, head turned, your left

cheek on the wood. Knees on the floor. Hands above your

head gripping the far edge.”

“Ma’am always knows what she wants,” Emma said as she

knelt.

Not always.

Emma’s ass, both soft and tender, was gorgeous—one of

her physical attributes Rachel had always admired. The view

only got better as she trailed her gaze up Emma’s body: the

twin dimples just above those tempting globes, the dip at the

small of her spine, the gentle slope of her back.

It wasn’t just her beauty. It was the way she submitted, like

a leaf bending under a breeze. She gave and Rachel took and

that was the way they worked.

Amazing. Emma was amazing.

And what was that refrain? Not good enough. If Emma

ever heard the words in Rachel’s mind, she’d realize she could

do so much better than settle for a woman as closed off as

Rachel.

Carefully, precisely, she set four small jars in a row where

Emma could see. The glass clicked on the wood. “Such pretty

colors.”

Despite her curious expression, Emma never lifted her

chin. Her brows were slender and graceful, like her, and always

so expressive. They drew together. “Glitter, ma’am?”

81

Rachel had seen them in a hobby shop while Christmas

shopping for her boss’s wife. She’d jolted on a fresh idea for

New Year’s. Now three jars with white lids were respectively

filled with silver, gold, and blue. But the fourth jar was her

favorite.

She crouched low and dangled it in front of Emma’s nose.

“Yes, glitter. Pink glitter, even. I bet you’re wondering what I could possibly do with these. What reward would make my

little pain slut submit to the dubious use of craft supplies?”

Emma slanted a coy smile. “Finger painting?”

“In a manner of speaking. But I doubt it’ll remind you of

kindergarten by the time we’re done.” She flicked off the lid,

sending it spinning. For Emma to see, she poured a generous

handful of the vibrantly pink glitter into her palm. “You see,

after I’ve made you into my New Year’s display, I’m going to

beat it off you.”

What Rachel adored was how Emma sank into every

word. Rachel would have fun spanking and flogging and

caning. The flogger was a special favorite of theirs, and the

cane was vicious enough to wet Rachel’s thighs with just a

thought. She would do anything for the way Emma calmly

melted against an anonymous wooden coffee table and

waited for the first blow.

Drawing out the anticipation, she walked slowly along

Emma’s side, leaning down to bite and scratch. The evenly

spaced red lines from Emma’s shoulders to her waist started

to fade, so Rachel scratched harder in cross-way marks.

Delightfully cruel patterns.

Still holding a palm full of glitter in the other hand, she

reared back and spanked. The glitter scattered across Emma’s

ass and the small of her back.

82

“Oh, pet,” she said with a laugh. “You should see yourself!”

Emma strained to look back over her shoulder. “I just see

some pink. But you’re adorable.”

Snorting, Rachel gathered the rest of the bottles. “Let’s

see how adorable you think I am in a few minutes.”

She poured silver glitter into her hand. This smack landed

on Emma’s right cheek, frothing a spill of metal ic shine. Then

gold colored the skin between her shoulder blades, where

Rachel’s handprint exploded bright sunbursts.

“Jesus, you look like a slut. Some fuckable pole dancer.”

“And yet I’m just lying here,” Emma said on a little pout.

But her eyes were lit up, her lips parted on soft and constant

breaths.

“Liar.” Rachel shoved her glitter-free hand between

Emma’s thighs. Wet heat welcomed her fingers. “You are not

just lying there.”

Emma’s little moans and sighs were party treats just for

Rachel. Her heart clenched on every sound as she continued

to decorate her girl with blue glitter—sharp slaps up and

down that prone, lithe body. Beauty and shine and everything

bright.

When her palm began to sting, Rachel turned to eye the

toys and implements arranged across the dresser from smallest

to largest. A neat line of clothespins started the procession

on the left and the rattan cane finished at the far right. Tidy.

Delicious.

What Rachel needed was dead center. Of all the toys with

so much potential for pain, these three pieces of leather were

kind. Seemingly gentle. She knelt before Emma and fastened

the red leather cuffs around slender wrists. A hot sense of

ownership rushed through her. Christ, she loved that feeling.

As politically incorrect, and as difficult as it was to explain, 83

Rachel owned another human being whenever she cinched

those cuffs.

Hiding the way her hands shook as she tightened the

collar around Emma’s neck was the most difficult trick. This

wasn’t just ownership. It was the closest Rachel had ever

been to binding herself to another soul. Giving up these

moments . . .

She’d never been closer to asking Emma to come with

her to Tokyo. They’d remained a couple because thousands of

miles meant phone calls, Skype sessions, and mind-blowing

weekends. Rachel could remain strong and impeccable from

that distance. She never gave Emma the chance to see how

fal ible she really was.

Long-term commitment . . .? Impossible.

Rachel wouldn’t know where to begin.

Getting up the courage to ask would be difficult enough,

and outright rejection from Emma would be bad. The worst,

though? The worst would be the slow deterioration of Emma’s

love. The inherent difficulties of living together would become

a struggle. Struggle to resentment. Resentment to hatred and

the need to escape. Rachel had felt it before.

For better or worse, Tokyo was a topic better left alone.

Rachel bit her own lip, although she sure as fuck hated

physical pain.

Needing an outlet, she framed Emma’s jaw with both

hands. Pale blue eyes were softly clouded over.

“Show me your tongue.”

Emma pushed it out. Pink and tender. Rachel settled

her teeth halfway down and bit. Hard. Emma squeaked but

didn’t pull away—just . . . shuddered. Rachel then bestowed

the softest kiss she could manage, which wasn’t saying much.

She still plunged past Emma’s teeth, swept through, took

84

over. Her possession deepened when she twisted two fistfuls

of sleek hair.

“You’re my New Year’s celebration.” She smoothed

Emma’s hair back from delicately carved temples where sweat

was beginning to slick tender skin. “That means party time

and revelry and noisemakers. Scream. Cry. All you like. You’re

not getting a pillow. Not tonight. I want to hear every sound

you make. They’d better be fucking fabulous or I’ll have to

work you even harder.”

“Yes, ma’am,” she said on a voice as quiet as breath.

Rachel twisted her grip through the back of Emma’s col ar.

The wide leather strip was rapidly absorbing body heat. She

reached over to grab a squat, black paddle. On one side, it was

lined with squishy fleece, but she and Emma never bothered

with that.

The unforgiving wooden side delivered such a tasty crack

across Emma’s ass.

Glitter rose up and feathered through the air. Smack and

pet, smack and caress, until Rachel hit that focused, laser

beam feeling. A step above emotion. A high stronger than any

drug. Eventually she would need to scrub away the glitter. But

for now, she was beating her girl until Emma became a holiday

rainbow. Rachel had never been an artist, never been creative,

except when she was given such a magical canvas.

“Fuck, baby.” She ran her fingertips over glittered skin.

That perfectly rounded ass was already red and so very warm.

“Do you have any idea how beautiful you are?”

“No,” Emma said. “But you’re going to show me, aren’t

you?”

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Rachel raised an intimidating eyebrow, but underneath

was laughter—the giveaway quirk of her full lips. “Good

thing you tacked on that tiny little question. We would’ve had

a problem with your mouth again.”

Emma grinned. “Afraid the other Doms in your secret

Dom societies will give you shit for me talking so much?”

“Get your ass over here.”

Rachel grabbed the hair at Emma’s nape. Her ma’am was

still smiling, but with the greedy cruelty that jolted Emma

every time.

“I wonder if we would’ve continued together at al ,”

Rachel said, almost quietly. “Had you refused to grow out

your hair.”

Emma gasped as the pull against her scalp crossed a

threshold from pleasant to outright pain. “You didn’t order

me to.”

“We weren’t there yet. But I mentioned it to see what

you’d do.”

“Ta-dah.” She yelped as Rachel hauled her toward the

ful -length mirror that hung next to the hotel room closet.

Beside it was a floor lamp. “Enough hair for you to make my

life hell.”

“Oh, we’re not even close, darling whore.”

“One day you’ll pick an official nickname for me, and

that’ll be the clincher. You won’t be able to let me go.”

Rachel stopped.

Goddamn it. Emma’s heart thrust into her throat until

she nearly coughed. A hard swallow kept her gag reflex from

revealing what that response had cost her.

“You know this is it, Emma. Tonight. This is all we have.”

Closing her eyes, she nodded. Rachel only used her real

name when she wanted to bust through their play and make

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a point. She’d used it more and more frequently over the last

few weeks.

Emma, I’m really leaving.

Emma, Tokyo is a long way away.

Emma, let’s do it up right one more time.

Emma, Emma, Emma . . .

She was beginning to hate her own name.

“Forget it.” With a bat of her lashes, she asked, “Ma’am,

will you show me what depravity you’ve inflicted on my ass?”

Forcing some teasing back into her words was

unexpectedly difficult. Any other time, if they’d had more time, they would’ve cuddled on the couch until her low

mood passed, only returning to their session with renewed

happiness and wild intent.

Any wildness Emma had now came from desperation.

Rachel took a deep breath. Her expression revealed a

similar struggle—one of those clues Emma had relied on for

two years. How else could she have lingered, believing they

could be more than a once-in-a-while fuck?

Soon they wouldn’t even have that.

Why had she hung on so long? She’d often asked herself

that when the distance felt insurmountable and Rachel’s walls

too high to climb. The answer was right there in the mirror,

in her ma’am’s rare flickers of uncertainty. That uncertainty

fed Emma’s stupid, ridiculous capacity for hope. Everything

would turn out for the best, wouldn’t it?

Not this time.

She almost regretted that she’d been taken for a fool for

two years, or more like, that she’d given herself permission

to play the fool. Almost. Because she couldn’t regret a thing when Rachel touched her. Two years, ten years—what did it

matter when Emma had been in love for so long?

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“Here.” Rachel positioned her so that Emma’s back was to

the mirror. “Don’t move.”

Again Emma noticed the lack of an endearment. Rachel

normally handed them out with the abandon of a woman

who genuinely cared. Now she was pul ing back for good.

Emma only nodded, although she felt sucked into a black

hole. Christ, she needed to cry. But shedding tears right now

would be too revealing. She wanted the flogger and the cane

and anything else that would expel the real pain.

Rachel moved over to the carefully arranged line of toys.

She selected the hand mirror. Once, she had forced Emma to

watch as her own ass flamed red beneath the hard strokes of

a slapper. There’d been no hiding. No concentrating to better

absorb the pain. Instead, she’d seen the moment every whack

landed and how her body shook—and then the pain had

walloped her like a motherfucker. They’d also used the mirror

during an ass-fucking with a strap-on, and a patient, gorgeous,

hour-long fisting. Not their first, but definitely their most

intense.

Watching . . . Emma liked to watch.

“Hold this,” Rachel said. “Look how I’ve decorated you.”

Emma’s hands were shaking as she took the mirror. She

shouldn’t have said what she had. She’d thought she could

do this with a smile and a laugh, but maybe not. The finality

of the night was scary. Submitting was a lot more difficult

when she wasn’t allowed to cuss and argue and call Rachel a

stubborn, selfish ass.

She watched in the mirror as Rachel stoked from her back

down to her thighs. Sure enough, glitter coated Emma like a

second skin. She was a rippling, living fireworks display. The

artistry was astonishing. Stinging red marked each paddle

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stroke and added depth to the variations of color. The col ar

and cuffs were scarlet beacons in contrast to her pale coloring.

“Oh, ma’am. That’s lovely.”

“Yes,” Rachel said with an indulgent smile. “But we’re not

done.”

She hooked two fingers through the col ar’s D-ring and

pulled Emma down. Just that quickly, she was on her knees.

She almost lost her grip on the mirror. Instead she landed

with a hiss on the knuckles of her right fist.

Rachel pulled up on the col ar and claimed another rough,

arousing kiss. What drove Emma mad wasn’t just the kiss.

Never was. It was waiting for what came next, and relishing

that she had no control over what that might be.

“Now you’re going to watch.” After turning the coffee

table to face the ful -length mirror, Rachel wedged it against

the opposite wal . That hunk of wood wasn’t going anywhere.

“Brace yourself with one hand.” She waited for compliance.

“And hold up the mirror with the other.”

She turned the floor lamp on its brightest setting and

angled it just so.

Emma couldn’t—literally couldn’t—care less about the

tiny details that made their sessions so subtly perfect. She

trusted that her ma’am would make it amazing. Sure enough,

the change of lighting made the glitter shimmer even brighter.

She smiled in spite of her lingering mood. “You do that so

wel .”“Hmm?”

“Knowing. Getting it just right.”

Rachel only shrugged, then looked away from Emma’s

gaze. She always took the easy way out. At moments like

this, Emma wanted to shout and scream. She would gladly

uproot her future for this woman, submitting for the rest of

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her life. How could she contemplate that when her mistress

undermined their relationship by refusing to try for more? To

open up? She wanted Rachel to fucking get her shit together

and be the woman she was meant to be—and be the Dom

Emma craved. Rachel always shied away from the bright,

gorgeous, permanent haven their relationship could be.

She braced her hand all the harder. She wanted goddamn

pain. Now. Make it happen, ma’am. Take all of this away.

Rachel grabbed a bigger paddle. They called this one the

English ruler, although Emma didn’t know if that was the

official term. Hell, she and Rachel made it up as they went

along. Their own rules. It was eighteen inches long and made

of the most beautiful polished wood, with variegated swirls of

brick red and caramel brown.

“Watch, or we won’t play nice.”

“You know I like it—”

“Watch.”

That roughness. That tightness. Emma had never heard

anything close to it when Rachel spoke, not even during

their sessions. Confused and uneasy, Emma still did as she

was told—probably because that tone of voice fired up every

deep instinct to submit. It was cruel to hear it now when she

wanted it to continue, not be cut off by a move to Tokyo.

Mirror up. Hand braced.

Rachel also braced herself, but with her stance. She

touched the flat, unyielding ruler against Emma’s ass.

Aligning. A small grin turned up the corners of her lips. “You

look anxious.”

Emma couldn’t help her nervous laugh. “Because that

thing hurts.”

“Good hurt.”

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Nothing hurt worse than the stinging thoughts in her

brain. So, yeah. Bring it.

“Yes, ma’am.”

“Then get ready for a lot of good.”

The first hit was enough to make her cry out. She managed

to keep her eyes open as glitter flew up like a spray of fireworks.

“Oh,” she said, in awe, after the snap of pain receded enough

for breath. “That was beautiful.”

“Again?”

“Please, ma’am. I’d like to see it again.”

The second hit was as hard, as painful, as entrancing.

Sensation rocked through Emma’s body as her nerves soaked

up the burn, but she couldn’t look away from the fling and

patter of blue, gold, silver, pink.

“You’ll never look at fireworks the same way,” she

whispered.

Maybe Rachel heard her, maybe she didn’t, but the next

strike was vicious. Then another. No rest. Glitter flew. Emma

watched as welts sprang up in wide, distinct stripes across her

ass. It was the most she’d ever taken. In two years, they’d never gone so far so quickly. On the next blow, Emma flinched from

the pain and released the mirror.

Rachel dropped to her knees and grabbed Emma low

around the hips.

“I think I told you not to move,” she rasped. “Don’t pull

away from me again.”

Emma shuddered at a sentence that could be taken

so many ways. She was ready to cry, but it wasn’t time yet.

That was the finale before the finale. The release before the

orgasm. So she blinked and nodded, picked up the mirror,

and squeezed the handle even tighter. She needed something

to hold onto when everything was slipping.

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Everything but her mind. Obsessive thoughts about their

lack of a future weren’t going anywhere, and she wondered if

not even Rachel could spin her away from reality.

Five more strokes. Five more moments when, for the first

time, Emma contemplated begging off.

Rachel stopped abruptly. She was breathing hard, and a

sheen of sweat dotted her hairline. Those goddamn French

braids . . .

She grabbed the leash from the table of toys and clipped

it to the D-ring on Emma’s col ar. “Come with me. Seems a

shame to keep you to myself when we have the perfect chance

to share you with the world outside that window.”

Rachel intended to make Emma cry. Her girl needed it.

That release and that opening up was the best Rachel was able

to give her.

Part of her wanted to make Emma cry because she wasn’t

able to herself. Her entire career depended on this move to

Tokyo. Alone in a new city. She was frozen by that truth. How

many times had she sat down in her empty apartment, stunned

by the bleakness of her future? Yet she’d never been able to cry about it. Locked down. Completely. Keeping vulnerability

boxed up made it safer for her to leave—always the first to

run. Crying would mean admitting loss, fear, weakness. She

couldn’t afford to free any of those emotions. They’d consume

her, laying waste to the independent life she’d forged without

help from anyone.

Her hands trembled as she pulled Emma toward the

window. Beyond the glass were the sparkling, glittery lights

of Times Square gearing up for midnight. Her graceful pet

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crawled behind her, but when they reached the floor-to-

ceiling window, Rachel tugged the leash so that Emma lifted

to her knees.

“Are you going to use your strap-on on me, ma’am? Up

against the window?” Her voice lit with anticipation.

Rachel snapped the leather of the leash. “Up. Arms

straight. Hands on the glass.”

After standing, Emma placed her palms flat at shoulder

height. She separated her feet to hip width. Then the minx

arched her back to show off her colorful ass. “Like this,

ma’am?”

“Yes, like that.”

Rachel gave that peachy ass a swat before scooping up a

small pile of metal from the dresser. She secured clover clamps

on Emma’s nipples. The pinch made Emma lift up on her toes.

Rachel slapped her face. Hard. “Stay down.”

“Yes, ma’am.”

She scratched blunt nails down Emma’s front, stopping to

tug on the chain draped between her nipples. She finished at

Emma’s swollen cunt. Soaked through. No more than Rachel

was. She pinched Emma’s clit between her fingertips. “You’re

so gorgeous that men stop and stare. Do you think anyone

down there can see you?”

Six stories down, the busy square had filled with a mass of

countless people. “They don’t matter. You do, ma’am.”

“I want them to see you.” She lifted up on her toes and

whispered in Emma’s ear. “But they don’t get the pretty you.

They’re going to get a fuck-dol .”

Emma shuddered from her slender shoulders to her shaky

knees. Her eyelids drooped as she panted through open lips.

“Yes, ma’am.”

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“You don’t even care, do you?” Rachel scraped her fingers

through Emma’s hair, tousling it. “All for the sensation.

Whatever happens.”

“You take care of me.”

Rachel sucked in those words. They shot straight through

her but they weren’t any sort of balm.

Why couldn’t she keep Emma? For good?

Because she was a fucking coward. She never could

balance everything at once. Keeping Emma at arm’s length

was easier than letting her get close. That way she wouldn’t

lose her entire heart when Emma decided she wasn’t worth

the trouble and took off.

“Tongue out,” she said, her demands becoming sharper

than she’d intended for their last night.

She clipped a clothespin to Emma’s soft tongue, the better

to avoid any more talk. She ran more pins down her body,

over the inside curve of Emma’s left breast and stopping just

above her soaked pussy. Emma squeaked and twitched with

the last few. Rachel gave them a firm pinch for good measure.

“You don’t look so pretty now. You look like a slut, with drool

on your chin and your skin caught between those pins. You’re

ready to be abused.”

“Yeth,” Emma mumbled around the clothespin on her

tongue. Her eyes tightened at the corners as she winced.

Rachel picked up one more item from the sideboard.

A flogger with soft falls of black suede. She flicked with her

wrist, finding her rhythm. She swatted the air. The room was

nearly quiet, filled only with the shush of leather and shared,

excited breathing.

“Stay there,” she said. “Bent over. Hands flat on the

window. If you try to pull away from me, there’s no telling

what will happen to these cute little nipples.”

94

She wrapped the clamps’ chain in her fist and pulled

down, forcing Emma’s body to bow toward the cold glass.

Then, stepping to the side, Rachel whipped the flogger—

from nape to lower back. Glitter flew like fireworks. Emma

had been right. Rachel would never see fireworks the same.

Goddamn, she was fucked.

She hit with more violence. The flogger flicked away the

glitter until Emma’s skin shone through. The flawless, pale

stretch of her ass and the backs of her shoulders turned pink,

red, crimson.

Rachel kept her grip on the chain, tight and loose by turns.

Emma rocked between the blows and the clamps. Her eyes

were completely unfocused. Even her moans slid away. They’d

reached this point in previous sessions, when the flogger

became something closer to petting, caressing, and took on

what Emma had haltingly described as “the best way to fly.”

They both needed more.

The flogger fell from Rachel’s tingling fingers. She let go

of the chain and backed away. “Think they’ve seen enough?”

Emma settled her gaze on Rachel and shook her head.

Sweaty hair dropped around her cheeks. Drool dripped

between her lips. Rachel snatched off the tongue clip. She

grabbed her girl’s wet and hungry cunt, then pushed three

fingers into her mouth. Despite what must have been a numb

tongue, Emma tried to lick them clean like an obedient little

slut.“Should I stop? Make it nice on you?”

“No, ma’am.”

“But look at yourself. You look like you need to be fucked,

pet. Is that what you need? Fucked up against this glass?”

The little details and the future and where they’d go or

not go . . . All of it dropped away. There was only this tiny

bubble of life that breathed between them.

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Emma said something quiet, with her forehead rested

against the glass.

Rachel didn’t catch it over the roar of her heart in her

ears. “What was that?”

“Don’t stop. Don’t ever stop. Please, ma’am. Hurt me for

real.”Emma was already hurting, and not just physically. That

much was sickeningly obvious.

Cupping Emma’s jaw, Rachel pulled her down for another

fierce kiss. Lips slicked wet, she tasted of pussy and need.

“Stay here,” Rachel said as she pulled away.

A glance down came as a surprise. She was still wearing her

party dress—the black and white dress she’d bought knowing

it would become bound up in Emma’s memory. Leaving

multi-colored glitter in sweat-damp streaks, she smoothed

her palms down the full skirt that emphasized her hips.

The cane. It was time for the cane. Rachel loved it and

hated it. The long, whipcord lean length was a promise of

definite suffering. Emma would scream. No holding it back.

No hiding from the hurt. But Rachel hated it too, because it

was the finale to their sessions. Time was running out when

the cane came out to play.

She took up her position and drew her arm back. No

warm-up. She knew what it was to hit Emma, what it was to

make her scream. The blow landed exactly mid-line on her

perfect ass.

Emma’s fingers splayed on the glass. No purchase. Nothing

to grip. She gave a sharp “Oh!” The next blow drew out a cry.

The third, a moan. She dropped her head, panting. Her toes

curled into the carpet. The tendons behind her knees popped

into stark relief. She was white and cream and flaming, blazing

red.

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“Head up,” Rachel said, a barked command. “Don’t drop

it again.”

“Yes, ma’am.” Almost a sob.

On the fourteenth blow, Emma cried in earnest. Her

chest rose and fell in shaking breaths. Tears rolled down her

face. Her slick fingers scrabbled across the glass.

But she never drew away. She had in other sessions, other

times, although she’d never used their safeword. This time

was different. She took every blow without moving. It was the

ultimate punishment for them both: the pain Emma craved,

the submission that drove Rachel mad.

Rachel dropped the cane, yanked the clothespins off

Emma tender skin, and slid between the glass and her darling

girl. She wiped away tears and tried to find a trace of Emma in

those lost, hazed blue eyes.

“All done now, sweetness. You did so well.” Shaking from

head to toe, she pulled Emma down to the floor. They knotted

into a pile of trembling limbs. Emma buried her face against

Rachel’s breasts. “And now it’s time for your reward.”

Emma knew that she was being guided—not led, as when

tugged by her leash. This was guiding. Caring. Protecting.

Nothing made sense but the soft encouragements murmured

by her ma’am. The stinging anguish of the cane had taken

everything else away. Such a miracle.

“Walk, baby girl. That’s it. A little more, toward the bed.

That’s where we want to be. That’s where you’ll make me

happy again.”

Rachel’s arm was low around Emma’s waist. They were

both shaking and sticky with sweat, and Rachel was still in

charge. Thank fuck for it.

97

“Happy, my ma’am?”

“Oh, yes. You’ve taken so much. Now you’re going to

give.”“Give you anything.”

“Good. Because I want more screams. This time, when

you come.”

Emma couldn’t hold her giggle. She never could when she

was flying. “Will I have help?”

“To get you where we want you to be? Oh, yes.”

The bed sheets made her hiss. “Cold.” Another giggle.

“Gimme the cane. But hell no to cold sheets.”

Rachel stripped out of her dress, then her bra and black

lace panties. She tucked her mouth against Emma’s neck and

laughed softly. “Then consider it an order. Lie down. I want

you to feel the chill along all of that flaming red skin.” When

Emma complied, Rachel said, “Good. Very good. Now let me

look at you.”

Again, Rachel guided her. Arranged her just so on the bed.

Then she knelt in the center, perpendicular to Emma’s hips.

Almost idly, Rachel began to scratch down, down, between

and over the bowtie impressions left by the clothespins.

“Tell me where you are.”

Emma purred with each sharp line of sensation. “Pretty.”

“Hmm?”

“Pretty place.”

“Good,” Rachel said softly. “Just what my gorgeous girl

deserves. Tell me more.”

“Can’t, ma’am.” A quick pinch to a nipple made her squeal.

“You’re making me repeat myself. I don’t like that.” Rachel

caught Emma’s face in her hands, forcing their gazes to meet.

“Focus. Look at me. There you are. Now, tell me more.”

“Your eyes are beautiful, ma’am.”

98

“You trying to distract me?”

“No, just truth,” Emma said, positively bubbling. She was

overcome by hiccups of laughter. She would’ve doubled over,

a half step from hysterical, had Rachel not tightened her grip.

Emma kicked her feet against the bed. “Washes. Waves. My

body’s glowing. Thoughts won’t hold still. Humming. Little

bits of lights.” She grinned up at her ma’am, pleased to see

Rachel smiling back.

“I’ll never understand it,” Rachel said. “But I always feel

like a magician when I get you here.”

“More than feeling, my ma’am. Nothing left of me. Gone,

gone, gone, gone. I’d beg for pain if I thought you’d give it to me.”“Nope, we’re done. Need to keep you safe.”

“Ma’am, I’d do anything for you right now.”

Rachel inhaled, sat up, and smiled again. Even Emma,

halfway to Mars, could see it was forced. “Only right now?”

Some of Emma’s effervescence faded, as if helium balloons

were being popped one at a time. The peak of her happy

release was past now. She hated letting it go. The really bad,

honest, frightening part came next. The detox.

“You know the answer, Rachel. Forever, if you asked.”

“Legs open,” Rachel said sharply. “Give me your cunt.”

Another few balloons popped. Emma tried to calm

herself, to bring herself down faster than she ever would’ve

liked. She needed to find her mind again. Rachel couldn’t

keep her safe anymore. “Yes, ma’am.”

Her sigh was one of resignation as Rachel settled onto her

elbows between Emma’s open thighs. Quivering knees framed

Rachel’s shoulders.

The feel of Rachel’s lips closing over her clit was perfection.

The first flush of pleasure blew away the quiet dread that was

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quickly dragging her down. Forget pain and endorphins and

flying. Deep, sucking pleasure. The sharp nip of teeth. A long

lick that soothed and teased.

Rachel positively devoured her, voicing her inarticulate

appreciation as often as Emma did—that she loved it as much

as Emma did. Rachel didn’t suck and lick as an obligation or

a favor. No, her pleasure meant her full attention and equal

need.And Rachel’s moan . . . God.

“Not . . . long,” Emma gasped. “Fingers . . . Please, ma’am.”

Three fingers. Shoved deep. Emma cried out while

Rachel’s humming satisfaction vibrated against throbbing hot

skin.No matter how much Rachel controlled the pace of their

sessions, she rarely denied Emma what she needed to come.

They didn’t play games when it came to the final, gorgeous

release. Truly a reward.

Emma watched, helpless, so close now, as her ma’am lifted

her head and licked her lips. “Delicious.”

“Glitter,” Emma said with a gasp. “So pretty on you,

ma’am.”

Rachel used her free hand to touch her mouth, then

looked at it. Glitter shone on her fingertips. She painted it

onto Emma’s stomach. “We’ll share the fireworks. Now touch

yourself. I’ll take care of this greedy fuck hole.”

After three or four more deep plunges, Emma was beyond

talking. Rachel lay down next to her—the better to leverage

each quick, hard stroke. Fingers in and out and matching the

rhythmic way Emma worked her clit. She climbed her way

back to that peak, waited there, got stuck. She cried out again, this time in frustration.

100

“Breathe, baby. You’re holding your breath. Breathe.

Trust it.”

“Yes.” Emma forced her body to take in air. The hard

thrust of Rachel’s fingers was unrelenting, and suddenly

so much more potent. Just that quick, Emma shot past her

block. Rocketed. So near to flying again. “Ma’am, may I come,

may I come, may I come—?”

“Do it. Give me what I want.”

Pain was the prelude. Pain was edging. Pain was the most

intense foreplay. When Emma came, she arched and screamed

as pleasure scorched her nerves and blew a hole in her mind.

“Don’t stop,” Rachel rasped, her pace never slowing.

“Again.”

All Emma could think was yes—over and over and over.

She couldn’t stop her noises or her thrashing. She couldn’t

stop bucking through a release so near to agony.

Her world spun. She was still throbbing when she found

herself on her knees. Rachel lay on the bed with her legs

spread, licking Emma’s juices off her fingers. She snatched

Emma’s head and shoved her down.

Emma saw the lights and sparkles of her afterglow as her

mouth met Rachel’s slick cunt. She felt supercharged with the

energy of their play and let it all loose on the woman she loved.

Sucking, licking, reveling in the taste that simply matched, a stronger complement to the scent of Rachel’s skin and hair.

“I’m riding your face, my gorgeous little slut. Take it.

Make me come.” Rachel gave Emma’s head a violent shake,

lifted her face for a hard slap, then pulled her down deeper.

“Don’t you fucking stop.”

Emma wouldn’t think of it. Couldn’t think. She opened

her mouth wider, sucked with more power, and finally found

the place and pace that made Rachel crazy—shrieking, cursing

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crazy. With a quick flick of her eyes, Emma got to see heaven.

Her ma’am. Sweaty. Panting. She’d lifted her head to watch

Emma work. With her hands wrapped around Emma’s skul ,

her tight arms pushed her breasts up and together. So sexy, so

needy—

“Fuck! Yes! Oh, shit. Don’t stop, you gorgeous cunt.

God damn it.”

While Emma giggled when she flew, Rachel cussed like

no other words existed. Wet, slightly salty release poured

onto Emma’s tongue as Rachel ground her hips in firm, tight

circles, dragging out every last pulse for them both.

Turning her neck, Emma smiled against Rachel’s inner

thigh and kissed and smiled some more.

“Come here.” Rachel’s hands had softened around Emma’s

face, caressing now. “Come to me.”

They wrapped up like the ties of a Christmas bow.

Intertwined. Only in moments like these did Rachel let go

enough to laugh. They pressed their foreheads together and

grinned at each other. Like girls sharing dirty secrets at a

slumber party, they petted and whispered and tried to breathe

again.

“So perfect,” Rachel murmured. “Just perfect.”

“You taste like me.”

“Back atcha.”

“Bet there’s glitter all over the bed.”

Rachel nipped Emma’s lower lip. “Maybe. But it couldn’t

compare to how good it looked on you.”

“Course not. It’s a bedspread.”

“And you’re my lovely.”

Emma tucked her head beneath Rachel’s chin to hide the

sudden kick of emotion. But I’m not yours. Those four words became a bullet. Loaded. Fired. Piercing her heart.

102

Even though she knew Rachel took pride in the

attentiveness of her aftercare, Emma accepted it for what it

was: physical necessity without emotion. She drank when

Rachel pressed a glass to her lips. She mumbled replies about

which welts and bruises hurt the worst so that Rachel could

apply a lidocaine cream. As trembling chills took over, she

burrowed more deeply beneath the covers.

She was a sweaty mess, but she needed the closeness of

those cool sheets and Rachel holding her.

“You did so good,” Rachel whispered against her hair.

“The best finale.”

Emma’s sob was uncontrol able. Different than her earlier,

welcome release. Genuine suffering. She couldn’t stop shaking

and she couldn’t stop crying.

“Emma. Emma, talk to me.”

She only shook her head and tucked closer to the woman

who would leave her. “Can’t.”

Unlike during a session, Rachel didn’t press. No

obligations now. No commands. “It’s okay,” she said. “You

need to cry. Can’t hold in all that sensation.”

“You can!” Emma shoved away. Her shoulders still shook

as she cried. “You can hold it in and I don’t know how. Jesus,

Rachel, I wish I knew how because I would!”

“C’mon, baby. Calm down. We agreed, remember?”

“I agreed because the alternative was never seeing you

again. It wasn’t a choice at al .”

“You’re in shock. It’s your comedown. You know this is

how you get after we finish.” She almost sounded rational, but

somewhere in her measured little speech, her voice caught.

“Let me hold you until you settle.”

Emma pushed tears off her cheeks. “I don’t want to settle.

I’ve settled for two years. This is it and I don’t want you to

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hold me if you don’t want to stay. It was cruel of you to even

make this possible.”

“Cruel? What the hell? You wanted this too.” Although

her voice was sharp, Rachel looked more shocked than

anything. Her dark eyes widened and her cheeks drained of

color.“I want a lot more than a goodbye fuck, and you know

that.” Glitter was strewn between them, winking against the

white sheets. The sight made Emma want to puke. “I’ve said

that I love you but you’ve never believed me.” She hiccupped

another embarrassing cry. Only now, after all they’d done, was

she embarrassed. “Why don’t you ever believe me?”

“I . . .” Genuine confusion and maybe even hurt twisted

Rachel’s expression.

Her phone rang.

“Ignore it,” Emma said sharply—the closest she’d ever

come to issuing a command. “Don’t you dare pick up.”

“It’s my boss.”

God, they’d switched, because now Rachel was pleading.

Emma shrugged and turned away. She didn’t want to see the

moment when Rachel proved once and for all that she wasn’t

staying, when she wasn’t as brave as Emma wanted her to be.

“Yes,” she heard Rachel say. “Of course, sir. I’ll be there for

the countdown.”

A long pause. Emma buried deeper into the covers,

shaking, crying quietly, knowing that for the first time in their relationship, Rachel wouldn’t be holding her as she dropped.

She would hit the ground alone, and part of her would be

smashed forever.

Rachel took a deep breath. “Maybe I could—”

“No. Get cleaned up. Make your boss happy. Enjoy Tokyo.

Just . . . go.” She swallowed a sob to save the last of her pride, to 104

keep from begging. Then she stabbed deep, hoping to inflict

as much pain as she felt. “We agreed, remember?”

Rachel made it out of the hotel room. Dressing had meant

shaking out her black-and-white gown in the bathroom and

using damp fingers to scrape away most of the glitter. After

fixing her minimal makeup and smoothing loose strands of

hair, she took the elevator downstairs. In a haze. Nothing

registered. Only memories of colorful fireworks and Emma’s

piercing words.

Her boss was waiting near the bar. Mr. Craig smiled hugely

and waved her over with a champagne flute in his hand. The

holiday had inspired him to indulge, it seemed, because he

was more gregarious than usual. Rachel managed to wave

back, but her fingertips buzzed with excess energy. Her knees

were soggy. She couldn’t trust them enough to walk, but she

managed. She always managed.

At Mr. Craig’s side, she made it through fifteen solid

minutes of conversation. She was at the center of the

company’s core players, all of them happy and thrilled with

the new expansion of the import industry.

Rachel’s brain couldn’t make conversation. It only

sputtered. She accepted the glass of champagne pressed into

her hand, but it tasted like liquid dust.

I’ve said that I love you.

It was true. Emma had. But . . .

Oh, but.

Something knotted and clawed inside her throat. She

blinked rapidly to push away the sting of tears. There was

never a time or place for crying. Except, she’d just realized

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that she always tacked the word “but” onto the end of Emma’s

open declarations.

But Emma’s bi.

But we live so far apart.

But it’s complicated.

The real heart of her fears was much more potent and

paralyzing. But no one ever chooses me, and no one ever will.

A heavy hand patted her back. She flinched. Her stomach

flipped and roiled.

“You okay, Rachel?” Mr. Craig’s blunt features were

mottled with red.

“Fine, sir. Thinking about everything that needs to get

done before I leave for Tokyo.”

I have to say goodbye to Emma.

At the very least. She couldn’t leave it as they had, with

two years made sour by one wrong move.

No, it was more than that. She was in the wrong place.

All of this was wrong. Her jaw dropped. Why? Why was she

doing this, to herself or to Emma?

Not good enough.

No one ever chooses me. And yet . . . Over and over, Emma had.“If you’ll excuse me, one of those things needs to be taken

care of right away. Sorry I’ll miss the ball dropping.”

Mr. Craig frowned but said nothing, which was a blessing.

Rachel would’ve been forced to ignore him—not the best way

to begin a new year with her boss. She bid goodnight to her

stunned colleagues, then turned to the bartender.

Ten minutes later, she was standing outside room 617.

The heartbeat throbbing in her ears was unlike anything she’d

experienced. Fear dragged after her like a zombie. She’d let this 106

carry on for too long. Emma would be completely justified in

telling her to fuck off.

When Rachel opened the door, it almost seemed she had.

Steam wafted from the bathroom. Emma was standing

near the bed. A little denim skirt clung to her ass and dark

leggings covered the marks Rachel had made. She pulled a

pale purple sweater over her head as she turned around.

Her suitcase was propped next to the black mini-fridge,

already packed. Only Rachel’s toys remained on the bed—

accompanied by a discarded col ar and cuffs.

“You weren’t staying.” The words dropped from Rachel’s

deadened lips.

Emma skimmed her hair back behind her ears. “No

reason to.”

“I love you.”

“No, you don’t.” Her mouth twisted into a sad, watery

smile. No tears glittered in her pale eyes. “If you did, you

wouldn’t be sending me away. You wouldn’t be running away.

Not after I’ve made it clear that I love you and I’d follow you

anywhere.”

Rachel’s hands shook as she set the champagne bottle and

matched glasses on the top of the fridge. She walked toward

Emma. Slowly. She wanted to touch her but she didn’t have

that right. “No one’s ever picked me. Ever. And then to ask

you to follow me blindly to Tokyo? The odds of you saying yes

were a lot worse than the odds of getting my heart broken.”

“It’s not like it’s Siberia,” Emma said with obvious

exasperation. “You didn’t even give me a chance! You never

have. You don’t believe in us and you don’t believe in me.”

“Of course I believe in you!”

“You don’t believe I know my own heart.” Emma could

bestow the most accepting, beautiful smiles, but now her lips

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were white with tension. “Do you think it’s easy for me to put

myself out there just because I’m more talkative? Honesty and

vulnerability and love take courage. Is that really so beyond you? You’re willing to take huge risks for your job.”

“Risk and reward.” Rachel’s shoulders felt rusty as she

shrugged. “At work it’s easy.”

“But not when it comes to being happy? Maybe you

just made goodbye easier, because that’s a helluva lot more

heartbreaking.”

The words cut like jagged glass, but Rachel had been

bleeding on the inside all night. Standing so near, she wanted

to capture Emma’s shoulders between her hands. That was the

danger. Reaching out. Holding on. Hoping against hope to be

held in return.

She dared . . . because not touching was worse.

Emma flinched.

“Please,” Rachel said, throat raw, still holding onto her

girl. “Come with me. Tokyo is only two years, and then we’ll

see.”“We’ll see what?” Emma didn’t pull away, but she didn’t

sink into Rachel’s touch. She was bone and tendon—

determination tied in a tight knot. “After all you’ve put me

through, I’m not following you based on ‘we’ll see.’”

Rachel took a deep breath and did something she never

thought she’d do. “May I kiss you?”

“You’re asking me?”

“Yes. Please.”

Emma’s pale eyes were full of suspicion and a flicker of

bright, beautiful hope. “You may.”

Shaking, Rachel skimmed her lips over the sharp line of

Emma’s jaw.

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“Just—it’s two years. I don’t trust people to stick around

two days. It’s safer to assume the worst and bolt first.” She

risked another pleading kiss. “You’ve been here the whole

time. With me. For me. I’ve lived for our weekends together, and for the sound of your voice on the phone. Anything. I soak you up and I live in terror of making you unhappy. If

I make you unhappy too many times, you’ll leave me. Poof.”

“Poof?”

“Like when we say goodbye in an airport and I watch

you walk away. I should’ve known I was sunk because I can

never turn away first. I stay until I can’t see your red hair in the crowd anymore.” She shuddered and shut her eyes. “I fucking

hate saying goodbye in airports.”

“Well congratu-fucking-lations.” Emma laughed on the

fine edge of hysteria, as if she were still flying. She kissed Rachel on the mouth. “Two years and you finally say something I

need to hear.”

They were holding each other now. Won’t let go. That was a beautiful new refrain, louder and stronger than not good

enough—the words that had kept her small and afraid.

“I thought I could get away clean tonight,” Rachel said. “I

was wrong. I’m sorry. I’m so fucking sorry.”

This was their lives on the line, and for the first time,

Emma was in complete control of what happened next.

Rachel didn’t know how she did it—submitting, giving over

her entire soul. More than ever, she admired what a miracle

Emma was, and finally realized how much she stood to lose.

“You should be sorry.” Emma kissed Rachel’s palms. “Don’t

you ever pull this bullshit again. My girlfriend wouldn’t do

that to me.”

“Oh, Christ. Do you mean it?” Two tears slipped from

Rachel’s eyes. Emma kissed them away.

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“I mean it.”

“Then let me ask it for real, okay?” She waited for Emma’s

nod. “Will you come with me? Live with me? Love me? In

Tokyo, of all fucking places.”

Emma grinned against Rachel’s mouth. “Domo arigato.”

“See? You already know more Japanese than I do.” She

sank her fingers into Emma’s hair. “You have to come. You have to. If you don’t . . . I’ll be leaving my heart behind.”

Pul ing back, Emma scrutinized her to the point of

nervous torture. The red ringing her blue eyes didn’t detract

from their pale beauty.

For a moment Rachel was sure that, despite the brief

reprieve, Emma would say no.

The insides of her elbows tingled. She couldn’t breathe in

a steady rhythm. Jesus, she was going to have to work long and

hard on that trust thing.

“Yes, Rachel.” Emma lowered her head to Rachel’s

shoulder and folded trim arms around her waist. “I’ll go. And

I’ll love you as much as I always have.”

Rachel’s heart expanded until she thought it might fill her

entire chest. She tightened her embrace and breathed the scent

of Emma’s skin. “I love you. I love you so much. Wherever we

go, whatever we do . . . It’ll be perfect if I’m with you. We’ll figure this out.”

“Do you think I haven’t already? I’ll be a little dependent

on you financially, but I have clients who’ll follow me to

freelancing. Then I’ll find more.”

“God, you’re amazing. How can you believe enough for

both of us?”

“Self-defense. Because I hate saying goodbye in airports

too.” Emma blinked a few times. The clouds dispersed and

her optimism shone through. The kiss she offered was pure

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happiness. “I’d rather open that bottle of champagne and

make plans.”

“Yes.” Rachel popped open a bottle and they laughed

when the liquid poured onto the carpet. “Between the glitter

and champagne, I’m going to have to tip really, really well.”

“Totally worth it.”

Rachel took the flutes and lured Emma to sit with her on

the tiny couch. They nestled together in front of the window

overlooking Times Square—such an incredibly different vibe

now as they watched the celebrating crowds. “I’m still scared,”

she whispered.

“I am too. Just be scared with me.”

The words filled Rachel with a warmth she had never

experienced, not even during their sessions. She belonged

nowhere else in the world. Emma was rightness and lightness

in one.

The giant Times Square ball of showy, beautiful excess

touched bottom and ushered in the new year. Rachel tapped

her glass to Emma’s. “To us. To our future.”

“To our future,” Emma echoed.

Kissing champagne off Emma’s mouth was even better

than drinking it. They wound together on the couch, ankles

twining. This. This was heaven.

“You’ll be my pretty girl forever, won’t you?”

Emma’s eyes lit up. “Did you just give me a real nickname?”

“I think I did.” She scratched her fingers under Emma’s

fine hair, across her scalp. “It fits.”

“You know, we can’t get married in Japan. They don’t do

same-sex.”

Rachel choked, just a little. “One thing at a time, pretty

girl. After we get back to the States, okay?”

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“Fine, fine,” Emma said on a faux pout. “But if you make

me wait two years, I’m totally getting the whole package.

Giant reception, fluffy white dress, honeymoon.”

“That works. Definitely. And underneath you’ll wear a

corset and my cane marks.”

Emma giggled and nodded, throwing her arms around

Rachel’s neck. “As my ma’am wishes.”

112

Candy Caning

L.A. Witt

e’re not even out of the car when the festive sound

“M W “I D “A P

of the Salvation Army’s begging bell reaches us.

Impressive when you consider we’re parked in the

back forty because it’s a federal law that mall parking lots

must be fucking packed between Black Friday and the day

after Christmas.

I’m not the only one who hears the bell.

Stephen slams the driver’s side door and glares at the mal .

If looks could kill, the whole place would be a smoldering

crater.

I try to hide my amusement, but can’t help grinning as I

ask, “Ready?”

From across the roof of the car, he throws me one of his

infamous Stephen frowns. “Explain to me again why we’re

here.”I don’t even try not to smirk as I come around to his side.

“Because the grocery store doesn’t have a decent selection of

scented candles, hideous sweaters, or ski gloves?”

The look gets less amused. So does the voice. “Nate, I ask

again—”

“Oh, come on.” I slip a gloved hand around his elbow.

“We do this every year. It’s not that bad.” I pause. “Well, I

mean, this part isn’t.”

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“Mm-hmm.”

I don’t argue. If he really didn’t want to be here, he

wouldn’t be, and he wouldn’t be walking with me now past

the rows of cars and piles of dirty snow toward the glowing

mecca of consumerism. In spite of his grumbling, he always

comes along because this is something we do together. Every

year. No matter how much we both hate it.

“It’s just one shopping trip,” I tell him, just like I’ve done

every year since we started dating. “One. I promise.”

“Can’t we just buy them a fruitcake and call it a day?”

“Stephen. Darling.” One of those rare moments when I

dare to give him a look. “My mom is deathly allergic to nuts.”

“Right. I know.” His eyebrows slide upward. “And?”

Okay, so he doesn’t really want to put my mother into

anaphylactic shock—I don’t think—but let’s face it: she doesn’t

like him, he doesn’t like her, and this is rapidly becoming his

least favorite time of year because he has to spend one evening

pretending he wouldn’t sell his soul for the ability to Force-

choke the woman.

I’m right there with him, even if I’d never admit it out

loud. Stephen is just one of the things in my life that my mom

doesn’t like, and when she starts dipping into the eggnog truth

serum, I get to hear about all of those things. So does Stephen, from his sneer-worthy job as owner of a body shop to that

“unsightly” dragon he’d had tattooed on his arm in memory

of a dear friend. Merry fucking Christmas.

I squeeze his arm as we step onto the sidewalk in front of

the mal ’s gleaming doors. “Don’t worry. We’ll do this fast.”

I reach into my jacket pocket and produce a folded piece of

paper. “I’ve got a list, and I know exactly what to get everyone and where to get it al . This will be quick and easy, I promise.”

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“Mm-hmm.” He stops, plucks the list from my hand,

and unfolds it. He scowls as he scans the items. One eyebrow

jumps, and he quotes, “‘Ugliest sweater ever.’ God, can’t you

and your brother buy each other useful clothes?”

“After that monstrosity he bought me last year?” I scoff. “I

owe him the ugliest thing I can possibly find.”

Stephen chuckles. Even he can’t help being amused by the

ongoing tradition of my brother and me buying each other

horribly ugly holiday sweaters, which we’re then required to

wear to Christmas Eve the following year. Of course it amuses

Stephen. Something that sadistic is right up his alley.

He continues down the list. “Scented candles for Jessica,

ski gloves for your dad, an iPhone case for—” He lowers the

list and throws me another look. “You know you can get this

stuff online, right?”

“Yes, I know.” I take the list from him and fold it back

up. “But it’s part of the whole family tradition.” I slip the list back in my pocket. “You know, actually getting up from the

computer and putting some effort into it?”

Stephen exhales, but at least he manages not to roll his

eyes for once.

I put a hand on his waist. “Look, I know, it sucks. But

Mom is warming up to you.”

“Nate, the global climate is warming up too, but I wouldn’t

recommend skinny dipping above the Arctic Circle just yet.”

“Well, I’m not exactly asking you to skinny dip with my

mother.”

He wrinkles his nose. “Thanks for the mental image.”

“You started it.”

“Brat.” He winks, and I’m only kidding myself if I think

it’s the cold wind that just made me shiver. Then he nods

toward the glass doors. “Come on, let’s do this.”

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“Thank fuck, because I’m going to freeze to death out

here.”Inside, the crowds are thick and the music is loud, and it irritates the shit out of him. I know it does. He grits his teeth and at least tries not to scowl too much as we shoulder our

way into a department store, but he hates this. When he offers

to go look for gloves for my dad while I browse the scented

candles for my sister, I don’t have to ask if he’s doing it out

of the kindness of his heart or if he’s just trying to make this whole trip go faster.

As I look through a rack of sweaters—my God, do people

actually wear these things for real? When it’s not an annual

white elephant gag?—guilt gnaws at my gut. Stephen used to

love Christmas. Hell, so did I. This will be the fourth year I’ve dragged him to my parents’ house for Christmas Eve. The first

year, I wanted to be with them and him for the holiday. The second, I couldn’t imagine Mom would treat him like shit

again after we’d actually been together for a while.

Last year, he wasn’t thrilled, but he came with me because

I needed him to keep me sane while I put up with her. My

mother is, after al , not someone to be faced without backup.

We hadn’t even sat down to dinner before she’d launched

into him about an offhand comment he’d made to my father

about the economy affecting his business. Proof he was a loser

leeching off me, if we asked her, which we hadn’t.

Fortunately, I’d quickly managed to steer the conversation

to my own shortcomings, but a year later, I still feel guilty for that night. It’s no wonder he’s turned “bah humbug” over the

whole damned holiday. Even the shopping and the parts that

don’t involve my family.

This year, even though we both know he’d rather be

anywhere else and so would I, we’re going again. Didn’t

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someone say something about the definition of insanity being

when a person does the same thing over and over and expects

different results?

But my siblings are in from out of state and this is the only

time all four of us are ever together. And if I don’t show up, I’ll hear about it for weeks, if not months. And I’m a goddamned

spineless chickenshit who wants to keep the peace.

Sighing, I shake my head and continue looking through

the stacks of ugly sweaters. It’s one night, once a year. For

him, anyway. I don’t bring him to the other sporadic family

gatherings. Maybe I should let him off the hook for this one

too. I’ll just go by myself and save him the—

“Holy shit!”

My head snaps up. Stephen brazenly swearing in public—

especially when he’s surrounded by evidence of Christmas—is

nothing unusual, but the note of unholy amusement certainly

gets my attention. Is the ice around the Grinch’s heart

cracking? On this shopping trip of all shopping trips?

I dart around the edge of the aisle, and, good Lord, the

man is smiling. Not like a kid on Christmas. Not like someone

who’s just gotten in touch with his inner Christmas spirit

child or whatever.

Oh, no. I know that look. Yeah. That look.

And he’s holding up a candy cane that’s got to be three-

feet long and easily as thick as—

Ahem.

I fold my arms across my chest and tilt my head. “And just

what have you gotten into, Ebenezer?”

“Nothing.” He looks me right in the eye and smacks his

palm with the candy cane. When the sharp sound makes me

shiver, he grins even bigger. “Can you imagine the thud you could get out of something like this?”

117

My heart skips.

“Might not leave the same marks as the rattan canes, but

I’m pretty sure”—he hits his palm again, harder this time—

“you’d feel it.” His eyes narrow a little, and thank fuck my

sweatshirt covers a few inches below the belt, because yeah, it

is seriously that look now.

The whimper escapes before I can stop it. I clap my hand

over my mouth, but the damage is done. His devilish look

almost knocks my knees out from under me. He knows. Of

course he does. He’s doing this on purpose. And he probably

knows damn well that the effect is extra pronounced by the

display of pristine white angels forming an ironic halo around

and above his head.

“I thought you’d like that idea.” He winks and then hooks

the cane back on its rack, no doubt well aware of the pang of

disappointment in my chest. I literally bite my tongue to keep

from begging him to change his mind. That’s not allowed, and

the punishment for it would be not finding out what kind of marks a three-foot, cock-thick candy cane could leave across

my ass.

Stephen puts his arm around my waist and kisses my

cheek, which doesn’t even come close to distracting me from

the fact that he’s now leading me away from the shelves full of

giant candy canes. Of course I follow without resistance.

Keeping his voice low, he says, “You’d like to play with one

of those, wouldn’t you?”

“Yes.” After a moment of hesitation, I chance a soft,

“Please?”

No disapproval registers on his face or in his tone, and he

playfully muses, “Hmm, I don’t know.”

Another couple walks by just then, and they shoot us

disgusted looks, which only encourages Stephen. Like he

118

needs it. He pulls me closer and nuzzles my neck, and he

laughs softly when I almost trip over my own feet.

“It’s been a while since we’ve tried anything new, hasn’t

it?” “It has.” My mouth is dry. And yeah, it’s been a while. Not sure if I’d say we’re stuck in a rut, but . . . I guess we are. Still kinky, still fun, but predictable and inching toward routine.

Somehow I manage to add, “A while, yes.”

“And you’d like to try something new?”

“Yes,” I whisper.

“Like playing with a giant candy cane?”

“Fuck. Yes. ”

”Maybe we will, then,” he whispers, “if you’re a good boy.”

I bite my lip and pull in a breath.

His tone turns serious. “I wouldn’t be able to hit you too

hard with something like that.” He’s keeping his voice down

now. His arm tightens protectively around my waist as he

adds, “I don’t want to actually hurt you, of course.”

I just exhale and try to keep my feet under me as we head

out into the mal . He knows I trust him fully, and I’m not

worried about him really hurting me. It’s the fact that he’s

even talking about this with any semblance of seriousness that

has me on the verge of stumbling. The man’s nothing if not

true to his word, so if he’s talking about trying it, he’s really considering it.

He stops, and with no conscious thought on my part,

so do I. People rush all around us, hurrying from sale to sale

and shop to shop, and I swear they’re moving faster now,

the colorful Christmas lights flickering more rapidly in the

background, but everything is in my peripheral vision. Like

we’re in the middle of this madness, but somehow separated

from it.

119

With two fingers on my jaw, Stephen lifts my chin until

we’re eye to eye.

“Be patient. We’ll try something new soon. Maybe not

this, but . . . something.” He leans in and kisses me lightly,

and he lets it linger far longer than he ever does in public. Just before he pulls away, he whispers, “I promise.”

Abruptly, we’re in motion again. Walking. Hand in hand,

strol ing among all the other shoppers like we’ve rejoined

the universe we’d temporarily vacated, and my head’s still

spinning.

Wandering through shop after shop, down aisle after

aisle, with a list in my hand I can’t even read anymore, I’m

only half aware of the vast array of gifts I’m supposed to be

acquiring. When we left the house, I had a plan. A mission.

I’d mapped out the shortest distances between the most-likely

places to find specific gifts, and figured it all out in my head for maximum efficiency so we could get the fuck out of here.

I’d had a plan, damn it.

Now? I’m standing in front of a table covered in perfectly

hideous sweaters, and damn if I can remember why.

I have no doubt he did it on purpose. Stephen knows just

how to make me crazy, and promising me something new

without saying when it’ll happen is exactly the ticket. It could be later tonight. It could be next Christmas. It could be the

Fourth of goddamned July.

And we both know I’ll be squirming and going out of my

mind until it happens.

Which is exactly, I’m sure, what he wants.

120

Stephen doesn’t say another word about the candy cane,

but he doesn’t let me forget about it either. He is the master of mindfucks, the bastard.

Randomly smacking a piece of flatware against his palm

and grinning at me just like that when I jump out of my skin.

Throwaway comments about a sudden hankering for some

strong peppermint. Suggestive looks while I’m trying to

concentrate during my second—and this time successful—

attempt to shop for my family. And Jesus Christ, every night

in the bedroom, his touch is gentler than it usually is, his

fingertips tracing featherlight lines across my ass where his

favorite cane has raised deliciously painful welts in the past.

In fact, he’s conspicuously not inflicting any pain at al .

Not pul ing my hair when I’m kneeling, not slapping my ass

when he’s behind me, not even binding me tight enough for

the ropes or cuffs to bite my flesh. After a week, I’m going

insane, searching for some sting, some thud, something, but he won’t even fuck me hard enough to make it hurt. Goddamn

tease.I try to be patient. I really do. There’s a reward at the end of this, and that reward is sweet, sweet pain that I won’t get

until he’s good and ready to give it to me.

And hopefully he’ll be good and ready soon, because it’s

been two weeks now, and his teasing is relentless. Every day.

Every motherfucking day. Except today, that is, because it’s

Christmas Eve. D-Day.

The morning blew by entirely too quickly, and now we’re

halfway through the afternoon and I’m so wound up it’s

painful. Literally. I can barely turn my head, and my shoulders

are bunched tight enough to make my breath catch every time

I try to move.

121

Stephen hasn’t said two words all day. He’s not one to sulk

or pout, and it’s not the silent treatment or the cold shoulder.

He’s probably just stealing away to his happy place for a little while, trying to psych himself up for tonight. That or he’s

mentally calculating how much booze it’ll take to keep him

on the right side of the line between “blissfully apathetic” and

“you’re embarrassing me.” Can’t blame him. After al , there’s a

reason I always drive when we go to my parents’ house. Seems

only fair.

I’ve finished wrapping gifts, and now that they’re neatly

stacked on the backseat of my car, there’s nothing left to do

except get myself ready. When I wander into the bedroom, I

try not to even look at the sweater I left folded on my dresser.

In part because it reminds me of this evening, but also because

my brother seriously outdid himself when he bought it. I

mean, I can deal with wearing a sweater that has a snowman

on it. This one, though? It’s like Satan the Snowman cackling

maniacally because no one will ever figure out what he did

to the bodies of Santa’s reindeer. Or where he buried them.

Creepy, man. Seriously.

Oh well. My brother gets to stare at the demonic thing all

through dinner, and then he’ll get to open the one I brought.

He’ll laugh tonight. We’ll see who’s laughing next year when

he’s wearing a sweater that looks like the reindeer and elves

just cracked open a stash of E.

Next year. Fuck. We get to go through this next year. Son

of a . . .

I mutter some profanity and check the time on my phone.

Still another hour or two before go time. With the way my

back and neck are twisted into painful knots of “why do I let

my mother drive me this crazy?” I need a hot shower. Stat.

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I crank up the water as hot as it will go without actually

burning my hide, and close my eyes as it stings its way down

my torso. The heat feels good, but it’s not doing a damned

thing to relax me.

It’s just one night. Just a couple of hours, and then Stephen

and I can come home, indulge in a few drinks, and sleep off

our hangovers before we go over to his family’s place for an

enjoyable Christmas gathering. We can do this.

No, I can do this. Stephen shouldn’t have to. Thing is,

even though he hates it, he’ll never tell me not to go, nor will he refuse to go himself. He won’t make me choose between

him and my family. And the more willing he is to just grin

and bear it, year after year, the guiltier I feel for putting him through this bullshit.

I’ll just go alone this year. Much as I don’t want to ditch

him on Christmas Eve, especially at the last minute, it’s the

significantly lesser of two evils. It’ll also mean my mother’s

passive-aggressive remarks will be decidedly less passive.

Hooray.

“Nathan, you can do so much better than that.” Over and over and fucking over until the eggnog knocks her out. My

job could be better. My car could be better. My hair could

be shorter. Or longer, since it was too short last year. I could definitely find a better boyfriend.

I shut off the water before the hot runs out so there’s

hopefully enough left for Stephen. As I towel off, I look in

the mirror and silently tell myself I can face them alone, that I can grit my teeth and deal with it. They’re my family, after al .

Drive over. Have dinner. Usual gift exchange. Wow, it’s

late, I’d better get going. Drive home. Done.

I’ve got this.

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With the towel around my waist, I step into the bedroom.

And stop dead in my tracks.

My heart shifts into overdrive. I grab the doorframe just

for something to hold onto in case my knees really do go out

from under me. As a tingle works its way up from the base of

my spine, I slide the tip of my tongue across my lower lip.

On our bed, arranged neatly in the center of the comforter,

is a blindfold and a pair of black nylon restraints.

But goddammit, in spite of all his teasing and my

frustration for the past two weeks, I’m not in the mood. So not in the mood. For a moment, I debate using my “not tonight,

please” privilege. He’ll understand. Even if he doesn’t, that

privilege is safeword sacred. I can call this off, no questions

asked.

But even if my heart isn’t in it yet, it doesn’t usually

take long for Stephen to correct that, and it’s a hell of a lot

more pleasant than angsting myself to death over . . . over . . .

whatever the fuck I was thinking of in the shower.

I beg my knees to do what they’re told, and they stay under

me where they belong as I move from the bathroom doorway

to the bed. The restraints are already clipped together, just to make things more difficult, and I’m not allowed to separate

them. Doesn’t help that my hands aren’t terribly steady now—

happens every time—but with some swearing and contorting,

I get the restraints onto my wrists. They’re loose and not quite where Stephen will want them, but he’ll adjust them.

I pick up the blindfold and then kneel beside the bed.

Putting on this damned thing takes some doing. One of

these days I’ll remember to put the blindfold on first, then the restraints. Except that makes it a bitch and a half to put

those on. I can’t win. Which is, of course, the point. At least I 124

figured out a while back that it’s better to kneel first so I don’t have to maneuver blindly to the floor.

Once the blindfold is finally where it belongs, I bow my

head and rest my hands on my thighs, palms turned up as

much as the restraints will allow.

And I wait.

Stephen’s footsteps come down the hall and into the

bedroom, the nearly inaudible crush of carpet beneath his

boots making my mouth water. He stops in front of me,

and I imagine his polished black combat boots inches from

my towel-covered knees. My skin prickles from the back

of my neck all the way up to the top of my scalp, and I bite

my lip, reminding myself to keep breathing. Just when the

anticipation is almost too much, he strokes my hair. I release a breath and press against his hand like a cat.

“Very good, Nate.” Oh God. His Dom voice. Low. Even.

Calm. Shiver.

“Thank you, Sir,” I whisper.

“You don’t need this yet, though.” He gently tugs my

blindfold free, and I blink a few times until his tightly laced

boots come into focus.

Leather creaks as Stephen squats in front of me. He

adjusts my restraints, making sure they’re snug without

cutting off blood flow. Then he twists around and slides open

the nightstand drawer. When he faces me again, he takes my

hands in one of his, and with the other, sets a small wrapped

gift into mine. “Open this.”

“Yes, Sir.”

It’s lightweight, maybe six inches square, just small enough

I can handle it but just big enough to be incredibly difficult

to maneuver with the restraints on. Slowly and carefully, I

manage to get the silver ribbon and the green and red paper

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out of the way without dropping the box, because that would

result in a punishment.

Naturally, because Stephen’s a motherfucking sadist, the

lid is securely taped nine ways from Tuesday. It wouldn’t

surprise me in the least if whatever’s inside is wrapped in a few layers of duct tape.

I slide my nail along the lid to slice the tape, and then

carefully break it apart so I don’t wind up with a paper cut or

something. The lid comes off with a little effort, and inside

the box is an intricately folded piece of paper.

“You’ll want to unfold that,” he says, not even bothering

to hide the amusement in his voice.

I remove the paper, and Stephen takes the box and lid,

setting them aside while I glare at the thing and wonder just

how much he snickered to himself when he realized what

a pain in the ass it would be to do this while my wrists are

bound. It’s like backwards origami, damn it, and I suck at origami.

The paper is finally unfolded, and I lay it across my lap.

“May I read it, Sir?”

He caresses my face, raising goose bumps along my neck

and shoulders. “Yes, you may.”

I hold up the paper.

You’ve been a good boy. Your gift is in the closet. Go get it.

Stephen takes it from me, and I stand. From kneeling and

now standing up again, my towel is loose around my waist.

He hooks his finger over the edge and tugs gently, pul ing

the towel completely free. “You won’t be needing that.”

I lift my gaze, and when our eyes meet, I can barely

breathe. He’s got that look that says I won’t be able to walk

by the time we’re done here. And for the billionth time over

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the last almost five years, I silently send up a thank-you to

whoever dropped us into each other’s lives, because damn.

Stephen nods toward the closet. “Aren’t you going to go

get your gift?”

“Yes, Sir.” I lower my gaze. “Thank you, Sir.”

I start to turn, but he stops me with a hand on my shoulder.

I don’t even have a chance to ask before he cups my face in his

other hand and presses a gentle kiss onto my lips.

“You’ve earned this,” he murmurs.

“Thank you, Sir.”

He smiles, then lets me go and nods toward the closet

again.

Naked except for the restraints, with a hard-on that

desperately wants attention, I cross the bedroom to the closet.

At least opening its sliding door is no more or less difficult

with my hands like this.

Inside, leaning against the wal , is a long, skinny box.

When I pick it up, it’s not terribly well-balanced. Stephen

probably stuck a rock in one end of it or something just to

make it more difficult for me. And, naturally, it’s taped shut

just like the first one.

I almost lose my grip on it, but manage to keep the box

from tumbling to the floor. Appearing beside me, Stephen

chuckles, and warmth rushes into my cheeks.

“Didn’t make it easy for you, did I?” he asks, his tone

playful.

“No, Sir.” I look up at him and smile. “You never do.”

“Exactly.” He puts an arm around my bare shoulders

and kisses my cheek as I keep working at the box and all its

goddamned tape.

At last, it gives, and Stephen helps me balance the box as

I push open the lid.

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And my heart stops.

The candy cane.

The three-foot, cock-thick candy cane he teased me with

at the mal . My skin tingles in all the places he’s caned me

before, and oh God, please tell me that’s what he has in mind.

“Sir, you . . .”

Stephen lifts my chin, and his devilish grin melts my

knees. “You didn’t think I’d forgotten, did you?”

“No, Sir.” I moisten my lips and let my gaze go back to the

candy cane in the box.

My hands are bound. I’m naked and Stephen’s dressed all

in black. There’s a blindfold sitting on the bed.

Oh God.

Every inch of skin he’s ever flogged, beaten, or caned is on

high alert. The wait’s over. The mindfuck ends tonight. Now.

“Take off the wrapper,” he commands. “Then take it over

to the bed and get into position.”

Take off the wrapper? With my hands like this? Seriously?

Candy canes are a bitch to unwrap when they aren’t as long as my arm and my wrists aren’t bound together.

But orders are orders, so I carefully remove it from the

box, and by the grace of God, manage to get all seven square

miles of cellophane off the damned thing without dropping

or breaking the cane.

“Good,” Stephen says as he takes the wrapper from me.

“To the bed.”

“Yes, Sir.” I obey as quickly as these unsteady legs will

allow. I set the cane beside the pillows, and then, as I always

do, I bend over the bed with my legs apart and arms stretched

out in front of me.

The mattress shifts a little. Stephen rests a hand on my hip

and drops a soft kiss between my shoulder blades.

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“You ready for this?” he asks.

“Yes, Sir.” Jesus, where did my breath go?

“Good.” Another light kiss, and then the bed shifts again

as he, I’m guessing, pushes himself upright. “Because I’ve

been looking forward to this for a while.”

I say nothing.

Stephen puts the blindfold over my eyes again. Then he

wraps cool, flexible restraints around my ankles. A subtle

vibration makes its way through the restraint to my skin,

so he’s undoubtedly fastening me to the eyebolts in the bed

frame. In a moment, he’ll come around and attach a strap

to the clip between my wrists, which he’ll hook to another

eyebolt on the other side of the bed.

Nervous excitement twists in my stomach twists. The

implement is just a candy cane, but it’s thicker than anything

he’s ever struck me with. If it were in the hands of anyone

else, I’d be inching toward panicking right about now. But

not with Stephen. He has a toy at his disposal that could well

and truly hurt me, just like the diamond plate paddles and the

rattan canes, but I know he won’t.

My eyelids slide closed behind the blindfold. One by

one, every muscle in my body relaxes. Knots unwind. Tension

releases. My breathing slows. By the time Stephen’s tugging at

the restraints to make sure they’re good and tight, I’m well on

my way to melting into a pool of liquefied surrender.

I’m secure now. Can’t move. No room at all to wiggle

or recoil, which means he’s planning to make it hurt, and I.

Can’t. Wait.

He gently taps my ass cheek with something too big and

flat to be the cane. Most likely the paddle he usually uses to

warm up my skin. Every light tap, even as they escalate into

slightly heavier smacks, makes my nerve endings tingle in

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anticipation of the pain that’s to come. I’ll never understand

how this sort of thing is punishment for some people; I’d beg

Stephen to cane me every chance he had if begging didn’t

result in negative consequences. Like not being caned.

The sudden absence of anything smacking me, a break in

the rhythm I didn’t know I’d become accustomed to, draws

me out of my thoughts. Then he slaps my ass hard with one

hand, and I arch my back and moan.

“Now.” His voice centers me and returns me fully to earth.

“How about the real thing?”

“Yes, Sir,” I murmur. “Please, Sir.”

He runs a gentle hand down the center of my back, and a

shiver brings goose bumps to life in the wake of his soft touch.

“Have I ever told you how much it turns me on when you’re

like this?” Jesus H., his Dom voice makes me weak.

“Yes, Sir,” I manage to slur. “You have.”

“Good.” One finger trails down the middle of my spine,

touching just lightly enough to make me shiver again. “You

look incredible like this, Nate.”

“Th-thank you, Sir.”

“Thank you.” He kisses the middle of my back. Then

there’s movement, shifting, and after a moment, he taps one

ass cheek, then the other. Not hard, just enough for me to

feel it. He’s using the straight end of the cane, and the mental image of him holding the curved end drives me crazy. I’ve

been fantasizing about this for, what? Two weeks? Three?

And now we’re—

Smack. The hit draws me out of my thoughts and

commands every bit of my focus.

Smack. Even harder this time, and it stings more than I

thought it would, and I curl my fingers into loose fists as the

pain brings tears to my eyes.

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Smack. Holy fuck, so amazing . . .

The double pain of a cane never gets old: the dul ,

breathtaking impact, quickly followed by a hot, sharp sting.

And as he always does, Stephen intersperses the heavier hits

with lighter taps—some that sting, some that don’t, some I

can’t even describe. There’s a rhythm. Then there isn’t. Then

there is again. Sometimes Stephen leaves the cane against my

skin for a few seconds, drawing out the thud before letting the

sting take over. Other times—like now—he overwhelms me

with rapid strikes, not letting me focus on a single place or a

single sensation.

And all the while, as he taunts my nerves with layer upon

layer of deliciously excruciating pain, every breath I take is

sweet and cold with peppermint. I swear I can taste the cane

even though it’s nowhere near my face.

My skin stings. My eyes water. My sinuses vaguely burn

from all the peppermint I’m breathing in. I don’t know where

I am. Don’t care. There’s pain, and it’s amazing, and I’m so

turned on, so blissed the fuck out, I . . . don’t know anything

else. My limbs are liquid, my thoughts a mess of sensory

overload.

“Six more.” Stephen’s voice slices through the haze.

“Count them.”

Count? Fuck, I can’t count. I can’t even breathe. I—

Smack.

“One.” I almost choke on my breath. “Sir.”

Smack.

“Two, Sir.” I’m somewhere between coming back to earth

and spiraling even farther away. Feet on the ground, floating

ten feet above it.

Smack.

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I suck in a breath. Oh shit, I don’t know if he’s on number

three or number five— did he fire five shots, or six? Well, what’ll it be? —only that I’m completely lost in some blurry, dizzy world, and if not for the straps around my wrists and ankles

to hold me in place, I’d . . . Jesus, I’d probably evaporate.

“Nate?”

I sweep my tongue across my lips. “Three, Sir.”

“Good.”

Smack.

“Four, Sir.” I curl my toes, and I’m suddenly aware of the

coarse carpet beneath my feet. The ground. Terra firma.

Smack.

“Five, Sir.”

Sweat. Peppermint in the air. Leather. The comforter

beneath me.

Smack.

“Six, Sir.”

The rhythm—the one that sort of is and sort of isn’t—

stops. He’s speaking to me again, his voice low and gentle,

but I can’t quite tell what he’s saying, only that he’s pleased. A little breathless too.

“You handled that very well,” he whispers, and I’m

simultaneously relieved to have his approval and disappointed

he’s finished. “I’m very pleased, Nate.”

“Thank you, Sir.” I don’t even know where the words

came from. Hell if I can consciously make myself speak at this

point. The pain is intense, and I’m sure there’s nothing in my

veins right now except pure endorphins.

Stephen doesn’t release me. His leather-covered hip

brushes my raw skin, and his hand materializes on my thigh.

My heart beats faster even though I was sure until just now it

couldn’t possibly accelerate beyond its breakneck speed, and

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my attention is evenly split between my stinging ass and the

featherlight softness of his hand drifting up my leg.

He doesn’t speak. I’m not sure he’s even breathing. God

knows I’m not, and my head spins faster as his hand slides

across my skin. Even faster when he pulls me back slightly,

drawing my hips away from the bed. Impossibly fast when he

closes his fingers around my very, very erect cock. His hand

has almost no room to move, but I’m so damned turned on,

even that barely-there motion is enough to make my eyes

water.

Silently, giving me nothing to focus on except the pain

he’s just inflicted and his slow, gentle hand, he continues

stroking me. He has to know he’s driving me out of my mind.

I dig my teeth into my lower lip. My pulse is all over the place now. I can’t remember how to breathe, but I guess I’m doing

it because I’m still conscious, and my God I want to stay

conscious because he knows just how hard and how fast and

oh, fuck, if he lets me come, this orgasm will kill me, I know

it will, and if he doesn’t, I’ll burst into flames, and fuck, fuck, fuck, please don’t stop, Sir . . .

“I don’t know what I did,” he murmurs, “to deserve a sub

with a pain tolerance like yours, but whatever it was, I’d do

it again ten times over.” His fingers tighten around my cock.

“You’re one in a fucking million.”

“Th-thank you, Sir.” The words come out as little more

than a whimper.

Stroke after stroke, his hand picks up speed. He’s breathing

on my neck, driving me insane, and the sting from my raw,

burning skin only sends me deeper into white-hot oblivion.

Before I can stop myself, I let out a helpless moan.

“Fuck,” Stephen whispers, his hot breath tickling my skin.

“The sounds you make. God, Nate . . .”

133

I screw my eyes shut behind the blindfold. His hand’s

rhythm falters, his grip tightening, loosening, tightening,

and I don’t know if he’s teasing me or if he’s losing it too, but it turns me on either way, and I’m about to come unglued. I

want to move my hips, to force my cock into his tight fist, but

that’s not allowed, and I grit my teeth and dig my nails into

the heels of my hands as I try not to move, try not to come.

But not coming is almost impossible when Stephen is

touching me and breathing on me, especially after he’s left my

skin raw and sent me into this headspace, and I can’t take any

more.

“M-may I come, Sir?” I’m even closer to tears than I

thought. “Please, may I . . . may I come?”

He strokes faster, as fast as he can in the limited space, and

I’m certain he’s going to torment and tease me and make me

go on until I’m insane, but he whispers, “Yes, Nate. Come.”

All my breath leaves my lungs at once, and I arch my back

against him as his hand keeps my orgasm going on and on and

on until I’m a shaking, panting, eye-watering mess.

He releases my cock and kisses the back of my shoulder. I

think he says something—praise? A promise of more? I can’t

understand him—and then he’s not touching me.

Velcro rips, and my left foot is free. A second later, my

right. I’m vaguely aware of Stephen moving to the other side

of the bed, and the tension in the strap keeping my arms still

goes slack.

He returns to this side of the bed and frees one of my

wrists. He puts a small towel in my hand, and I blindly clean

myself and the comforter off. I’m still bent over the bed, in

part because I don’t have permission to stand yet, and in part

because I don’t think I could if I wanted to.

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When I’m finished, he takes the towel. Now he’s behind

me again, and his arm—oh God, he took off his shirt—

brushes my back. He binds my wrists together again, and then

he slides off my blindfold.

I blink a few times to clear my vision. As the world comes

into focus, the very first thing I see is the giant candy cane,

right there by the pillows where I left it earlier. Unwrapped,

undamaged. When I pull in a breath, it’s once again made of

cool peppermint. Like the candy’s been sitting here beside me

the entire time.

“Stand up,” he orders.

I do, and the world spins around me. The floor shifts

under me. Stephen keeps a firm hand on my arm, and when

I’m fully upright, I rest my thigh against the bed. After I take a few slow, deep breaths, everything rights itself.

“You all right?” he asks with no shortage of amusement.

I lick my lips again and nod. “Yes, Sir. I’m fine.”

He releases my arm. With my bound hands still on the

bed for balance, I glance at the candy cane again. Then I turn

toward Stephen.

He grins back at me as he smacks his palm with a thick

rattan cane.

My mind’s suddenly a tangle of pure confusion. “I

thought . . .” My gaze shifts to the candy cane, back to the

rattan one in his hands. “Wasn’t . . .” It’s not just confusion.

My lips and tongue don’t want to articulate anything.

“Oh, I was going to.” Stephen touches my face. “But it’s

too brittle.” He leans in and kisses the side of my neck. “Soon

as I hit myself with enough force to feel it, the damned thing

cracked.” He nips my earlobe just hard enough to make me

suck in a breath. “Best case, it’d crumble and be useless. Worst case, it might have cut you.” He kisses beneath my ear again,

135

then nuzzles my neck. “But I had a feeling you’d enjoy this.”

Another soft kiss. “And did you?”

A whimper slips past my lips, but he wants an answer, so I

make myself enunciate: “Yes, Sir.”

“Good,” he whispers. “Now, we can go to dinner, and no

matter how much they don’t like me, you won’t be able to stop

thinking about what I do to you, and what I’ll do to you as

soon as we get back home.”

A helpless moan escapes my throat, and even the mention

of tonight’s destination can’t bring me down from this high.

“You’re evil.”

His lips curve into a grin against my neck. “I am.”

“Think my mom will get suspicious if I can’t sit

comfortably?”

A warm laugh bursts out of him. “Quite possibly, yes.”

I shiver. I’m not ready for this to be over yet, especially

not with what’s waiting once we leave the house. “We don’t

have to leave just yet, though, do we?” I tilt my head so he has more access to my neck. “We could stay here a little longer.” I

moisten my lips. “Sir.”

“Mm-hmm, we could.”

“If you want to,” I add quickly.

“Maybe I do.” His lips skate along the side of my neck, his

lightly stubbled jaw brushing my shoulder. “And what’s in it

for me if we do?”

“Anything you want.” The words send another shiver

through me. “Anything you tell me to do.”

“I like the sound of that,” he growls, and nips my skin.

I lick my lips. “May I suck your cock?”

“Hmm?”

“May I suck your cock, Sir?”

“Yes.” He kisses just above my col arbone. “You may.”

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I reach for the candy cane, glancing back at Stephen to

make sure he isn’t protesting. He doesn’t always let me take

the initiative and improvise, but sometimes he does. If I’ve

been good.

He doesn’t stop me.

I leave the candy cane on the edge of the bed where I can

reach it easily enough, and then I sink to my knees in front

of him. As my beaten ass presses against my calves, I suck in

a hiss of breath, pausing for a second to enjoy the renewed

sting.A second too long, though, because Stephen clears his

throat.

“Sorry, Sir.” I sit up on my knees and reach for him. My

hands are still bound together, but this? This I’ve done enough

times. Unbuckling his belt, unbuttoning and unzipping his

pants, I’ve totally got this.

Or I would if my hands weren’t shaking so badly. Stephen

doesn’t help matters at all when he runs his fingers through

my hair, letting his fingertips graze my scalp just the way he knows I like it. The clip between my wrists rattles with the

unsteadiness of my hands, but after a moment of struggling

on my part, his belt buckle gives. Then the button. The zipper.

And finally, I have my hands and mouth around his cock.

He strokes my hair as I stroke him. He murmurs quiet praises,

and when he groans, I can barely keep from grinning.

I release him, sit back on my heels—oh my God, it stings—

and reach for the candy cane.

Stephen eyes me, but he doesn’t stop me, and when I run

my tongue around the end of the candy cane, his eyes widen

and his lips part.

God damn, this thing is thick. I take a couple inches into my mouth, then close my lips around it and hold Stephen’s

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gaze as I let the thick piece of candy slowly, slowly slide in and out of my mouth.

He wets his lips. Fidgets.

The peppermint turns my mouth and sinuses to ice. I take

the cane as deep as I can. Run my tongue around the end.

Deep-throat it again.

“Oh, God, Nate,” he moans. “Suck my cock. Right now.”

I bite off a piece and slide it under my tongue. Then I set

the cane aside, careful to keep the end of it off the comforter, and return my attention to Stephen’s hard-on.

I steady his cock in both hands and take it between my

lips.“Ooh, yes, that’s perfect,” he breathes, and his approval

sends a delicious tingle all the way down my spine. “You know

exactly how . . . how to . . . Jesus . . .”

I take him deeper in my mouth, and as I pull back again, I

run the tip of my tongue along the underside of his cock just

the way I know he likes it. Stroking with both hands, teasing

with my lips and tongue, deep-throating, stroking with both

hands again.

Then I draw back completely, purse my lips, and look up

at him as I blow peppermint-cooled air on his moist skin. He

sucks in a breath through chattering teeth, and his free hand

grabs the bedpost as his knees tremble beneath him.

“Fuck!” He shudders. “That’s . . . fucking incredible.”

His approval and arousal alike drive me on. Whenever

the peppermint’s intensity fades, I pull back, suck on the piece under my tongue, and then return to him.

“Fuck . . .” Stephen groans, and his fingers tighten around

my hair until my scalp burns. “That’s . . . Christ, Nate, you’re amazing.”

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I moan softly and keep going. He’s always vocal when he’s

on the edge, and I love it. I fucking love it.

“Don’t stop,” he orders, and he grips my hair even tighter.

“Oh, that’s right. That’s just right. You’re gonna make . . . oh God . . .”

I give him everything I have, and his cock stiffens in my

mouth and hands as he releases a throaty groan. A second

later, hot, salty semen rushes across my tongue, and I moan

as I continue stroking and teasing while he shivers and swears

and falls apart. I keep going until he orders me to stop, and

then I sit back on my heels with my head bowed and my

hands in my lap.

Stephen fixes his clothes, and then says, “Stand up.”

I do, moving slowly as blood rushes back into my legs

after I’ve had them bent for so long. Once I’m on my feet,

Stephen lifts my chin and kisses me tenderly.

“You’ve done well tonight,” he whispers.

“Thank you, Sir.”

He frees my hands from the restraints. Then he pulls back

the covers and guides me into bed. He lies on his back, pulls

me close to him, and strokes my hair. He’s careful to avoid

any raw skin, and I’m so relaxed now it’s a wonder I’m still

breathing. There’s no place in this world more comfortable

than pressed up against Stephen with his arms wrapped

around me. The lingering pain emphasizes his warm, gentle

touch, and that warm, gentle touch emphasizes the lingering

pain. Two sensations I can only get from him, and I get them

both at the same time. It’s a degree of hard-earned ecstasy

I hadn’t even known existed until I met him, and even the

afterglow is like nothing else. I could stay here, just like this, until the sun burned out, and no one would ever hear me

complain.

139

Though I know it’s not a good idea, I lift my head and

glance past him at the nightstand. The glowing blue numbers

on Stephen’s alarm clock announce that we have T-minus

ninety minutes to be on my mom and dad’s doorstep. Forty

minute drive, add twenty because it’s snowing, another ten

just in case, and that leaves us twenty to get up, get a shower, get dressed, and get out.

But I don’t want to move. At al .

I close my eyes and cuddle closer to Stephen. The damage

is done, though. All the gut-twisting, muscle-tightening

stress that’s been chasing me around since I got out of bed

this morning comes creeping back in, and my heart sinks with

every minute that takes me closer to the inevitable moment

when we have to start going through the motions to get from

here to . . . there.

And why the fuck should we? I’m happy here. So is

Stephen.

Spend the evening with someone who cuts under my skin

with biting criticism and disapproval, or spend it with someone

who knows exactly when and how to push buttons only he

knows how to find? A few hours in an itchy, ugly sweater that

may as well be made out of horsehair and fiberglass, or as long

as I goddamned please in bed with a man who can beat me

perfectly raw and drive me to earth-shaking orgasms?

Stephen kisses the top of my head. “Still awake?”

“Mm-hmm.”

A breath of laughter warms my forehead. “Not for long at

this rate, right?”

“Maybe.” Yeah, right. I’m already back to way too wound

up, and sleep isn’t happening now.

Stephen turns his head toward the nightstand. Then he

sighs. “I guess we should get ready to go.”

140

My heart sinks a little lower. No point in arguing. We’ve

probably pushed this as long as we can without having to

come up with an explanation for why we’re late.

Why I’m late.

Because I’m not making Stephen do this. Not this year.

And as we get out of bed, my skin conspicuously cool

wherever his was touching mine just a second ago, I don’t

want to be anywhere but here, either.

He kisses me gently. “I’m going to get a shower. You might

want to . . . not.”

I respond with a half-hearted laugh. “Yeah, no kidding.”

He chuckles, kisses me again, and starts toward the

bathroom.

He’s almost to the doorway when I make up my mind.

“Stephen.”

He turns around.

I moisten my lips. “We don’t have to go.”

His posture straightens. “But it’s your family.”

“I know.” I wring my hands. “But my mom treats both

of us like shit. I can’t keep subjecting you to that.” Meeting

his eyes, I add, “And I’d rather stay here with you than go

anywhere.”

“They’re your family, Nate. I can’t ask—”

“You’re not asking me. I want you to be happy.”

“You know I’m happy as long as I’m with you.”

“But wouldn’t you be happier if we weren’t anywhere near

my mother?”

He raises one shoulder in a half-shrug. “Okay, I’m not

going to argue with that.”

“Then let’s not go.”

Stephen backtracks, stopping when he’s right in front of

me. “Are you sure? Your mom is going to blow up your phone

and your e-mail if you don’t go.”

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“Then maybe now would be a good time for me to get the

hang of not taking shit from her.” I give a soft, self-deprecating laugh. “Should’ve learned that trick a long time ago, don’t you

think?”

He doesn’t crack a smile, and deep crevices form between

his eyebrows. Uncertainty looks so strange on his face, but

there it is, etched into the lines on his forehead and the

tightness of his lips.

“This is my choice.” I swallow. “I’d rather stay with you.”

I pause, lowering my gaze. “I mean, if you want me to stay.”

He kisses my forehead. “I always want you to stay, Nate.”

He lifts my face with two fingers. “But I also don’t want you

catching hell from her because of me.”

I take a breath and hold his gaze. “I don’t want you

catching hell from her because of me. I want you to actually enjoy Christmas again.” Lacing my fingers between his, I add

a whispered, “With me.”

Stephen’s quiet for a moment. Then, without a word, he

wraps his arms around me, and I close my eyes as the renewed

tension in my neck and shoulders starts to melt away. This

is probably one of those moments where there’s a magic

something one of us should say that would get us both all

choked up, but neither of us speaks. Just a long, quiet embrace, sweaty skin against warm leather, and the silent reassurance

that no one’s going anywhere tonight.

A knot of apprehension still lingers beneath my ribs, but

this is the right thing. This is how it should be. Whatever

fallout comes later? Oh well. I’m not trading this moment for

a night of gifts and criticism.

A full minute passes before Stephen draws back a little.

He looks down at me and combs his fingers through my hair.

142

“I guess since our plans are canceled, that leaves the question

of what we should do with the rest of the evening.”

“Whatever you want us to do.”

Stephen smiles. He cups my jaw and leans in to kiss me.

“That’s the answer I like to hear.”

I smile too, just before our lips meet, and his approval

sends a warm rush through my veins.

“I love you,” he whispers.

“I love you too.”

“Now go get my flogger.”

143

Submissive Angel

Joey W. Hill

nowflakes don’t make any sound. Like a first kiss. That

“M W “I S D “A P

must be why they feel the same against your skin.

Robert stared up at the thickly fal ing snow

illuminated by the Victorian-style streetlight, the iron pole

wrapped in a garland and red velvet bow. Earlier today, he

hadn’t thought to test Ange’s assertion, but at this late hour,

with no foot traffic and the storefronts cloaked in hushed

silence, he found himself listening to the snow. Comparing

how it felt, fal ing on his upturned face, to all the kisses he’d had in his life. As well as the kisses he might want in the future.

Even though they’re silent, you can still hear something. The way you can hear somebody holding their breath.

It made sense that one of Ange’s quirky observations

would cross his mind right now. He’d collected a lot of them

since the boy had started working for him nearly six months

ago. After al , he’d made a hell of an impression, applying for

the job while flat on his ass in garbage and bleeding profusely.

On that sticky June night, Robert had heard a noise

behind the dumpster in the alley next to his vintage toy shop.

Setting aside the trash he’d been taking out, he picked up the

baseball bat he kept inside the back door. Not one of his 1920s

Louisville sluggers, just a made-in-China piece of crap, but

144

still solid wood. When he peered around the steel container

and saw a blood trail on the cobblestones, he followed it to a

pair of legs in ripped jeans.

He was confronted with a shock of dirty white-gold hair

atop a long, lean form in a thin T-shirt. Someone had worked

the guy over—his nose was bleeding all over the fabric. But

he was holding the broken skyhook Robert had reluctantly

tossed after he’d knocked it off a shelf. It was a jockey on a

horse, perched on the top of a stand. When it sat on a table,

the counterweight ball made the horse rock, so it looked like

it was running.

In Victorian times, people couldn’t get enough of toys

that used the law of gravity to do what seemed impossible,

magical, and his modern-day patrons were no different. He

had a whole shelf of balance toys from that era.

At Robert’s appearance, the kid, mid-twenties maybe, had

held up the toy as if he didn’t have one eye swelling shut, a

busted lip, and what was definitely a broken nose. Robert had

done a couple tours in Afghanistan. Between that and boxing

at the local gym for his daily workout, he was very familiar

with the look.

“I fixed it, sir,” the young man said earnestly. And he had.

He’d hinged the arm back in place on the jockey’s side, and

fixed the snapped stand using tape he’d probably fished out

of the trash. “It’s temporary, but I can solder the stand and re-attach the arm with wood glue. No one will even know it was

broken. I’m good at fixing things people don’t think to fix.”

Robert squatted on his haunches. Putting his fingers on

the man’s jaw to hold him still, he took a closer look at the

damage. At his touch, his unsolicited applicant went quite

still, except for a significant quiver that hit Robert in the gut, particularly when he lowered lashes as white-gold as his hair.

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“What’s your name?”

“Ange.” He pronounced it in the French manner, so that

the an sounded like own and the ge a soft ssh, like a mother’s gentle reproof.

“French for angel.” Robert tried for a smile but failed.

The harm to Ange’s face must have been done with more than

one pair of fists. It made his hand want to close in a similar

position. Looking at the guileless eyes and sensitive mouth, he

knew this kid had done nothing to warrant it except be what

he was. “Come on. I’ll drive you to the hospital.”

“I’m okay. I don’t need a hospital. I need a job. Sir.” Ange

held up the toy. “Since the North Pole layoffs, things have

been rough. I’m just glad I found you before the other elves

did.”Robert’s lips twisted. Funny bastard. Odd fellow,

obviously all in his head. Until he looked at Robert and said

Sir. Then he was a hundred percent there.

“You have a lot of metal toys, trains, things where gears

get stuck. I can unjam them. I can dust everything, keep it all

looking good. Everyone hates to dust. You don’t have to pay

me much. A cot in a back room and enough to buy my lunch.

Don’t pay me at all until you’re sure I’m worth a salary.”

Robert put a quelling hand over his. He had slim, elegant

fingers, like a pianist. Thank goodness whoever had beaten on

him hadn’t noticed that. The knuckles were scraped, though.

Ange had fought back. That, and the stubborn jut of his jaw,

told Robert he’d gone down fighting. It sent a twinge to his

groin, because he liked a sub with fire. Jesus.

“We’ll talk about that later. Hospital first.”

“I don’t—”

“You’re going.” Robert gave him a hard look. “Got it?”

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He wasn’t sure what made him test those waters. For

Chrissakes, he’d almost said You’re going because I said so. The vibe Ange put out was so strong he couldn’t resist it. He’d

hung up the paddle, hadn’t taken on a new sub since . . . since

everything had shut down. But apparently his desire to take

charge, exert control, figure out the right combination to

win willing surrender, wasn’t as dead as he thought. And it

was coming back to life with an injured homeless man. How

desperate was that?

Then the kid delivered a sucker punch in return, making

it even worse. Like a switch flipped, the green eyes skittered

down to Robert’s chest, focused on his dark blue bowtie. “Yes,

sir,” he muttered.

Robert gave his jaw a reproving tap. “What was that?”

“Yes, sir,” Ange said more respectfully, with a quick

glance up. When his fingers slipped out from under Robert’s

and caressed his wrist with a shy touch, a spark flickered,

reminding Robert what it was to want.

That touch dared him to be a Master once more.

Coming back to the present, Robert lowered his gaze. In

the backdrop, he could see the lights of downtown Charlotte

skyscrapers, but in this little SoHo-esque section, except

for a few strings of Christmas lights edging the eaves of the

buildings, the galleries, trendy cafés, and various stores were

all dark. Well, almost all of them. His vintage toy store was

lit up like the nativity star. The six Christmas trees placed

at various spots inside the main showroom threw their

illumination out onto the sidewalk, clouds of color against

pristine snow drifts.

147

Earlier in the day, they’d forecast eight inches of snow,

but no one had believed it until it started to fal . Charlotte

rarely got snow in December, let alone three days before the

holiday. Despite the late hour, on the walk here he’d seen

people his age and older making snowmen, having snowball

fights, laughing like kids. Couples kissing as snowflakes fell

upon their hair, their clasped hands. Christmas spirit, all the

hope and wonder of it, had infected everyone. Including him.

He’d gotten Ange fixed up, given him a fair wage and a

cot in the back room. Crazy as risking all that was, he’d never

dared taking his other feelings any further than they had

gone that first night. Losing parents within seven months of

each other had a way of shutting down body, mind, and soul.

Everything became too tentative to deal with the aggressive

joy of D/s play, which, when done with the right person,

risked everything for the potential of gaining everything. For

the past two years he’d been frozen in a fragile state of grief

and loss. But during the last six months, he’d started to thaw.

There was only eight years’ difference in their ages, Ange

nearing thirty, Robert on the north side of that decade, but

Ange seemed so young. Not in the no-right-to-be-thinking-

about-touching way, though. More like in the submissive-

just-begging-for-a-Master way.

It was close to midnight, a dangerous hour for a lonely

man to be standing in the snow. Coming to the store in

the middle of the night was outside their normal structure,

leaving anything open to possibility, but Robert had made

that conscious decision when he’d left his apartment, heading

back to the store for no other reason than a desire to be where

Ange was. When he crossed that street, opened the door,

there’d be no turning back.

148

Oh, fuck it. He was a childless, gay, nearly-forty-year-old

man who wore a bow tie and suspenders and collected rare

toys. All he needed was a cranky little dog to complete the

stereotype, but he was allergic. What was holding him rooted

to this spot was fear of loss, and he knew how irrational that

was.Taking a breath, he crossed the street, pul ing out his

keys. When his heart started to beat faster, he had to stop a

moment, close his eyes. He wanted to do this. He would do it.

He couldn’t fight it anymore. He wanted to be alive.

He’d told Ange to turn off all the trees except the small

one in the display window when he went to bed. Robert

didn’t want the more valuable cast iron collectibles to be seen

from the outside. But Ange loved those trees. He’d keep them

turned on twenty-four hours a day, would probably sleep

underneath them every night if he could. However, since he

took Robert’s orders very literally, if the lights were on, that meant he was still up.

Robert didn’t like to think of a break-in happening while

Ange was there alone, so he’d be more specific, tell Ange the

trees should be turned off at closing. Even as he had that

thought, he was inundated with images of more punitive,

provocative ways to impress the lesson on his only employee.

Unlocking and opening the front door, he also discovered

Ange hadn’t turned on the security system. Again. He was so

going to kick his narrow ass.

Brad Paisley’s “Silent Night” was playing, part of the

Christmas playlist Ange had created, mixing old and new

favorites. It was a balance the customers and Robert enjoyed,

though Robert had never considered himself a fan of holiday

music. Hanging up his keys, he moved out of the shadows of

the foyer into the archway of the main show room. Since he’d

149

come at the store from an angle that didn’t give him a clear

shot into the front display window, he hadn’t seen what he

saw now. If he had, he would have crossed that street with

no hesitation at al , because no man with a pulse could have

resisted the scene before him.

He and Ange had rearranged the main showroom so it

looked like a late Victorian-era parlor at Christmas time,

just waiting for the children to arrive and open packages.

It recalled the opening scene from the Nutcracker ballet,

particularly with Ange dancing in the middle of it.

Ange was in the middle of a fouetté. Tight, in-place turns that brought him up on the ball of his foot on each rotation,

like a Turkish warrior dancing. He was wearing his bedtime

pajamas of a thin white tank and gray sweatpants, the former

displaying the layers of muscles on his arms and shoulders, the

latter the flexing of his ass. He’d wrapped red ribbon around

his wrists, splitting them into tails and using scissors to curl them so they fluttered as he danced. He had them on his

ankles as well, with tiny bells. Now Robert realized why he

heard a pleasing chime buried inside the Christmas music.

It was like watching a male swan. That sense of restraint,

the quivering desire to soar compressed in graceful movement

that hinted at what miracles would be possible if the bird’s

wings weren’t clipped. If he had the confidence to soar.

Until six months ago, Robert had forgotten that feeling,

his heart bricked off to withstand the harsh realities of

mortality. Now he felt a painful, final crack in the mortar as

Ange finished the turn, his fingertips reaching toward the

treetops, his leg a straight line behind him. When he went

from that into a standing leap, as impressive as a Lipizzaner

stal ion, Robert’s heart began thumping erratically again.

150

He pressed his fingers hard into the wood doorway, all the

want and need he’d stored up pooling in his mouth and groin.

Ange had landed, but his eyes were closed. As he tilted his

head to the right, exposing the line from throat to shoulder,

Robert had a vampire’s craving to sink his teeth into that pale

column.

Then Ange saw him. He straightened, chest heaving, eyes

bright, uncertain. His hair was dark with sweat at his temples

and nape. If Robert put his nose there, he’d inhale that sharp

scent of exertion and Ange together.

“Come with me.”

He didn’t look to see if Ange was following. He knew he

was, the same way he’d known Ange was waiting for him when

he saw the tree lights still on. Hell, the boy had been waiting

for months. He was a true submissive. As long as he could take

care of Robert, he was happy, but that didn’t mean he didn’t

burn the way Robert did. More than once he’d caught Ange

giving him a look so hungry, it took everything in him not to

pin him to the wall then and there. He’d gone home at night

and masturbated like a fucking thirteen-year-old, imagining

that taut, slick ass, feeling Ange’s mouth on him . . . hearing

him cal him Master.

Ange always called him Sir, as if he knew the way it

made things clench inside of Robert. He made it clear he was

Robert’s, though Robert didn’t encourage that. Of course, he

sure as hell hadn’t discouraged it, either.

When he returned to the front door and unlocked it,

stepping out under the eaves, he found the snow was fal ing

even thicker now. The street was covered in it, virgin and

unmarred.

Glancing back, he saw Ange’s green gaze fixed on him.

“Dance for me, out there. Show me how a male swan soars.”

151

He reached out, intending to guide him through the

door, but Ange bent his head, brushed his lips over Robert’s

knuckles, leaving the electric tingle of moist heat on his rough skin. Then he leaped out into the night, almost hovering in

the air for a brief moment, light as the snowflakes. The thickly curling red ribbon and bells made Robert imagine a reindeer

in harness, awaiting the command to fly . . . the touch of the

whip.Ange had given Robert very little of his past, but it had

been easy enough to figure out he’d been a danseur before

he’d been on the street. When Ange was pul ing down stock

from upper shelves in the back, Robert had seen him lift up

on the balls of his feet with an odd sense of weightlessness,

like he was levitating. He’d stretch one arm upward, his body

remaining locked and upright, his back leg leaving the ground

to create a rigid line from the tips of his reaching fingers to the point of his toe.

If he thought Robert wasn’t looking, sometimes Ange

would whirl down an aisle rather than walk it. He’d spot his

destination, his head whipping toward that fixed point, strong

arms locked in a precise oval before him. When he reached

the back wal , he’d stop like an expert swordsman executing

a lunge.

Once, when a customer was waiting, Robert had asked

Ange to bring him something from the back stockroom that

would normally require a ladder. He’d followed him a moment

later with another request, arriving in time to see Ange remove

his shoes and execute a powerful spin in the air, catching the

item on the turn. He came down into what Robert now knew

was ballet’s fourth position. He’d been wearing a pair of faded

jeans that fit him just right in the crotch and seat when he

landed. Robert’s mouth had gone dry.

152

Taking a break from his auction browsing one night, he’d

called up some ballet sites. What he’d seen Ange do that day

was a modified tour en l’aire. He’d felt like he was surfing porn, lingering on pictures of male dancers in their nothing-to-the-imagination tights, which made him think of Ange in such an

outfit. When he was in that swordsman lunge, his cock would

be erect and long beneath the straining fabric, the imagined

shape of the testicles making Robert itch to close his hand

possessively over them.

The tune now turned to Tori Amos’s wistful “Have

Yourself a Merry Little Christmas,” and Ange changed the

pace. He was dancing barefoot in the snow, in the thin tank

and sweats, but his skin was glowing. When he spun toward

Robert, he spotted on him, every whip of his head coming

back to Robert’s eyes, until he finished with one of those

floating-in-the-air, bent-leg bounds that he completed on his

knees at Robert’s feet. Staring up at him, face flushed. Lips

parted.

Robert reached down, intending to brush the long strands

of hair from his forehead. Instead Ange pressed another kiss

to his hand. Robert turned it, trailing his fingers over Ange’s

mouth, the moist lips, to his chin. Ange dropped his head

back. As Robert moved down to his throat, to his chest, Ange

kept bending backward. Robert dropped to one knee as his

head touched the snow between his cupped feet, the body

in a perfect, severe arch for him. Ange’s arms were out, like a

crucified swan. Or a man surrendering.

As he held the pose, eyes closed, chest rising and fal ing,

the bump of his nipples against the cotton drew Robert’s gaze.

He’d given Ange that tank the first night. Ange had bought

himself new clothes since then, but he still slept in Robert’s

shirt. Robert’s burlier build made the armholes wider, inviting

153

his fingers to creep beneath, caress naked flesh. He restrained

himself, barely.

“Ange.” His voice was thick, making him clear his throat.

“Call me by my name.”

Ange opened his eyes, his gaze a reflection of Robert’s

desires. “Master,” he said.

Had he wanted him to say Robert? He’d made the decision

to cross the street, unlock the door, but now the fear that he

was opening a well of pain in himself returned, compounded

with a fear that the pain could hurt Ange. He started to rise,

but Ange put his hand on his thigh.

“Robert,” he said quietly. “Master.”

The music selection switched to the a cappella stylings

of Straight No Chaser, crooning “This Christmas,” one of

Robert’s favorites. It was more upbeat, more hopeful. Giving

him courage. He laid his hand on Ange’s chest.

A breath escaped from Ange, a shudder like the first time

Robert had touched him. “Master . . .” he breathed.

Robert dug his fingers into that firm flesh and then let his

hand glide downward, over Ange’s abdomen, waist, hip bone.

The sweatpants made it easy to log Ange’s response, altering

the fabric in reaction to Robert’s touch. That was no kid’s

equipment, but a man’s thick and hard cock.

“You stay still,” Robert ordered. He had to put himself on

a short rein as well. He was testing the waters, still waffling

on the block. When his hand closed over Ange’s dick, his sub

made a little spasm of movement, but that was al , obviously

keeping himself still at Robert’s command. Which brought

him that much closer to making the dive.

He traveled back up the same pleasing terrain, over that

arch of muscle and bone, back to the point of his chest. Then

154

he slid down the opposite slope, tracing the sternum to the

col ar bone, curving his broad hand around Ange’s throat.

He saw it so clearly, what he wanted from him. Until he’d

lost his nerve, Robert had always demanded a lot from his

subs. Ange tempted him to grasp his desires again, follow his

instincts as a Master.

Once, feeling like he was taking advantage, he’d reached

out to some of his acquaintances, set Ange up on a couple of

dates. Ange came down with a twenty-four-hour cold the first

time. The second time, he claimed he got lost and couldn’t find

the restaurant where he was supposed to meet the prospect.

Ange’s ingenuous expression had left Robert nowhere to go

to call it an outright lie, but the little bastard had a stubborn side for sure. Robert didn’t arrange any more dates for him.

“Let me be your Christmas present, Master. Wrap me up

the way you want. And open me early.” His green eyes glinted.

“Please.”

It would have made Robert smile, if so many other

emotions weren’t competing for the same constricted space

in his chest.

Sliding a hand under Ange’s neck, he brought him up into

a sitting position on his heels, then kept going, compelling

him to fold forward, to put his forehead on the welcome mat,

flatten his palms in the snow. Robert cupped the irresistible

butt revealed by the cling of the sweats. The cloth was damp

from the fal ing snow, just like his shirt.

The tail ends of the ribbon on his ankles had enough slack

to tie them to one another, a hobble that allowed a foot of

space between them. Robert touched the soles of Ange’s feet,

noting he was too cold to be ticklish. Then he moved to his

head.

155

“Keep your eyes down,” he said. It was the same low voice

he’d used to command Ange to come out here. He never

shouted at a sub. He could deliver an order that resonated

right down to the scrotum without lifting his voice a decibel.

The power and pleasure of that skill washed over him now.

He tied two of the curling tails on the ribbons on Ange’s

wrists to each other, then grasped that line to bring him to his feet.“Dance for me like this. Stay within reach of my hands, as

if you were tied to me by a one-foot leash.”

Robert guided him back out into the snow and Ange

obeyed, doing measured circles and lots of sinuous upper body

and arm movements that never took him outside Robert’s

reach. Though Ange might think it was a test of his dance

skills with his hands and ankles hampered like that, it was to

ensure Robert could catch Ange if needed. But he didn’t fal ,

and the longer he danced, the more Robert burned to touch

the body moving so close to him, run his hands over all that

rippling, smooth muscle. He could tell Ange felt the same, the

way he tailored those movements to simulate the contact he

wanted with Robert. The connective heat in the small space

between Ange’s moving torso and his own increased like

fanned flames.

But sexual heat, powerful as it was, couldn’t overcome

Nature’s temperature. Ange started to shiver, and his feet had

to be ice cold by now. Robert stopped him, bent his knees, and

put his shoulder to Ange’s midriff. He wasn’t heavy, not the

Irish brawler Robert was. He hiked him over his shoulder.

Steadying his load by sliding his hand into Ange’s loose pants,

he was pleased to confirm there was nothing under them. As

Robert stroked the peach-fuzz on the taut buttocks, Ange

156

clutched his belt, holding on as he was carried back into the

store.“Time to wrap my present.”

He let him down inside the threshold, closing the door

and pul ing the shade down, sealing in the warmth and

privacy of the foyer. Ange stayed quiet beneath Robert’s grip

on his forearm, but his anticipatory stillness made Robert

think about what Ange had said, that holding one’s breath

actually made a sound.

“Stay there.” Moving to one of the lit Christmas trees,

Robert brought back a sturdy wooden stepstool painted with

a winter scene. Fishing out his pocketknife, he cut the ribbons

hobbling Ange’s ankles and wrists. “Step up.”

They kept mistletoe hanging in the entryway, a touch of

whimsy that sometimes inspired couples married for decades

to snatch a fond kiss. Teenagers, with a giggle or shy look,

would lean in and press lips together. Mrs. Fitzgerald, who

went nowhere without her toy poodle Horatio tucked in her

large fuchsia-colored handbag, had kissed the top knot of the

gray fuzzy head.

Now Ange tilted his head back, studying the plant. When

his chin came back down, Robert arched a brow at the hopeful

expression. “You’ll have to earn that.”

A tiny smile appeared on those sensual lips, the green eyes

alight with something that made Robert want to kiss him

senseless right now. But this angle also showed him the faded

scar under Ange’s chin, an additional deep cut obscured that

night by the blood of his busted lip.

“Are you ever going to tell me who hurt you?”

Ange’s mouth set in that stubborn line, the one that made

him look all of his twenty-nine years. It also made Robert

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want to put him on forehead and knees and paddle him until

his ass was red. “I fought back.”

“Yes, you did. Will you tell me why you dance like you do,

here in my store, and nowhere else?”

“One day. Right now I just want to serve you, Master.

That’s all I need. To dance for you, work for you. The world

is so ugly . . .” He pressed his lips together, met Robert’s gaze.

“Finding the right space is the only thing that matters.”

Robert thought about that. “Ange, if you want me as your

Master, you need to trust me to care for you. Understood?”

Ange nodded. “Why aren’t you with anyone, Master? Not

that . . . I’m glad you’re not with anyone . . . right now, I mean.”

“How do you know I’m not?”

The change in Ange’s face was surprising, but Robert had

a feeling it was the expression his attackers had seen, albeit

right before they’d kicked the shit out of him. “Because . . . I feel it. You come here . . . to be with me.”

You’re mine as much as I’m yours. The ballsy kid didn’t say it outright—he was too much of a sub to do that—but

Robert saw it in the set of his chin, the way his hand reached

out almost of its own volition to curl in Robert’s shirt front,

holding on. God, he really couldn’t wait to plunder that

defiant mouth, give it a workout.

“You better rein back that attitude, or I might find a way

to deal with it.”

Ange’s countenance eased, even as his grip on Robert

didn’t. He had a firm, capable touch, one that never fumbled

anything in the store, always sure and gentle in whatever he

handled.

“No,” Robert said. “I’m not with anyone. I was, for a year

or so. When my parents got sick, it was more than he could

handle. He bailed.”

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Freddie had turned out to be more of a bottom than a

true sub. He’d talked a good game about wanting to be 24/7,

but in the end, he hadn’t wanted the two-way emotional

exchange or the work of a relationship. He wanted to be

topped, overpowered and launched into subspace through

extreme restraint and discomfort, then go out afterward to

Starbucks with his real friends.

Whereas, looking around his store, Robert saw a hundred

things that proved Ange’s care and service for him, despite the

fact he hadn’t so much as kissed him. Maybe that was why

he’d just told him something he hadn’t told anyone else.

“He left you alone to watch your parents die?”

Leave it to Ange to put it so directly that it was like

getting punched in the face. Robert actually took a step back.

Swallowing, he looked away. “Yeah, well, not everyone can

handle . . .”

The reality was no one could handle it; he just had, because that was the way it was. For every moment his mom and dad

had been there for him, through every tear, every lesson, every

smile, every gift of time, protection, or love, his care had been that debt come due. Not a debt paid out of obligation or

resentment, but one paid in fervent honor of a job well done.

To “handle” it, the heart had to break, no help for it, shattered like one of his porcelain dolls.

His throat was too thick to continue. Watch my parents

die . . . They’d each passed at home, under his care. When his mom had gone, seven months after his father, he’d sat alone,

waiting for the hospice nurse to arrive, to confirm the death,

to prepare the body for the funeral home. It was stupid to

dress them up, given that they’d both wanted cremation,

but when his father died, he’d put him in his dark blue suit.

He’d dressed his mother in her yellow dress with lace at the

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col ar. They’d worn those clothes to meet him at the airport

when he’d returned home from his last tour in Afghanistan.

His dad, a Vietnam vet himself, had saluted him, his mother

hugging him like she’d never let him go again.

“Fuck . . .” Those emotions he feared spilling onto Ange

were threatening to swamp him. He shouldn’t have come here

tonight.

On the stool beneath the mistletoe, Ange was taller than

him by half a foot. The kid reached out. Robert started to draw

back further, but Ange leaned forward and Robert extended a

quelling hand, concerned that he might overbalance the stool.

Ange ended up touching his face, his fingers sliding along

Robert’s cheekbone, his temple, up into his hair, stroking it.

His other hand caught Robert’s outstretched one, linking

fingers, then moved up his arm, to his shoulder, bringing

them closer once again.

I fix things people don’t think to fix . . .

Ange made a soothing noise. Robert thought of him

dancing in the snow as those still-cold arms enclosed him,

brought him against his chest, his beating heart. Michael

Bublé’s “I’ll Be Home for Christmas” had to be playing now,

right? Shit. “Ange—”

He really did have incredibly strong arms, because he

wasn’t letting Robert budge, not without a struggle. “It’s

all right. No one sees, Master. It’s okay. Just hold on until it passes. You can’t survive an ocean storm without a boat.”

Another Ange-ism to file away. He had his face pressed

between Ange’s pec and biceps, which meant he could smell

the sweat he’d worked up with his dancing, but that was okay.

It smelled real, earthy. The snow that had melted on his shirt

was damp against his cheek. Robert realized his shoulders

were tense, his hands closed into tight fists at his sides. Ange 160

had wrapped both arms around him, one around his back, the

other bent between his shoulder blades, fingers stroking the

short hairs on his neck. Robert closed his eyes, a hard shudder

running through him. He needed to set Ange back on his

heels. He couldn’t open his heart. It had been shut too long.

Prying open the doors would be too painful.

“I’m sorry I wasn’t here sooner,” Ange whispered. “I

should have been here when you needed me.”

For some reason, Robert recalled Ange getting on the

floor with Mr. Dixon, an octogenarian and one of Robert’s

premier collectors, as they raced 1953 “cars of the future,”

friction motor drive cars that roared and had sparks shooting

from the exhaust. His clients gravitated toward Ange and his

childlike delight in the store’s offerings. Ange played with the toys—albeit carefully—showing people how they worked

so they’d fall in love with them as well. Much like Christmas

itself, the toys helped people rediscover a feeling or memory

that had been lost. Watching Ange open up the hearts of his

customers had performed the same magic on Robert. He’d

felt outside the world, detached from it, but Ange had started

to connect him again.

Ange thought he should have been here sooner, but

maybe he was right on time. For so long, Robert had had a

perilous sense of fal ing, and yet Ange’s arms gave him solid

ground again. It was okay for that door to his heart to open;

Ange could handle what would come through it. Robert put

his hands on the other man’s hips, fingers digging in.

“You’re going to tell me who hurt you one day.”

“Tell me the address of the bastard who abandoned you,

and we’ll call it even.”

Robert chuckled at the pugnacious note and pressed his

face into that surprisingly solid body for one extra second

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before he lifted his head, pulled back. He could only do so

much of that, but it had felt good. Maybe too good.

“I want you to take off your shirt and reach above your

head. Grab hold of the mistletoe hook.”

Light burning in his green gaze like the electric candelabras

they had in the store’s side windows, Ange slowly obeyed,

stripping off the tank and putting it in Robert’s outstretched

hand before reaching above him. The hook was a heavy grade,

screwed into a support beam so he could tether the oak front

door to it on windy fall days, when Robert liked to inhale the

scent of seasons changing.

With the footstool, the hook was just above easy reach,

so Ange had to stretch out that incomparable body, showing

off the upward tilt of his rib cage, the golden down on his

chest that arrowed along his flat belly toward the now lower-

hanging sweatpants. Robert’s command had brought his

erection back to life beneath them.

As distracting as that was, Robert’s attention was caught

by something far less appealing. Gunshot scars, two of them,

right in the gut. Six months ago, they hadn’t let him into the

exam room at the ER, needing to make sure he wasn’t the one

who’d worked the kid over, so he hadn’t seen Ange shirtless.

He’d imagined it countless times, but this hadn’t been part of

those fantasies.

“What the hell . . . Ange?” When he put his hand on

the scars, the two entry points close enough that his palm

could cover them, Ange started to tremble, and not the kind

of trembling Robert was trying to inspire. He recognized it,

that panic that could grab hold of a grown man, drench him

in sickly sweat, and make everything disappear except that

moment of horror. “I can’t. Please, Master . . . don’t.”

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“Okay. Shhh. This isn’t about that. Like you said. Another

day. Stay with me, Ange. I mean it. Listen to your Master.”

It was the first time he’d referred to himself directly as

such. The power of it was enough to bring Ange back to him.

He settled, breathing slower, the trembling easing.

From the beginning, Ange had related well to the people

in the store, but he’d been hesitant about going out on errands.

He tended to get distracted, or even disoriented. Robert had

worried he might have sustained a head injury that first night,

but over time he’d realized Ange merely lived in a special

place in his head, elevated above the practical day-to-day, like an angel in truth. However, Robert had started taking him

for supply runs and meets with vendors, encouraging him to

do the talking while acting as his backup. It worked—Ange

sent him a dazzling smile when he did well, and Robert got a

kick out of boosting the man’s confidence. But the question

remained of what had pushed him into such a detached state,

or put him on the street. Those two wounds, and Ange’s

reaction to him asking about it now, gave Robert a clear hint.

He had been fortunate in his military service, getting away

with some shrapnel wounds, but in the VA hospital for follow-

up care after his discharge, he’d seen soldiers injured far worse, physically and mentally. Some of those who couldn’t shake

the trauma lost their connection to everything else, so out of

sync with the reality they’d once shared with the rest of the

world that the street became home. While Ange’s gunshots

weren’t from military action—nothing about him suggested

military training—unfortunately a person didn’t always have

to travel thousands of miles away to see that level of violence.

However, as he’d said, tonight wasn’t going to be about

that, for either of them. If the demons couldn’t be laid to rest 163

on this snow-filled evening, they could at least take the night

off. Robert moved behind Ange to run his hands down his

back, broad compared to the nipped waist, tapered hips. The

boy was five-foot-ten of lean muscle. Reaching around him

to pull the drawstring of his sweats, Robert loosened them

so the waistband caught on the upper rise of his buttocks,

revealing the dimple between. When he returned to Ange’s

front, he saw the pants had fallen low enough to show off the

intimate muscles angled to his groin. That pale blond down

thickened there, revealing the top line of the pubic pelt still

hidden beneath the cloth. Ange’s breath clogged in his throat

as Robert traced it.

“Master . . .”

“Shhh. No more talking unless I give you permission or

ask a question.” Robert arched a brow. “Unless you want me

to put one of our ball ornaments to creative use?”

He could imagine that vividly, testing which size of the

satiny thread-wrapped foam balls would fit Ange’s mouth just

right, make him work his jaw hinge hard before it popped

in behind the teeth. Robert could picture the gleam of the

silvery sapphire curve behind Ange’s stretched lips.

Right now, though, he decided to leave it as a pleasant

possibility. Going to the register counter, he looked behind

it. Ange kept everything so well organized, Robert found the

box he was seeking right where he expected it.

As he straightened, a movement outside the display

window caught his eye. A group of women, probably coming

from a late show at the independent theater down the street,

had paused on their stroll past his shop to look at the lit trees, the toys grouped around them. If any of them chose to strain

their gaze to a forty-degree angle, they might make out the

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stretched, pale silhouette of a mostly naked man on a stool,

his arms held on a hook above his head. Ange’s back muscles

vibrated, his recognition of possible exposure, but he didn’t

move. His Master’s command held him where he was.

The women were laughing, chatting, oohing over the

things they saw.

“I need to come here . . .”

“Look at that doll, it reminds me of my aunt’s . . .”

“I bet Celia would love this . . .”

“There’s a blond guy working here who is so hot—we should

come back at lunch on Monday just to get an eyeful.”

“But that’s all you’ll get,” Robert murmured. Ange’s

shoulders twitched, registering the comment. As the women

strolled onward, Robert returned to him, putting the box

down and then laying his hand on the channel of Ange’s

spine, teasing the rise of his buttocks with his knuckles. Then, because he couldn’t resist, he dipped into the cleft, fingers

furrowing down to stroke the soft hair between, finding his

rim. He savored the noise Ange made, the jerk of his hips as

he explored him there.

“They’ll never know what they missed tonight,” he

observed, well aware his voice was a satisfied rumble.

Gooseflesh rippled across Ange’s skin, his lips parting to let

out an uneven breath at Robert’s invasive touch.

Robert skinned Ange’s sweats to his ankles in one fluid

movement. As he made Ange step out of them, he kept a

steadying hand on his hip. Maybe overprotective, since the

boy could twirl on top of the stool, but Robert didn’t cut

corners on those kinds of things. From the first time Ange

had called him Sir, it was as if he’d handed Robert the key to

an imaginary col ar. Which meant Ange’s well-being became

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Robert’s top priority, the Master side of him too strong to

ignore that responsibility.

Pale hairs dusted Ange’s legs. The quivering, cold ass on

display just above them tempted touch, taste, and paddle.

Robert took a long, satisfying look at the firm buttocks, the

slim, muscled thighs, the tender backs of the knees. When

he pressed a kiss to Ange’s hip, Ange vibrated like a musical

instrument.

“Beautiful.” Coming around to the front, Robert found

him fully erect, the shaft thick and long and already wet at the tip. “Eager for it, aren’t you? Naughty elf.”

Despite the weak joke Ange had made that first night, the

description matched. Not the short, cupid-like elves of Santa’s

workshop, but the mesmerizing beauty of the fae.

Pul ing the box over with his foot, Robert withdrew the

Christmas lights. They were 1950s vintage lights, like those

on the shop trees. The bulbs looked like smal , lit fruit, rather than stars hiding amid the branches. They had more heat as

well. Not enough to catch anything on fire, but they’d warm

the skin on contact, enough to make an angel squirm a bit.

He started at the ankles and worked his way up, tying

Ange’s legs together. When Robert adorned the trees, he

made sure the lights had the proper distribution for that artful random look. For Ange, his focus was on optimal placement

of each bulb upon flesh. Ange’s muscles quivered as he reacted

to the gradual restraint. Robert paused when he reached his

cock, relishing the moment, then closed his fingers around it

for the first time. Heated steel and velvet, pulsing with life

and need. It made him want to taste, to suck, to grip and

pump until he saw cum jetting from the slit.

Stretching out his unoccupied fingers, he captured the

testicle sac pushed forward by Ange’s closed thighs. He held

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the entire package in a possessive, sure grip as he wrapped the

base of the cock several times, creating a col ar. That put a bulb on either side of it, the smooth glass pressed into the crease

between thigh and testicles. He gave the strand an extra cinch

when finished, so Ange’s cock was kept bound close to his

balls. Robert had done some Japanese rope-tying at one time,

enjoyed it. While he couldn’t take advantage of the knots that

art form provided right now, the wrap skill helped.

“Keep breathing, Ange. Don’t want you to get dizzy up

there.” The kid had gone still as a statue, doing that submissive intense energy build that could absorb Robert’s full attention,

make him a little lightheaded himself.

Robert brought a stepladder over to handle Ange’s upper

body, using the bottom rungs for better access to his shoulders

and arms. He could tell Ange was disappointed when Robert

did a wrap over the shoulders and bypassed the throat. Ange’s

obvious desire for some type of col ar was enough to get

Robert even harder. Even though his jeans were killing him,

thank God he’d worn them instead of slacks. If he hadn’t, he

and Ange would be fencing swords. As it was, the broad head

of Ange’s cock was bumping his upper thigh. It took great

effort to focus on what he was doing.

He wrapped Ange’s wrists, tying off the strand on the

hook. Now Ange was bound to it by the cord, not just his

willing handhold. Robert met Ange’s eyes then.

“Not around the throat,” he said. “I know you want that,

but it’s not safe. If you start moving, it could constrict.”

Ange gave him a look that would’ve melted the toughest

Master’s resolve. “I’d only move if you told me to move.”

“If I work you up so hard you can’t control your own

body, you’d break that promise. All control, all decisions, your safety—it’s all in my court. Got it?”

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Ange nodded, lowering his gaze again. “Yes, Master.”

Stepping off the ladder, Robert moved it out of the way,

then found an outlet. “If this string has a bad bulb, I’m going

to enjoy the hell out of testing each one.”

The strand worked, however. Robert rested his ass on the

top of the step ladder, enjoying what he’d created, the treasure the oblivious women had missed.

The multicolored lights threw red, green, and blue hues

over Ange’s fair skin, as reflective as a screen. Every muscle

layer was tense, pronounced. He’d kept his eyes down, his

mouth pressed closed, but Robert could see the pulse dancing

in his throat. His cock, highlighted by that triple wrap and

those two bulbs, was stiff and straight as an arrow. The cinch

to his balls kept his cock away from his belly, but it was turgid enough to be pointing north.

“Fuck,” Robert muttered. He wanted to touch, but the

time wasn’t yet right. Watching Ange get more aroused by his

detached appraisal made the self-denial worth it. “I should put

you in the window. Every wealthy gay man in the Charlotte

area would be here tomorrow. We’d make our annual profit

goal in one day.”

Except they’d be ogling what was his. And that wasn’t

going to happen. The women maybe seeing Ange had been

titillation. The reality was something far different.

The kid was starting to feel the burn of those bulbs. Robert

could see it in the slight twitches of his body, the uncertain

stretch of the fingers. “You feeling that, Ange?”

“Yes, Master.”

“Too hot?”

“No . . . feels . . . right.”

“I like to give out pain to my subs, Ange. Do you have a

problem with that? As long as you answer me honestly, you

won’t disappoint me. You lie, we’ll have a problem.”

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Ange shook his head, a jerky motion. “When you’ve

corrected me about things, in the store . . .” His voice was a

thick rasp. “I’ve dreamed of you . . . tying me over the manger

in the nativity scene. Pul ing my jeans to my knees and using

your belt to punish me until my ass is black and blue.”

“But I wear suspenders, not a belt.”

Ange gave a strangled half-chuckle. “It’s a dream, Master.”

His voice got very soft. “And you’re wearing a belt tonight.”

So he was. He didn’t need the suspenders to hold up his

pants, but they went well with the bowtie, and the customers

enjoyed the antique pins he tacked to them.

Robert liked Ange’s low tone, making it clear it was a desire,

not a demand. He wasn’t a topper, not in any way. Robert

had no use for the independent, smart-mouthed fuckers who

didn’t have a clue what he was seeking in a submissive. Yeah,

he liked a fighter, but the kind of fighter Ange was, his breath elevating from the burn of the bulbs, his muscles bunching,

proving to his Master he had a capacity for turning pain into

pleasure and only asking for more.

Robert moved back to Ange’s perch. Sliding his fingers

under the strands of lights wrapped around Ange’s waist,

Robert let him feel the resulting constriction around his balls.

Ange moaned, rocking into him. Robert gave him a rough

tug, enough to pinch, and the man went still again, though

he became like a taut bowstring, everything straining toward

Robert without actually doing so. Robert bent, propping

his knee on the stool in the small space between Ange’s feet.

Gripping those lean hips, he went down on the jutting cock

with a hot, demanding mouth.

Another noise from above, a suppressed shudder of

motion, made Robert’s blood heat like the bulbs. Ange had a

sweet-salty taste, reminding him of those pretzel M&M snack

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combinations. Ange liked them so much that Robert bought

them for him by the one-pound bags.

The kid never looked like he ate enough, but then he was

never still, either. Like a restless squirrel, Robert told him.

Since Ange didn’t like going out for lunch without Robert,

and the art district’s food prices were too high for Robert

to indulge every day, Robert had started bringing enough

homemade lunch to feed both of them. He wasn’t a great

cook, but apparently Ange was, because he’d suggest things,

a little more paprika in this dish, some cilantro for that one.

He’d started an herb garden in a sunny spot in the back alley,

introducing Robert to different flavors.

Robert remembered the day he’d been checking it out,

squatting next to the garden while Ange explained what he

was doing. Ange had gripped the stalks of the basil, directing

the leaves to Robert’s nose. When Robert laid his hand over

Ange’s forearm to steady his grip as he sniffed, he felt the

current between them again. Just like that first day, Ange

held his gaze for a blink, then swept his down, which had tied

Robert’s gut in knots. And sent him into full retreat.

He wasn’t retreating now. No way in hell. He had his own

hunger to sate. He filled his mouth with Ange, closing his eyes

at the sheer pleasure of tasting him, sucking him. The organ

jumped in his mouth in response, Ange making panting

breaths above him. The femoral pulse thundered beneath

the press of Robert’s thumb. He took Ange deep, then slid

back up, working the suction on him like he would one of the

everlasting suckers they sold in the old candy shops, the kind

that seemed to last forever and tasted as vibrant with the last

suck as the first one.

“Master . . .” Ange had his fingers clenched around

that hook, making it obvious the support beam had been a

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good idea. The lights cast from the bulbs were dancing over

Robert’s vision, thanks to the force of his captive’s trembling.

There was something about seeing a strong man in bonds like

this, all his muscles working against the instinct to bust free, that never failed to stir Robert. The conflict. The desire to

surrender warring with the desire to fight.

“Shhh.” Robert went back down on him, working him

in his mouth, flicking the head with his tongue, the taut

vein beneath. He wrapped his hands over Ange’s thighs and

buttocks, digging into that choice area to ensure he stayed

steady on the stool.

When he pulled off him at last, Ange had his head thrown

back, his eyes shut. The bulbs on either side of his cock were

heating Robert’s knuckles from proximity, telling him it was

time to turn them off. “Steady now,” he warned, letting Ange

know he was stepping back. He waited until Ange lifted

his head, tightened his grip on the hook. When he went to

the wal , he unplugged the lights, but he also hit the switch,

turning off all the Christmas trees. The shop went dark, except

for the dim glow provided by the streetlights outside.

Robert came back to Ange and pulled the stepladder

closer, using it to get high enough to free Ange’s hands from

the hook, though he left his wrists wrapped in the lights. Ange

had behaved when Robert was focused on the wrapping,

but now his cheek brushed Robert’s chest, his rigid cock

alongside Robert’s hip. Robert tangled his fingers in his thick

hair, gave it an affectionate tug, then stepped down, bringing

Ange’s bound arms down before his body. He adjusted the

lights along his shoulders as necessary to accomplish it and

keep circulation flowing.

Wrapping an arm around his back and ass, Robert

lifted and brought Ange safely to the floor, since his legs

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were wrapped too close to allow mobility. When Robert

straightened, they were almost eye to eye, since he was six feet.

“You’re strong,” Ange whispered. “I felt it in your hands,

that first time you touched me. That’s why I won’t tell you

who hurt me. Because I don’t want you to go fight them. I

don’t want you hurt.”

He couldn’t resist the call of that mistletoe any longer.

Robert caught Ange by the nape, brought him close to his

mouth. Sugar cookies. Ange had a weakness for them, such

that they flavored his breath now. “Stay still,” he reiterated,

not knowing if it was a meditated move of a Master, or the

desperate plea of a man in too deep. Either way, Ange obeyed,

trembling as Robert put his lips fully over that sugar cookie

sweetness.

The kid sighed into his mouth, a sound of pleasure, and

Robert plundered, tracing Ange’s tongue, his teeth, coming

back out to his lips, holding Ange’s naked body against his

clothed one. He could feel Ange reacting to that, all the

evidence of a Dominant gathering up the reins, taking full

control. As his sub became more pleasurably frenetic, making

sexy little noises under the manipulation of Robert’s mouth,

he himself growled like a territorial animal. He wanted to

wrap Ange up in his embrace and hold him there for a few

decades. All the need he’d sat on these past months was ready

to explode, take over everything. It wasn’t Ange he needed to

restrain, but himself.

Taking a firm hold of one buttock, he squeezed and

explored. As he pushed his cock hard against Ange’s hip, the

other man’s body rippled, Ange clearly struggling with the

desire to hump against him. It told Robert that Ange had

paid close enough attention to know his Master appreciated

self-restraint until he ordered otherwise. Of course, with

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a submissive this delicious, Robert might welcome Ange

losing control so he’d have an even greater excuse to bind and

punish. To enjoy.

When he broke the kiss, Robert ran his hand down

Ange’s forearm. Something was tangled with the lights and

red ribbon, something he’d missed when wrapping Ange’s

wrists because of the profusion of ribbon curls, and because

his focus had been on other things. Now, though, he saw a

bracelet, a chain of construction paper and glitter, like they

had on the tree decorated with homemade ornaments.

As he noticed it, Ange flushed to his blond roots. If his

arm had been free, Robert suspected he would have tried to

hide it behind his back.

“It’s nothing. One of the kids got the idea for making

Jesus bracelets during the craft hour today.”

It had been Ange’s idea to turn the spare storeroom into

a place to hold weekly one-hour craft workshops, teaching

children and adults how to make their own old-fashioned

toys out of inexpensive materials. Robert had picked up books

on it and Ange brought the designs to life. It was a good way

to highlight the store’s toys as well, since so many of them

were made by craftsmen with nothing more than materials

and creative minds, no dependence on computer chips or

batteries.

“It’s okay. I’m not opposed to the idea.” Robert raised a

brow, puzzled. Ange knew Robert was Christian, though he

was more spiritual than religious. “So you made your own

with the kids. Show me.”

Ange hesitated. “It was stupid.”

“No.” Robert studied his uncomfortable expression. “You

think I’ll think it’s stupid. Show it to me. Now, Ange.”

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Robert could simply lift Ange’s wrists, holding onto the

bonds the Christmas lights formed, but he was making a

different point. His sub wouldn’t hide anything from him.

A muscle jumped in Ange’s jaw, then he held out his arms.

Now Robert put his palm beneath Ange’s elevated wrists,

giving them support, his fingers closing around Ange’s hands

as he studied the bracelet.

The links were smaller in diameter than the chain on

the tree, but large enough he could make out what was on

them. Each link had a word on it, embellished with some

glitter. Savior. Lover. Best Friend. Master. His. The precise yet innocuous underlines formed a word. Roberts.

Robert stared at it, then lifted his gaze to Ange, who was

squirming without obvious movement. “I couldn’t think of

a word that had an apostrophe,” Ange said lamely. “It was

something to do while the kids were making theirs. I know it

seems kind of juvenile.”

Robert stepped into him, his arm snaking around to grip

three rows of lights that crossed his back. The bite of the lines into Ange’s chest and hips brought his eyes up to Robert’s

face.“Yeah, it does.” Taking a firm grip on the kid’s hair,

Robert pulled his head to the side so he could put his mouth

to Ange’s jaw, then his throat. When he started laying hot,

sucking kisses there, Ange let out a whistling, unsteady breath.

Dropping his hands to Ange’s ass, Robert pulled him flush

against his cock, holding him there with a bruising, kneading

grip. It broke Ange’s control, had him undulating against

Robert in a fucking irresistible way, those wild movements

increasing as Robert kept sucking, biting harder on his neck.

Ange breathed expletives, bound hands opening and closing

against Robert’s shirt where they were pressed against his

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lower abdomen. Robert bet his jeans were marked with the

viscous fluid leaking from the slit of Ange’s cock. He’d enjoy

making him pay for that.

When he lifted his head, studied his handiwork, he

nodded, satisfied. Then he met Ange’s dazed gaze. “That’s a

hickey. Everyone coming to the store will know someone’s

marked you. That’s juvenile, too.” His lips curved. “Every time

I see it, I’m going to get hard and want to do it to the other

side of your neck. At lunch, I’ll probably make you take your

pants down and I’ll do it to both your ass cheeks.”

Ange blinked, then his green eyes shone with such an

eager response, Robert knew he might be in danger of an

involuntary reaction of his own if he let Ange’s arousal build

fast, too soon. So he straightened.

“Be still, love.” He began to unwrap Ange, starting at

the wrists and working backward, noting the grooves the

cords had put in his tender skin, the reddened spots of heat

where the bulbs had pressed against him. When he was done,

he balled up the string of lights, tossed it in the box. He’d

untangle it later. Or his very helpful employee would.

“We’re going to the craft room.” Taking Ange by the

elbow, he guided him, sensing his dancer was not as steady

as he usually was. Robert savored the look of Ange naked as a

newborn, the heavy bounce of his enormous erection against

his testicles as they crossed the main show room. He took the

hal way that led to the space they’d carved out for the craft

room between the storage and office areas.

He saw evidence there of Ange’s work on the tree of

homemade ornaments, the task he’d probably been doing

before he’d had the urge to dance. Tape, glue, glitter, and

paper were scattered over the worktable. They kept a handful

of vinyl mats stacked in the corner in case younger children

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required naps while their older siblings created. Robert

pointed to them. “Put two of those on the floor.”

Ange obeyed, his handsome bare form moving without

self-consciousness before Robert’s appreciative gaze. When

he returned, Robert put a hand on his shoulder, pressing him

down to his knees. “Lie down on your stomach.”

If the statue of a young Roman god stepped off his

pedestal and stretched out his marble body as fluidly as water,

he’d look like this. Ange had no tattoos or piercings, a rarity

these days, but Robert was glad of it.

Moving to the bin of toys and craft supplies Ange collected

from various sources, Robert pulled out two scratched and

faded wooden hobbyhorses. He unscrewed the heads and set

them aside, gauging the riding sticks to be between three and

four feet long. Beneath the workbench he found a handful of

Lincoln Logs and a coil of half-inch nylon rope.

When he saw Ange watching him, hands folded beneath

his cheek, he set aside his supplies, dropped to his heels by

Ange’s head. Those green eyes tilted up toward his face, his

gaze so attentive, expression so . . . open. “That frog move

you do. Where your feet are spread, and you squat until your

knees are ninety-degree angles.”

“Grand plié, second position.” There was a smile in

Ange’s voice. Robert ran his fingers through the blond hair,

ruffling it.

“Yeah, that. Do it now, while you’re lying down.”

Ange’s legs parted and then slid upward as he’d been

commanded, showing Robert the smooth ovals of his

testicles, shifting inside the sac. He also got a good glimpse of Ange’s anus, a quivering pucker he imagined lubing up for his

penetration. God, when was the last time he’d held onto an

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erection this long? Between that and the hickey, he really did

feel like a teenager.

Focus. He’d told Ange he wanted to wrap his gift. The

Christmas lights were just the beginning. He remembered

now what it was like, having all the time in the world to do

things like this, as if time stopped when the click happened,

that key connection between him and the sub dependent on

his demands. Except he’d never felt this quiet inner warmth

with Freddie. There’d been more of a raw urgency to it then.

Like the acceptable side of violence, fucking passionate. But

this had a quiet, peaceful core, orbited by an extraordinarily

intense arousal. Not only could Ange trust him, he could trust

Ange. It was a revelation, the vital difference in the two men.

Ange’s fingers curled, a tension in his shoulders. Robert

also remembered what it was to notice those things, all the

subtle emotional and physical details that told him the state

of someone under his care. Under his command.

With Ange’s legs bent in that “frog move,” his hips open,

pressed to the floor, he’d created an impressively horizontal

line from one knee to the other. Pressing the sticks against

the underside of his open thighs, it was easy for Robert to use

the exposed testicles as the center point. As he put the sticks

in front of and behind that appealing, heavy sac, he used two

of the Lincoln Logs as spacers on either side. Then he began

to wrap the improvised ball clamp and spreader bar to Ange’s

thighs.

He made it snug enough that his subject would get the

anxious, titillating sense of compression, but not so snug that

it would pinch Ange’s balls off. He had uses for them, after al .

“You tell me if it hurts too much, Ange. You promise.”

“Yes, Master.”

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He ran his knuckles over a cold butt cheek. “I like hearing

you call me that. Too much.”

“I wanted to call you that the first time I met you.”

Robert lifted his gaze to find Ange staring at him with

that hungry look again. “Close your eyes,” Robert said gruffly.

“I want you to feel. Jesus, I’m going to turn the heat up. Your

ass is too cold.”

“There are other ways to warm it up . . . Master.” Ange

said that to the mat, in that docile, I’m-not-trying-to-tell-you-what-to-do-but-here’s-a-helpful-suggestion tone. Robert had

to bite back a smile.

“I’ll see about that after I finish this. For now, shut up.”

When he was done, the two poles were against the back

of Ange’s thighs, the rope holding them all the way from

the tender inside of one knee to the other. His testicles were

clamped between them, spacers aligned all along the sticks in

case one set failed. The rope’s snug wrap kept the spacers in

place. Ange was helpless, immobilized, and totally vulnerable.

A hugely arousing state for a sub who trusted his Master. An

even more arousing one for the Master himself.

Robert finished with an intricate series of cross ties around

Ange’s hips, leaving his ass open for whatever he wanted to

demand from it. Ange’s chest was expanding and contracting

with shallow breaths.

“You’re pretty hard right now, aren’t you?”

“Yes, Master. Oh God . . .” Ange groaned as Robert

tightened the sticks one more degree. “No more. Please.”

“That’s as far as we go. But it reminds you whose gift you

are, doesn’t it?”

“Yes. Yes, Master. Yours.”

“I’m not sure. You don’t listen as well as you should. I’m

thinking we need a lesson about that.”

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His words gave Ange that sexy al -over quiver again. Still,

Robert paused, thinking it over. The case he needed was in the

store’s safe, and he hadn’t pulled it out since . . . Freddie had left? Jesus. Had it really been that long since he’d had sex with anything other than his own hand? He’d had a couple dates,

set up by those same acquaintances he’d tapped for Ange, but

he just couldn’t seem to get anything from it. Once Ange had

started working for him, he hadn’t had any interest. Guess his

heart and dick already knew what it had taken his fucked-up

brain too long to understand.

Whoa. Getting ahead of yourself here, lad. Even so, Robert rose. The safe was in the back office, adjoining the craft room, so Ange didn’t have to be out of his sight. Flipping the dial

for the combination, he popped open the door, slid the

case out. As he stared down at it, he realized it represented

everything that was before. Before his parents died, before Freddie disappeared . . . In short, it had belonged to a man

with a wholly different view of life.

His initials were engraved in the top, and there was a strap

so he could carry it to the club he used to frequent, the one

that held no appeal to him now. But the craft room, with its

scents of childish creation, the man naked and bound on the

floor, made him want to open it.

Squatting by Ange’s side once again, Robert saw his green

gaze course over his own thighs, linger on the groin area

revealed by his splayed leg position. Ange pressed his lips

together, moistening them. It was impossible not to imagine

his mouth on Robert, and from there Robert took it even

further. He saw himself boxing Ange’s arms behind his back

with another rope wrap, then putting him on his knees under

the register counter. Throughout the day, whenever, however

Robert had the urge, he’d just open his trousers and make

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Ange suck him off. His sub would get so hard and greedy his

cock would leak onto his thighs, because of course Robert

would keep him naked and wanting.

Probably not a good reality, given that Mrs. Fitzgerald

and Horatio might keel over in co-dependent shock, and the

strain on Ange’s joints for an eight-hour workday would be

extreme, but as a fantasy, it was a hell of a good one.

“Is that your box, like in The Littlest Angel?” Ange started to lift his head, but Robert put a hand on it, held it down, a

command to be still. Ange settled, though his gaze remained

curious.

Robert took out the pair of padded cuffs, the matching

col ar that went with it. Ange’s expression was immediately

swept by that same yearning look he’d had when Robert

had been wrapping the lights. The boy was fair starved to

be col ared. It made Robert think of what was tucked in the

bottom of that box, but that was going way too fast. If not for

Ange, for Robert himself.

“Lift your head.” He ran the col ar around Ange’s throat,

buckled it closed, then ran two fingers beneath it to be sure it wasn’t too tight. Then he put the cuffs on Ange’s wrists and

guided his hands behind his head, snapping the cuffs into a

lock with each other before he hooked them to the back of

the col ar. Now Ange’s cheek was pressed to the mat, elbows

bent and dropped on either side of his head. “I want those

hands out of the way.”

Rising, he put his foot on Ange’s bare backside, bearing

down so his pelvis was pushed down further. From his

dancing, the boy had a mouth-watering flexibility. Plus, the

pressure increased the hold of the ball clamp. Ange let out

another groan.

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“I’ll be back. I’ll just be in the next room.” In fact, he

wasn’t gone long, knowing what he was seeking. It was a wall

decoration, an ornament from Victorian times, but a very

functional one. Ange jumped at the crack of the buggy whip,

though it happened about two feet above his body.

“We were talking about ways to warm that cold ass of

yours,” Robert said pleasantly. “How many times have I told

you to alarm the store when you’re here alone at night?”

He could tell Ange hadn’t expected that. “When I’m

awake, I don’t need—”

It had been a while since he’d used the whip, but at one

time it had been an extension of his hand rather than a fixture

on the wal . That first crack had re-familiarized him as much

as necessary. He landed the pop right on the meat of Ange’s

ass and won a satisfying yelp. Ange’s fingers flexed against the back of his head, his ass rising and then jerking back down in

reaction.

“Not what I asked. How many times?” Robert repeated

patiently.

“A lot.”

“Hmm. Tempting. But I’m going to say it’s been eight

times. Why don’t you count that off for me, prove you

remember? If you’re not screaming like a little girl when I’m

done, we’ll talk about what you need. And why you keep

leaving that system off when you follow every other command

I give you like it’s the word of God.”

He thought he heard Ange mutter “Fuck” into the mat,

one of the few times he’d ever heard the boy curse, but those

gorgeous buttocks flexed, ready for the punishment. Robert

let him have it.

“One.” Ange didn’t scream, but the word had a strangled,

strained sound to it. On the second one, he sank his teeth into

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the mat, leaving some interesting teeth marks for the kids and

their parents to ponder.

“Three . . . four . . .” Every muscle from shoulders to thigh

rippled, shuddered, constricted, and then his backside rose to

take even more. Robert practically had to wipe the drool off

his own chin.

“Five . . . fuck. Six!”

On that one, Ange was in danger of biting through the

mat to the wood floor. Whether he knew it or not, he’d had

enough. For now.

Setting the whip aside, Robert squatted down next to him

again. It wasn’t in everyone to react with pleasure to what he’d just done, even Ange. For that reason, he gave the next order

with the anticipation and hope a kid carried on Christmas

morning, wanting to know what was under the tree.

“Lift up. Let me feel that cock that belongs to me.”

Ange obeyed, his avid gaze on Robert’s face. Robert

reached under Ange’s body, closed his hand around the

boy’s dick. Holy Mother of God. Like the Grinch, it seemed

something on his sub had increased three sizes, but it hadn’t

been his heart. Ange’s heart was already bigger than the rest

of him, though, so Robert had no problem with this. No

problem at al .

“Please . . . Master.”

Robert saw the glisten of tears. Yeah, a hard whipping

did that to some subs at first, even the strongest ones. Over

the past few months, he’d learned Ange was an odd mixture

of fragile sweetness and street tough. So seeing those tears

wrenched his heart like nothing else. Sliding to his hip, he

stretched out next to Ange, covering his trembling hands

with one of his own. Ange’s attention riveted on his mouth,

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his eyes begging for it. Robert denied them both, though it

was hard as hell to do so.

“I’m not a kind Master, Ange. I make my sub beg, and beg

hard, before I give him relief.”

“Even at Christmastime?”

“Scrooge had nothing on me.” Robert caught a finger in

the col ar wrapped around Ange’s throat and tugged on it.

As he did that, he wrapped two fingers over the connector

between the cuffs on Ange’s wrists. He swept his thumb along

Ange’s jaw. “You think you don’t need that security system

because you’re a grown man. A fucking gorgeous, one-of-a-

kind man. But you’re also mine. If you don’t want me to go

to prison for killing someone, you’ll take preventive measures

to protect the ass that belongs to me. Because if anyone ever

broke in here and hurt you, I would kill them.” He knew Ange

could tell he meant it. “I didn’t go overseas and fight for my

country to have some assholes here harm or take my property.

And I’m not just talking about my inventory. Got it?”

“Yes, Master.” Ange sounded like his throat had gone dry,

a pleasing effect, but Robert wasn’t satisfied yet.

“Tell me why you keep leaving it off.”

Ange wanted out of that one, he could tell, but Robert

tightened his grip, gave him a steely-eyed look that said he

wouldn’t have a problem giving him a few more tastes of that

whip.“Because I kept thinking of you coming to me . . . like

you did tonight. Just suddenly appearing. And . . . all these

months, it was like you were treating me like yours, but not.

I thought . . . if I gave you one thing to punish me for . . . it would help.”

Ange stopped, flushing. Despite the stumbling

explanation, Robert understood immediately, enough that

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his mouth tugged wryly. Subs sometimes did that, if their

Master wasn’t paying close enough attention. While Ange

was a pure service sub, a pleasure to a Master like Robert, he

had the need all subs did at times: to feel the pull of the reins, the cut of the bit against the mouth. Robert was protective,

and Ange had picked up on that. He’d chosen the one thing

that, when the time came, would most likely inspire Robert to

dish out the punishment he craved.

“I wish I could touch you,” Ange said softly.

“You will. Eventually.” Robert ran his hand down Ange’s

back to his abused ass. He straightened only to bend over

it, pressing his lips to the first red area. Then to another. He traced them with his tongue, slid his fingers along the crease

between Ange’s buttocks to the compressed testicles and

caressed them as well, testing the spacing. He also checked

the coloring and temperature to make sure blood was still

circulating.

Watching Ange’s fingers was like viewing a ballet, the

twisting and turning, gripping and releasing against his neck

and hair. “The ones who beat me up . . . that first night. They

wanted . . . I wouldn’t let them take what’s not mine to give.”

Robert stopped. As he leaned back and Ange met his gaze,

he remembered the scraped fists, the bloody nose, the bruises

where he’d taken a hammering from multiple body blows.

I wouldn’t let them take what’s not mine to give. The words implied that his body belonged to his Master, to Robert, even

though they hadn’t yet met.

Robert lay down beside him again, stroked his hair, his

face. Ange closed his eyes, but pressed his lips against the

side of Robert’s hand when it came close enough to allow it.

Unhooking the cuffs from the col ar, Robert then unlatched

them from each other so Ange could bring his arms down. He

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closed his own eyes then, waiting to see what Ange would do,

enjoying the way the soft blond hair passed over his knuckles.

He learned Ange’s face by touch, the precise cheekbones,

straight long nose.

Those elegant, strong fingers touched him, the pocket

of his throat above the open col ar of his shirt. Since it was

afterhours, he hadn’t worn a tie. Ange slipped several buttons,

his fingers questing down the mat of Robert’s chest hair,

tangling and tugging, caressing, then he had his palm over

Robert’s heart, gently flexing, as if massaging it. It felt better than anything Robert had ever experienced. He found Ange’s

shoulder, covered the back of the col ar, holding on. At length, though, Robert moved his hand over Ange’s, trying to regain

control of the situation. He opened his eyes.

“I’m not done with you, Ange. Not by a long shot. Is it

too much?”

Ange shook his head. “No. God, no. I want . . . more.

Everything.”

That made two of them. Robert rose to his feet. “Good.

Tell me the story of The Littlest Angel. And keep your eyes closed from here forward, unless I tell you that you can open

them. I mean it this time.”

Sensory deprivation increased nerve sensation, and he

wanted to make the most of that. While Ange gathered his

thoughts, Robert moved back into the stockroom. Finding

the paraffin candles they used for the street candlelight

ceremony on Christmas Eve, he pulled them out, along with a

paintbrush, a potpourri burner, and a lighter.

“I’ve never told it from memory, so I may get some parts

of it wrong.”

“That’s fine. I’ll correct you later.” Casting a fond look at

the buggy whip, Robert bit back a smile at Ange’s reaction

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to his words, obviously torn between apprehension and the

arousal the punishment had provoked.

“A little boy dies and goes to Heaven, but he doesn’t fit

in anywhere. He tries, but he loses his halo in the hallowed

halls, sings off tune in the choir. Eventually he’s brought to

one of the older, wiser angels, and he asks the boy what would

make things better for him in Heaven. The Littlest Angel says

if he could have this box that was under his bed at his home

on Earth, he’d be okay. So he gets this box, and he’s so happy

about it, because it contains all the types of things a boy would love. A bird’s egg, a special rock, his dog’s col ar . . .

“Then comes the night of the Christ Child’s birth, and

the Littlest Angel is agonizing over what gift to bring to the

new baby. Finally, he decides to give him this box. But when

he sees it sitting among all the other amazing gifts, he’s sure

that his poor little box is a terrible insult.”

Robert checked the candles he’d put in the pot, saw they

were melting down into liquid form. Ange’s nostrils flared,

taking in the scent, the heat. For his part, Robert was caught

up in the story, in the parallels between that and the man at

his mercy now.

“Just when he thinks he’s done something too bad to be

forgiven, God chooses that box above all the other gifts. The

Littlest Angel loved what was in that box so much, but he was

willing to give it all up, so that made it the greatest gift of al .

God set the box in the sky and it became the star over the

stable.” Ange paused. “I thought you knew the story.”

“I do. It doesn’t mean I don’t like hearing you tell it. I was

thinking about the day you read it to Mr. Oglesby, who lost

his sight last year. You were sitting in the corner with him,

not reading very loudly, but by the time you were done, every

person in the store was still and quiet as if they were in church.

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They were caught up by how you told it, like you believed

every word. That’s your magic, Ange. You are Christmas.”

Ange opened his eyes at that. Robert brought the pot and

brush to his side, along with a cardboard box containing the

other key item he needed. “I thought I told you to keep your

eyes closed,” he reproved, but when he brushed a gentle finger

over each of Ange’s eyes, the boy’s lips curved in a sweet smile.

Robert ran his hand over Ange’s shoulders. “Arms out to

your sides. Like you’re making a snow angel.”

When Ange complied, Robert shifted. The young man

gave a surprised grunt as Robert knelt over his ass, one knee

planted on the floor between his spread legs, the other foot

braced on the outside of his hip. Since Ange was probably

about a hundred and fifty pounds, and Robert’s burly Irish

build was an easy two hundred, Robert didn’t put his full

weight on him, but he did brace his thigh against Ange’s

buttock, putting a little pressure on that sore ass, knowing it

would constrict the clamp on Ange’s balls once again. When

he released his testicles, Robert would take great pleasure in a not-so-apologetic soothing rub of his privates.

He turned his attention back to the melted candles

simmering in the burner. Swirling the brush in the hot paraffin, he lifted it free, held it poised just a second above Ange’s

flesh before he painted the wax in a short stripe outside his

shoulder blade. From his own tests with it, Robert knew it felt

like a teasing tongue, the tip of an aroused cock, the moisture

of a kiss. Ange quivered, confirming the sensual experience,

then stilled as Robert placed something in the wax.

“Feathers,” Ange breathed, recognizing the light brush of

sensation where the object touched his unwaxed flesh.

“White feathers,” Robert agreed. “My angel.”

187

The box was full of them, the leavings from a pair of

broken angel wings Ange had picked up as castoffs from a

school play. Though Ange would have used them for the kids’

crafts, or to repair any feathered inventory they had, Robert

liked his use better.

With every stripe of the paraffin, Ange let out a little

breath at the sensation. Robert kept pressing feathers into his

back, starting on the upper curve of his shoulders and then

working down the inside lines of his shoulder blades, creating

wings. As he reached the lower part of his angel’s back, he

shifted to Ange’s side.

Ange’s legs spasmed in their spread bondage, and when

Robert painted some of that paraffin over his constricted

balls, he moaned in ecstasy. Robert felt like doing the same,

watching him. He left the small of Ange’s back clear, so when

he was done, he kissed his way down that track, toward the

ass that was humping the floor in tiny, helpless movements.

Even though the sticks compressed his testicles and cock

every time Ange bore down, he was obviously too aroused

to care. Robert parted his cheeks and put his mouth there,

giving Ange a teasing, warm lick like the paraffin. Ange cried

out in recognition of the difference, however, his whole body

shuddering at the contact from his Master. Robert penetrated

his rim, exploring, teasing, running his tongue along the

crinkled outside while Ange gasped, fingers clutching the

floor.Sliding to Ange’s back, Robert put his face there, his cheek in the feathers, imagining how they would feel as he fucked

Ange. Would he find possession, absolution, release . . . his

own surrender? It was a complex thing, mastering an angel.

“Please . . .”

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“Please what, love?” Robert moved up, lying on his hip

once again, Ange’s arm trapped beneath the tunnel between

upper body and his propped arm. While he trailed his fingers

down Ange’s back, those green eyes sought his, wild, needy.

“I want . . . please let me serve you, Master. How can I . . .

give you release?”

“Nothing for yourself? You don’t want to be fucked? To

come?”

“Yes . . . but to serve you. It doesn’t mean anything

otherwise.”

Robert passed his hand over Ange’s head, stroking back

the white-blond hair. “Do you ever brush this, and why does

it always look so sexy, even in this shocking disarray?”

Ange blinked, then gave a desperate chuckle. “Hair . . .

you want to talk about hair. I knew you were gay.”

It startled him. Then something broke loose. Robert

threw his head back and laughed. As the sound of it filled the

room, he found Ange staring at him in wonder.

“I never . . . you’ve never laughed like that, Master.”

“It’s been a long time since I’ve felt like I could.” Since

it felt right. He put his hand on Ange’s face. “You want to

serve me, and I want to care for you. I think there might be a

way to take care of both of those things.” He leaned in, breath

close to Ange’s face, lips almost touching. Ange was paralyzed

by his own need, a state that a Dom loved to see happen. He

was looking for direction, a command to serve his Master’s

desires. “Beg me to fuck you, Ange.”

“Please, Master. Please fuck me. Please . . .” Ange

swallowed hard. Abruptly, he groped for Robert’s hand,

clasping it in that upright angle like brothers-in-arms, and

perhaps they were, for Ange had had his battles as well. “I

mean no disrespect. I do want to be fucked, but could you

also . . . love me?”

189

Jesus. The kid knew how to squeeze his heart like a vise.

Robert pressed his forehead to Ange’s, caressing his shoulder,

the col ar. The wrong kind of col ar. Lifting his head to look

around, he found the case he’d brought out of the safe. It was

on the other side of his captive. As he leaned over Ange to pull it closer, Ange caressed his thigh with his mouth, hot and wet.

Robert’s balls reacted as if Ange had stroked a long tongue

over them. Ange’s hand slid along Robert’s thigh and behind

to cup his ass, brushing the seam. It made Robert shift, and

the kid’s mouth was right on his groin, the moist heat coming

through the denim.

“Behave,” he said, though his voice was ragged. Ange

nuzzled him, but moved his mouth and hand back to Robert’s

thigh. The pressure of his fingers continued to convey his

urgent need, however, his desire to serve, to have his mouth

on Robert, to take Robert’s release down his throat. Christ,

the boy was fucking up his concentration. He was out of

practice dealing with a sub.

No, that wasn’t it. He had no practice handling a sub who

was so much of everything he’d ever wanted, one who wanted

to give as much as Robert did.

He didn’t let himself hesitate. He pulled out the velvet

bag pushed to the very bottom of the case, out of sight, but

never out of mind. Sitting back on his heels, he gave Ange’s

cheek a reproving tap. “I mean it. Behave. Remember who’s

in charge.”

“I do, Master. I’m sorry. I just want you so much, it’s hard

to hold back.”

Simple, sweet honesty, and a mirror image of the feeling

swamping him. It was time to get rid of the spreader bar and

ball clamp. Robert wanted to take his sub closer to where they

both wanted to go.

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Setting aside the velvet bag for now, Robert shifted to the

lower part of the mat and began to remove the rope, holding

the poles and lifting the top one off when the ropes’ steadying

pressure disappeared. Lincoln Logs tumbled to the mat and

he picked them up, laying them to the side with the sticks.

“Lift up your ass,” he commanded.

When Ange complied, Robert closed his fingers over

his testicles and cock once more, rubbing gently, eliciting

a whimper of arousal and relief both as he soothed the

compression. Ange’s cock was still just as tumescent, his balls

drawing up beneath Robert’s manipulation, making it difficult

not to start rubbing in a far more aggressive and purposeful

manner, but he hadn’t forgotten what he wanted to do with

that velvet bag. He indulged his desire to rub Ange’s ass with

the other hand, though, idly squeezing and stroking as he

massaged the kid’s enticing equipment. At length, he forced

himself to let go.

“Sit up on your heels,” he said gruffly.

Ange obeyed, putting his hands in a laced position

behind his head without being told, back straight, knees

open, cock out there for whatever Robert wanted to do with

it. A few of the feathers floated to the floor, but the tips of

others haloed his shoulders. His pale cheeks were flushed.

Whenever Robert had corrected him about something in the

store, however mildly, he’d noted that earnest blush of color,

the fair skin unable to hide it. He never had to correct Ange

on the same thing twice. Except the security system.

When Robert picked up the velvet bag and loosened the

drawstring, he knew Ange was watching his every move. The

tremulous breath he heard when he removed the contents

proved it. The bag held a custom-made col ar. It was a thick

braided black band, bound every couple inches by sterling

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silver triskelions. The pewter buckle was boldly engraved with

an angel’s wing. The designer had recommended it, a symbol

to suggest Robert was putting a guardian angel over his sub,

but he’d never associated Freddie with an angel otherwise,

even before things had gone sour.

“No one has ever worn this.” He wanted Ange to know.

“It was going to be a Christmas gift for the man I was with,

but he left me before then. I think it was never meant for him.

Will you wear it, Ange?”

For this, he would ask, because this wasn’t a play col ar

like the one with the cuffs. He was taking the leap. He wanted

Ange to belong to him. He wanted Ange to accept him

formally as his Master.

When Ange lifted his white-gold lashes, his eyes were

brilliant, his voice firm and steady. A man’s voice, not a kid’s.

“Yes, Master. Please.”

Three simple words, but then “I do” were two simple

words, weren’t they? Okay, maybe he was getting a little

carried away. His father’s Irish sentimentality was trying to

overtake his mother’s German practicality. Even so, his fingers

shook a little as he removed the other col ar and wrapped this

one around Ange’s throat, buckled it in the back. His throat

was one hole slimmer than Freddie’s, but that notch made

it a perfect fit. Robert lingered over the tracing of the angel

wing, then ran his fingers along the heavy braid, the silver

triskelions. “Mine,” he said. Fiercely.

With that dancer’s suppleness, Ange bent all the way over,

leaving his hands clasped behind his head as he pressed his

cheek to Robert’s thigh. Robert caressed his back, tracing his

spine between the array of feathers. Then he fanned out to

follow his rib cage, before returning to Ange’s neck. Placing

his hand on that angel wing buckle, he tugged. “All right,

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enough of that. My property has a fantasy about a manger.

So do I.”

As Robert got to his feet, Ange straightened, but kept

his fingers laced behind his head until Robert reached down.

Then he put his hand in Robert’s. Robert brought him to his

feet, sliding an arm around Ange’s waist to steady him. He’d

been on the floor awhile and, flexible or not, a lot of blood

was obviously, deliciously, in his cock, especially after that last announcement. Robert moved them out of the craft room,

running a cal used palm over Ange’s buttocks. At Ange’s

involuntary flinch, Robert gentled his touch. “Don’t worry;

you’ve had enough of that for tonight. I have another idea in

mind.”

The store had six display rooms, and the life-sized nativity,

a nineteenth-century carved set from Germany, was in the

back left. The wooden faces were noble and dramatic, even

the animals’. The creatures were in tranquil repose around the

human characters. An angel was carefully mounted atop the

wooden frame representing the stable cover.

They’d positioned the nativity scene so that, as a customer

entered that nook of the store, it spread before them as if they’d stepped out of their world and into the Bethlehem stable. The

old wooden floor added to the feeling, as did the scent of

hay from the scattered handfuls and bales Ange had placed

around the area. Shoppers could sit on them, contemplating

the display of Christ’s birth while they enjoyed hot cider and

sugar cookies offered at a refreshment table in the corner. Ange had rigged a separate sound system in here so, at the touch of

a switch, their visitors would hear the various messages of the

angels to the shepherds and Mary, good tidings of the hope

and love the Child would bring.

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So it wouldn’t get too repetitive, Ange had suggested

adding other things to the recording, quotes from Jesus’s

teachings and relevant scripture passages. Robert remembered

Ange sitting with his back braced against the manger, going

through a children’s book about Jesus because Ange said it

had the purest understanding, the quotes that spoke directly

to people’s hearts.

Adults often don’t say what they mean, but they feel the

important things the same way a child does.

Once they’d agreed on the quotes, Ange wanted Robert

to do the recording, but Robert told him he was the only

one who could do it right. After hearing his reading to Mr.

Oglesby, it was obvious to Robert that Ange’s voice was best

suited to conveying an angel’s message of joy and wonder.

That, and the genuine emotion he put into the other passages

he’d chosen, made the nativity room a favorite with new

and return customers. Mrs. Fitzgerald sat through the full

recording at least once a week, her eyes often moistening as

she cupped her cider to warm her hands, Horatio dozing in

the nest of her purse.

Inasmuch as ye have done it unto one of the least of these my brethren, ye have done it unto me. The least of these shall have my love . . .

Ange added little improvs like that to the original quotes,

adding to the spirit of the recording. Now Robert put his

hand on Ange’s shoulder, gazing at the nativity scene. “You

did a great job with this.”

When Ange fairly glowed, Robert felt an answering

warmth spread through his chest. The boy treated every

compliment like gold. It could make a Master ridiculously

devoted to him in no time. Hell, he was already there, wasn’t

he? The col ar proved it.

194

“You did, too.” Moving forward in just the col ar, beautiful

in his nakedness, Ange knelt at the manger, studying the

occupant. “It’s nearly two hundred years old, but that’s not

why you arranged the hay just so, with the blanket over it.

You made it soft and comfortable, the way Joseph and Mary

would have done.” He ran a long finger over the blanket. “You

believe in the spirit of things. You understand what things to

care for, and you care for them well, Master.”

Emotion swelled to a painful pressure in Robert’s chest.

“Stay there,” he said. “Kneeling in front of the manger is right where I want you.”

It was a solid thing, bolted to the floor because, as Ange

had noted, the doll was quite valuable. Robert didn’t want

a shopper accidentally knocking it over. But as Ange had

also noted, that wasn’t why Robert lifted the babe out so

gently now, under Ange’s close regard. He moved it to the

extra cradle tucked to the side, used when Ange needed to

rearrange the hay or shake dust out of the blanket. As Robert

lowered his burden, he automatically said a simple prayer, like

his mother had when she’d assembled and disassembled the

nativity scene each Christmas.

He checked the carafe of hot cider. There was about a cup

left in it from earlier today. After he plugged it in, he turned.

Ange was watching him still, but now there was a pensive

look on his face. He glanced down at the manger with serious

green eyes. “This is okay, right, Master? It’s not . . . blasphemy to you?”

“No. Not if we respect what’s here, and if what we do . . .

we do in love.” When Ange’s expression transformed to

astonishment, Robert came to him, put a hand on his face.

“Religion murdered Jesus, but faith kept his message alive

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for those who care to hear it. Do unto others . . . love one

another . . . cast no stones . . .”

“Love one another.” Ange touched Robert’s thigh. “I’ve

wanted you to love me for a long time.”

“I’ve been in love with you for quite a while.” There, he’d

said it. The look on Ange’s face made it worth hurtling over

every fear to form the words. “But I lacked the courage to say

it aloud.”

“No, Master.” Ange’s expression revealed that streak of

determination, the one that intrigued and aroused Robert

at once. “You just needed time to hurt, to grieve. Everybody

deserves that.”

He paused so long that Robert could tell he was struggling

with something. Robert tapped a gentle finger on his cheek.

“It’s all right. What is it?”

Ange looked up at him again, hope and desire wrapped

up together in an expression so mesmerizing Robert

couldn’t look away. “When we were talking about The

Littlest Angel . . . this store and you . . . you’re that box for me. The star over the stable, guiding me home. Do I have a

home here, Master?”

Robert gripped the side of Ange’s face, fingers biting into

his neck. “Yes, Ange. You made it a home for me again. When

I thought I’d lost what home was.”

Ange had said the world was ugly, and it could be, but

he’d made it beautiful again to Robert. Love could do that.

Hooking a finger under Ange’s col ar, Robert brought

him up on his knees. The kisses he’d taken before had been

rough, demanding. This time it was tender and excruciating,

like drawing a knife gently across flesh begging to bleed for

him. He caressed with lips and tongue, held Ange’s head still

so he could tease and stroke, savor every single reaction. When

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he was done, Ange was holding onto his arms for balance,

breathless with pleasure.

“I’m your Master, Ange. When we’re done tonight, you’re

not going to doubt for a moment where you belong. Or to

whom. Now, bend over the manger.”

To his satisfaction, Ange looked a little dazed, but Robert

helped him, guiding him to hold onto either corner of the

manger. He thought about tying him there, but decided

against it. Ange would stay still if Robert ordered him to

do it. Robert switched on the moving starlight that swam

across the walls and ceilings. He also turned on the spotlight

that framed the angel and Mary’s gentle face. Ange’s playlist

was still going, and he could hear the bittersweet strains of

Sarah McLachlan’s “River.” When he’d heard the song last

Christmas, he’d wanted to skate away on that river as well.

Now he just wanted to be on it with Ange, gliding through

those white snowflakes, silent and perfect, like first kisses.

He checked the cider. It was warming fast. Ange usually

rinsed the carafe out at night, so Robert expected he’d gotten

distracted with his paper chains and dancing and hadn’t had

a chance to do it yet.

“Do you ever sleep?” Robert asked, coming back to Ange.

Trailing a finger through those feathers, he made Ange’s skin

draw up with gooseflesh, his thighs shift out wider. Robert

knelt behind him, putting his hands on his waist, pressing a

kiss to his shoulder. Ange let out a soft sigh, fingers tightening on the manger, while Robert put his knee in between the

spread legs, pushing his hip bone firmly against the seam of

Ange’s buttocks as he held him.

“Sometimes. I don’t sleep that well. Haven’t for a long

time. On the street . . . you stay alert.”

197

Robert brushed his jaw against Ange’s neck, the cool

press of the col ar buckle against his chin. “You’ll tell me how that happened one day. You’ll trust me with all of it. It won’t

make me love you less.”

Studying the hickey he’d put high on Ange’s throat,

Robert laid his mouth on the joining point between Ange’s

throat and shoulder and bit down to give him another. The

hard, suckling pressure took away the tension his casual

statement had caused his sub. Ange groaned, his ass pushing

back against Robert.

“Un-unh.” He backed off, gave him a smack for that,

making those whip marks sing, he was sure. “You stay easy

and still. Think about what’s coming.”

Ange let out a huff, a half-chuckle that said what he

thought of the likelihood of those two ideas going together.

Robert found himself smiling. He rose to pour the cider in a

paper cup, picked up a plastic spoon, came back to him. “Put

your forehead on the manger. I want your back like a sloped

table.”

When Ange obeyed, Robert stirred the cider, took a sip.

Just hot enough. When he dipped the spoon, dripped some

on the small of Ange’s back, below the feathers, the boy

shuddered, fingers gripping the manger harder. It was hot

enough to burn, but too little of it to do damage, just roll that feeling down his spine, to his crack.

“Master . . . Oh God . . .”

The starlight fell on his skin as well, like snow itself.

Robert did it again, loving the way Ange jumped from the

burn, but then wiggled at the residual sensations. His hips

lifted, lowered. He was trying hard not to get into a coital

rhythm, but Robert could see it developing anyway, and his

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own cock pulsed with the same composition. “Lift your ass up

to me, Ange. Take the burn.”

He did, several more times, until he was making smal ,

needy grunts. Robert knelt, putting the cider aside to reach

between Ange’s spread thighs. When he took hold of his

balls, Ange made an animal sound of lust. “God . . . Master . . .”

“Don’t you move. Don’t you be bad and thrust into your

Master’s hand. Be still.” Robert let his touch move up to Ange’s cock. As Robert bent lower to follow the cider’s track with his

mouth, Ange shuddered with the effort to obey. Robert took

his time with it, pumping his grip on Ange’s cock as the kid

fought with all he had not to fuck that teasing hold. When he

ran his tongue down between Ange’s buttocks, lapping at that

spiced sweetness, Ange made a strangled noise of torment. His

cock pulsed alarmingly under Robert’s grip, but he squeezed

the base, making it clear his sub wouldn’t come until it was

okay with him.

“I told you I could be ruthless, Ange. I want my subs to

beg.”“I want to please you, Master . . . I want . . . you. Please . . .

please . . . I want you inside me. Please.”

His eyes never leaving Ange, Robert stood. He unbuttoned

his shirt, shrugged out of it, then pulled the white undershirt

over his head. When he started to unbuckle his belt, he could

tell Ange was listening intently.

“Imagining me undressing?”

Ange nodded, a quick twitch. “I always wanted . . . I could

tell you were in shape . . . fit, but you always wear so many

clothes.” The frustration in his voice surprised, amused, and

flattered Robert all at once. “That day the air conditioning

broke, you rolled up your sleeves and pulled off your bowtie,

opening the top button of your shirt. Then you took it all

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the way off to work on the shelving in the back. You were

wearing a white T-shirt beneath, and I came back to give you

something . . . You were standing on the ladder, your biceps

flexing with the hammering, your ass at eye level. You had

your knee pressed to the inside of the ladder’s frame, one step

up from the other foot. God, I went into the bathroom and

came like a fucking wet dream, not able to stop myself. It was

like a striptease . . .”

Robert had stopped undressing, stunned by the stream of

words, the images Ange painted. He didn’t think much about

his body. He did keep it in shape, but he’d never thought of

himself the way he thought about Ange: flawless, something

any man or woman would crave to touch. Ange made Robert’s

body sound like that and more. He was almost afraid to let

him look now. But he wouldn’t be a coward. Ange deserved

to see what he was getting.

“Look at me,” he growled.

Ange lifted his head. Robert stepped to the right so Ange

didn’t have to remove his hands from the manger, making

it clear he wanted him to stay in the subservient position.

However, now he was the one who felt most vulnerable. His

upper body was bare, his belt unbuckled, the top button of

the jeans undone. As Ange watched, he toed off his shoes,

stepped on his socks to pull them off, then removed the jeans

and boxers beneath, leaving himself even more bare than the

man kneeling before him.

Ange looked like he was holding his breath. His gaze

moved from Robert’s face down over his chest, lingering over

the shrapnel scars he had, then down to thighs and cock. It

was a decent length, thicker than most. He’d never had any

complaints about its size or how he used it, but under Ange’s

200

attention, it seemed as if it was trying to outdo itself. Fuck,

the kid affected him.

Ange did that lip moistening thing that could make

Robert lose his mind. “Eyes down now. You’ve looked.”

“Never enough,” his sub murmured, though he obeyed,

those lashes sweeping down in a way that was almost

coquettish. “You’re beautiful, Master.”

“Yeah, right.” But he couldn’t help the curve of his own

lips, the warmth he felt from the sincerity in Ange’s words.

“You’re the beautiful one.”

It hit him then, the immenseness of all of this, of the

past, present, and future rolled together. He moved forward,

putting a hand on Ange’s shoulder. However, when he slid

his thumb under the col ar, he found he couldn’t go any

further. His grip tightened, that feeling rising in his chest,

overwhelming him.

Ange stilled. “Master?”

“I’m all right.”

Ange knew him too well. The kid straightened, a gentle,

insistent push against his hold. Robert had been standing

between his spread knees, but he gave way as the young man

turned, looked up at him. Then Ange lowered his chin and

pressed a reverent kiss against Robert’s lower abdomen, just

above his pubic area. His cock jutted over Ange’s shoulder,

but his sub didn’t break the inviolate rule about not touching

a Master there directly, bare skin to bare skin, without express permission, even though he was breaking some lesser rules by

touching him elsewhere. Ange ran his hands up the back of

Robert’s legs, learning the musculature, tugging on the short

hairs, then glided them up to his ass, molding over him.

“You’re perfect, Master,” he hummed against Robert’s

flesh. “A fighter, so strong and hard everywhere. Except your

heart.”

201

Robert dug his fingers into Ange’s hair, held there as Ange

worked his mouth across that pubic line. “Hell with it,” he

groaned, and angled his cock. “Suck on me.”

Ange took him all the way to the base, a skill so impressive

Robert might have come right then, except he knew exactly

how and where he intended to do that. “Stop. Keep it in your

mouth and look up at me.”

He loved that image, a sub gazing up from that position

of service. Ange’s green eyes glittered beneath the fall of hair, his mouth stretched over Robert’s girth, his own cock hard

and ready, dripping pre-cum on the floor below. It was the

best Christmas card ever.

“Lean back over that manger. Now.”

Ange complied, sliding off him slow and teasing, but

not in a bratty way. Just savoring his cock in a way that made

Robert think his inappropriate under-the-counter fantasy

might become way too tempting. When Ange resumed his

position, Robert pulled his jeans up off the floor. He’d slipped a tube of lubricant into his pocket from the case, so now he

uncapped the lube and worked it over himself. He found he

had to be careful about it, in danger of going off like a rocket.

Ange had his forehead pressed to the rough wood again.

“I love you, Master.”

Robert knelt behind him, put his palm on those angel

feathers. Quite a few of them had fallen off now, the cracked

wax making patterns over Ange’s flesh. He looked forward to

sponging that off afterward. With pleasure, he remembered

he’d also brushed it over Ange’s balls. At his place, he had a

huge cast iron tub, big enough for two men. He’d clean him

there, fuck him again . . .

“You’ll sleep tonight, Ange. With me, in my bed. And

that’s where you’ll wake up Christmas morning, too. We’ll

help each other sleep.”

202

When Ange briefly turned his head, Robert thought he

saw tears in those eyes again. He couldn’t bear to wait another

moment. Gripping Ange’s hips, he put the head of his cock to

that puckered hole, began to ease in. The kid knew the way of

it, sphincter muscles pushing back against him, but Robert

still took his time, wanting to feel it, wanting it to be right

for both of them. For the first time, Robert was glad he’d

been celibate for so long, so he didn’t have to worry about a

condom. He knew Ange was clean. Ange had given him his

blood test results to file with the ER bill Robert had paid that first night. It was a move he now figured had been as deliberate as Ange blowing off those two dates he’d set up for him.

Thank God.

As Ange’s muscles gave way, sucked him in, he let out a

reverent expletive. Holy mother of all that’s good . . . When he glanced at the Mary statue, she was as serene as ever, which

was reassuring. Though he’d said this wasn’t blasphemy, he

was pretty sure his own mom might say differently.

Yet sex had never felt so sacred to him as it did right now.

What had Ange said? This wasn’t fucking. This was loving.

He stretched out his arms, aligning them with Ange’s, and

overlapped their fingers, putting them in the spaces between

the white knuckles. The action pressed his body closer against

Ange and he pushed in deeper, earning a grunt, a longing

sound from Ange’s throat. The stems of the feathers scratched

Robert’s chest, a pleasant friction contrasting with the tease

of their soft fronds. “Tell me what you’re thinking, Ange. All

of it. No filter.”

“I’m thinking . . . I knew you’d feel like this . . . thick and

hard . . . You take care. You’re so rough, so mean, but so gentle, too. I love it. The hard and the soft. The way you whipped my

ass, but how you made sure the col ar wasn’t too tight, how

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you kissed me, hard and rough, but you also took your time

pushing your cock into me, making sure I was okay every inch

of the way. Every blessed, fucking inch . . .” Ange groaned as

Robert withdrew, thrust back in. “Make it hurt, but make it

feel good, too, Master. Please.”

Like love itself. Pain and pleasure, sorrow and

remembrance, joy and memory-making. Robert slid his arm

around Ange’s waist, his hand pressed to his chest to hold

Ange against him, the scattering of angel feathers between

their bodies. Putting his face back against Ange’s neck, against the col ar, he set his teeth into Ange’s shoulder. Mine. Always.

“You don’t come until I say,” he demanded. “Hold it back.”

“Yes . . . Master.” Ange’s ass and shoulders were rippling in

rhythm with their movements. The lights passing over them

both became the streaks of shooting stars as Robert went

faster, harder, testing the bolts on the manger. He was a strong bastard when he wanted to be, and Ange had told him he

wanted it, wanted the power and demand with the pleasure.

Ange grunted in exertion, telling him he’d hit the right note.

“Yeah, you feel me,” Robert muttered. “You take all of me.”

He was channeling all those things he’d felt, every day he’d

gone home wanting and aching, thinking about Ange’s lean

body, the watching green eyes, the sinful mouth, the gorgeous

ass, and sweet smile. The generous and pure heart.

“Come now. Come for me.”

Though he catapulted over that same delicious edge,

Robert managed to reach beneath Ange to work him hard in

his fist. The two of them moved in tandem, that instinctive

rhythm that had their knees pressing hard into the wood floor.

Robert’s arm was a band of steel around Ange. The kid let go

of one corner of the manger to clutch it. When Robert shifted

so their hands became a knot high against Ange’s chest, Ange

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set his teeth to Robert’s knuckles, groaning out his release.

His seed fountained over Robert’s grip and wet the straw on

the floor beneath the manger.

Robert had never felt anything so good in his life. He

worked Ange until he was well beyond done, milking him,

seeing how he handled himself when his nerves became so

sensitive. Ange took all of it, embraced it, working his ass up

against his Master, thrusting into Robert’s hand, telling him

he could give as good as he got. Fucking treasure.

When Robert finally stopped them, both winded, Ange

laid his cheek down on the manger. Robert had covered

the hand that held onto the corner, and their fingers were

intertwined, their other set of hands still tangled against

Ange’s chest. Robert laid his jaw on Ange’s back, against the

remaining feathers and his flesh. “Thank you,” he said quietly.

He might have been thanking Ange, or the angel over

the manger, or whatever Power watched over them al . That

Presence always seemed even closer at Christmas, like the

orbit of the moon at certain times of the year, but the thanks

were a prayer, offered to all of it.

When he at last had the energy to lift up, he brought Ange

with him. Pul ing the blanket out of the manger, he shook it

out, laid it over the straw, and brought his sub down to the

floor with him, curling up behind him, holding his hip and

nesting his own cock in between the oiled buttocks, a promise

that he’d be expecting more . . . soon.

Robert was going to take Ange home, fix him breakfast.

Fall asleep in his bed, curled around that pale, lean body,

after he gave him another workout that would leave Ange

exhausted, throbbing with pain and pleasure both.

“I want you to dance for me again,” he said, stroking the

sweaty blond hair off Ange’s neck. “I have a loft apartment.

There’s plenty of floor space.”

205

“I will,” Ange mumbled. Robert smiled. He’d tired him

out, his angel who said he didn’t sleep much. He’d relish

holding him in his arms when dreams took him, and he’d

damn well make sure they stayed good dreams, the kind Ange

would want to embrace.

“I’ll make your heart dance, Master. Now and forever.”

Since it was dancing now, Robert believed him. With all

the hope of Christmas itself.

206

Open Return

Elyan Smith

erry Christmas, buddy,” the bus driver muttered,

“M W “I D “A P

leaving Zach to fend for himself among the faint

carols and flickering decorations of the bus depot

in Nowhere, Il inois. All Zach could think in return was, “I

don’t want to fight tonight.” The incessant refrain from the

Ramones’ Christmas track had haunted him since Melbourne.

The bus pulled away, taillights disappearing in the gray of the

distance, and Zach wondered what the hell he was doing.

The shakiness had set in when his confidence had slipped

by the wayside somewhere over the Pacific. He’d spent most

of the flight turning his sunglasses over and around, until he’d pushed them into his pocket just prior to landing. Now they

pressed against his thigh, but they were more for hiding, and

nothing here was supposed to be about that. He hefted his

bag on his shoulder, pulled his hat low over his ears to protect against the cold wind and fal ing snow, and marched, well,

home, trying to avoid spinning into maybe s and what if s.

Fifteen years hadn’t left much of a mark here: the

decorations and signs in shop windows looked the same. The

shaky singular traffic light on the main road didn’t look like

it had ever been replaced. He followed street signs that had

been faded fifteen years ago toward the edge of the town.

207

Shop fronts stood empty now, though, and the diner at the

corner still proclaimed al -day breakfast in the window, but

the glass was broken. His group of friends had occupied a

corner of it most weekends, talking Pearl Jam’s latest and how

the world would stop in a massive crash of computers come

the New Year while “Mambo No. 5” played over the speakers.

When they’d ducked for a smoke, they’d gone just around the

corner into the alley, the same place Zach had first let Scott

fondle his breasts and pinch his nipples with cold fingers,

nails tickling as Scott ran them down to Zach’s stomach.

Zach thought he’d shuffled through whatever memories

lurked in the back of his mind when he’d looked through

the photos a few weeks ago, the ones in the folder crammed

underneath his books from college. But being here now made

him remember the summertime barbecues, wintertime roasts

and carols, Halloween in-between and never, never being the pretty princess.

Zach stopped at the rusting fence two houses before

Kevin and Elaine’s garden. He could turn back around now,

wait twelve hours for another bus and just go on to Kansas or

Oklahoma or Salt Lake City. He could pretend the nostalgia

had never crawled out of the photos to settle in with the

guilt over leaving he’d been carrying for years. He’d make the

same choice all over again, but that didn’t make it right or the regrets any lighter.

When he took a few steps closer to their house, he saw

his old bike still leaning against the side of the shed in the

yard, half-covered in snow now, and he was once more the

little girl his parents had shipped off to friends when they’d

needed time to sort themselves out and then had never picked

up again, leaving him to Kevin and Elaine.

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Cars were parked in the road in front of their house for

their traditional neighborhood get-together—friends, family,

the people you only saw once a year—a few days before

Christmas. People were visible through the windows, a few

of them smoking on the back porch and quietly talking, the

party in full swing. Laughter rose from inside and dissipated

again into the clatter of voices talking over one another as

Zach walked closer. He had some nerve to show up now, and

as he fiddled with the sunglasses in his pocket, he imagined

being told to shove it, the intervening years sitting as cold

spaces in the middle of conversations where they’d once been

close. He’d missed them—Kevin and Elaine, who’d cared

for him like he was their own child, and Scott and Laura,

who’d cared in different ways entirely. Who knew if they even

remembered who he was?

Zach took his bag up the drive, inching past cars, and

wiped at the snow on his face once he’d made it to the front

door. All attempts at playing the coward a little while longer

and hiding behind anticipating the worst had lost themselves

under his soles with every step closer, so he rang the doorbell.

Waited.

The door swung open, and of all the people who could’ve

opened it, it was fitting that it was Scott. Of course it would

be. He was wearing a striped button-down, a can of Budweiser

in hand, work pants belted under a bit of a belly, and dirty,

off-white socks. He’d filled out, beard thick on his cheeks and

down his neck, hair on top a little thinner. Other than that,

he still looked like the photos Zach had glanced through just

days ago. Zach’s jitters made him think he was twenty and in

love all over again.

Scott startled. His face moved through a range of

emotions before it shuttered into guarded. “Zach?”

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“Hey.” Zach slipped his hat off. The conversation inside

quieted and Zach chanced a glance past Scott. A few guests

craned their heads to look down the hal way at him. He cleared

his throat as he focused back on Scott, his voice sounding

like it wasn’t his own for the first time in years. His mind

was awash with explanations and apologies, but he ended up

going for, “I missed the bus out yesterday, would have been

here last night otherwise. I know I probably should’ve written

or called, but . . .”

“Hannah?” Kevin appeared behind Scott. Elaine, next to

him, mouthed, “Zach,” at the same time. The movement of

her lips and the sound of that name from Kevin still made Zach’s heart catch. It belonged to the photos he’d left to the

dust mites, not to the guy he was now. Ten years since he’d last heard it, but he nodded at Kevin anyway and tried to ignore

the whispers and looks from some in the room.

“Surprise,” he said quietly. Someone in the room chuckled

nervously, and Scott faded into the background. Zach resisted

pul ing at his shirt as his coat morphed from snow-caked to

sopping wet on his shoulders.

“Surprise indeed.” Kevin hesitated but offered a firm

handshake before he pulled Zach into a full hug. “Welcome

back, Zach. I didn’t think we’d see you again.”

“Couldn’t not come for this, could I? No one ever misses

the Christmas party.”

Kevin tightened the hug and some of the guilt loosened

in Zach’s chest, even if the joke sat heavy on his tongue. Elaine cried as Zach hugged her, kept saying nonsense syllables and

fuck, he’d been a jerk never even to write when he had spent

more time with them than anywhere, drunken confessions in

the kitchen at 2 a.m. and throwing up in their bathroom after

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a party he shouldn’t have been at, having them pick up the

pieces when he couldn’t possibly unload on anyone else.

When he’d bolted, Kevin and Elaine had seen him onto

the bus, practically in the middle of the night. He’d called

them once from Australia and promised to call more but

never had.

The children in the back of the house picked up their

play again, bored already with the adults standing around

awkwardly. A group of teenagers sat on the floor in the corner,

debating hotly across tablets and phones. That had been the

three of them some two decades ago, sitting around the

computer in Zach’s room while the Christmas party had gone

on downstairs. When Zach looked around the room again,

swept up in the nostalgia of the moment, he caught Scott’s

gaze.Laura stood next to Scott, curvier now, white blouse

hugging her shoulders, ending at her elbows and flowing

off over her skirt. She had plush house shoes on her feet and

leaned into Scott as they both watched him.

Zach glanced away.

In a heartbeat, fifteen years didn’t even feel like ten

minutes. All the things he’d waited to be able to move past

still swirled in the pit of his stomach, his crotch, his heart.

That last winter back from college, Scott, Laura, and he had

been inseparable, moving from kisses to more, till he’d been

on his knees with his hands behind his back for hours, quiet

because he’d been told not to speak, petted when he’d done

well, doing what they wanted in private, and then daring for

a little more in public, if secretively. It had been tempting and intoxicating, and he’d been scared out of his mind by how

much he’d wanted to lose himself in them and never face the

rest of the world again.

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It had been snowing like this when he’d run and left Scott

and Laura curled up and sleeping together. The memory of

that night was lodged at the forefront of Zach’s mind and had

been for years, keeping him moving and never quite settling

into any one place until he’d bought the ticket to come back

and sat on the plane. But to say he’d been scared didn’t seem quite enough of an explanation for the decade and a half now.

One of the children tugged at Laura’s arm, breaking his

contemplations. She nodded yes, so the kid grabbed a muffin and ran off with it.

Zach did the rounds of a few polite handshakes, unsure

whether he should introduce himself but assuming the ones

who’d been here would remember him, by either name. Most

of them called him nothing but hey you, some of them with reservations dipping into hostility, others with hesitant smiles.

He remembered them from class, the jocks and the princesses

and the people no one talked to all grown up and still here.

His pits were sticky with sweat, nerves, and small talk. Zach

fiddled with his sunglasses and forced his fingers still in the

pockets of his jeans when he realized he longed for a bit of

that muted world of something he was familiar with in a less

heartachy way.

This had seemed a good idea, nostalgia-spurred. Now in

the face of people, not memories, he felt a little more brittle

than he’d quite anticipated, glancing out at the neighborhood

he knew too well and the room of people who just might have

used the years to change even more than he had.

He skimmed the room for Laura and Scott while trying

to avoid their gazes sweeping across to him, the Ramones

running in the back of his mind while something much more

current was on the stereo.

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Whenever Zach caught Scott looking, Scott’s gaze skirted

over Zach’s face and up and down his body, fingers tight on his

can of beer. Laura kept her hand on Scott’s shoulder, thumb

rubbing back and forth, but she snuck glances as well.

“I heard you say you were in Melbourne now?” Kevin

handed Zach eggnog and took a muffin from the table next

to them.

“Sydney first, living in Melbourne at the moment, yeah.”

“Must be very different from this part of the world.”

Zach laughed and nodded. He didn’t really want to talk

about his life there, not that it even could be called much of

one with the way in transit felt like his default state, but he owed them a little so he talked about the company he worked

in IT for, his abysmal attempts at surfing, and sitting on

the beach watching the sun go down while the day was just

starting in this part of the world.

With the night fast approaching, they switched to beer

and burgers grilled on the freezing back porch as per their

whacked-out traditions.

They talked in stops and starts, and Zach showed Kevin

some photos on his phone before one of the other men called

for Kevin and he let Zach be with a nod. Zach tipped his

fingers to his head in response. He sat and stretched out his

legs, leaning back in the chair in his bubble of quiet and just

watched, when a can of Bud moved into his field of vision,

cutting his escapism short.

“Care for one?” Scott towered over him, broad shouldered,

chest hair curling out where he’d undone the top button on

his shirt, playing carbon copy to most of Zach’s fantasies and

leaving him instantly short of breath and feeling foolish for it.

“Cheers.” Zach took the can and drank down a few

healthy gulps.

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Scott nodded at the porch and Zach followed him out,

both of them grabbing their coats, Zach slipping into his

boots while Scott was in only the plush shoes on the wooden

planks. A few folks stood around the grill, leaving the opposite side of the porch empty. Scott pulled over a chair. Zach leaned

against the railing. The words in Zach’s head clogged up the

path to his mouth, rendering him quiet as Scott set his beer

to the side and lit a cigarette. He offered it to Zach, but Zach shook his head, just watched him smoke.

“So you’re back?” Scott looked across at him, then out

at the hint of the snowy, dark garden, voice quiet over the

background chatter. “After you fucked off?” His tone dipped

into vaguely disappointed, a hint of bitter.

Zach dragged his thumb over the rim of the beer can. “A

visit.” He didn’t say maybe more or I don’t really know what I’m doing, I just knew I had to come back, but his voice felt like it shook with it anyway and all his attempts at playing it safe

were for nothing.

“Ah.” Scott blew out smoke and studied Zach openly,

taking him apart with his gaze like he’d used to, seemingly

peeling back the layers of clothes and skin to see if Zach had

anything to offer underneath. “Thought you’d died, you

know.”

“I sent letters.”

“All two of them.”

Zach scratched his nail against the metal. “Point.” He

looked down at Scott, the guarded expression in his face not

giving him much, then glanced across at Laura standing by

the grill in her coat, watching them while she flipped burgers.

“I’m shit with words, dude, you know that. I . . .”

“Sorry would do, you know. Never exactly thought you’d

stay here forever, not with how you were talking, just . . . I

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don’t know, thought we’d have a while longer, that’s al . After

all that. Thought it meant more. Laura, me, you.” He sucked

on the cigarette and stared into the distance.

“Right.”

Zach drank from his beer, thought of the life he’d

built instead, high-rise and shallow. Nothing about it was

permanent, nothing lasting, freelance in both job and love,

with more time spent in hotels than in apartments. He’d done

the things he’d needed done, got to where he could walk with

his chin up and sign with the right name. Other than that,

though, he was now back where he’d been during that last

winter before the new millennium—a little tired and a little

worn and just wanting to sit on the bench outside the shed

and be kissed. Nothing about that had changed much as he’d

tried to fill that space with something else.

“And then you just come back and it’s like . . . well, like

it’s ’99 again. Fucker. I’d have tied you down that night if I’d thought you’d run. Give us a sorry at least.”

Zach scuffed his boots against the floorboard. “Sorry,

then,” he said, holding his breath, hoping it was good enough.

Scott left him hanging for a moment, eyes hard. “Right

on,” he said eventually, exhaling on the words, and Zach

hung onto that small quirked smile at the corners of his lips.

“Fucking bastard.” He stood and cuffed Zach about the head

before he slid his hand to the nape of Zach’s neck, squeezed

once and sat down again. Shivers slid down Zach’s spine to

pool in the small of his back.

Zach hesitated. Scott smiled at him, though, so the

tension dropped and Zach breathed a little easier and grinned

back.“Looks like it, doesn’t it?”

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They both glanced across at Laura laughing with another

woman. She raised an eyebrow at them, and they toasted her

at the same time like idiots and fell into chuckles as she rolled her eyes at them.

“It’s good, yeah. Farm’s a bit tough, winter’s hard, but

we’re getting by. Got two kids now, doing well in school,

healthy. All that matters, right?”

“Yeah.” Zach paused but decided to go for broke. “Anyone

else?”

Scott snorted and shrugged. “Sometimes. Nothing long-

term. Just never found anyone like . . . well . . . like then. You?

Married? Boyfriend? Kids?”

“No, God no. Single, had a few things every now and

then, still . . . I don’t know . . . it’s never been quite right. Or enough.” Scott caught his gaze but Zach couldn’t help feeling

like he’d failed a bit on this. His off-again on-again flings

took up less time and space than building a family, tied him

down less too, no pun intended. And he’d done all right with

that whenever he’d needed that itch scratched. “Nothing like

we—well sometimes . . . I don’t know. But no.”

“Hm. You’re doing good though? Down under? No

regrets? Doing everything you wanted?”

“A boatload of regrets, more like. Not about some things,

certainly about others. Working with computers now, getting

myself sorted, that’s all great. Having left this for it . . . that’s more . . . I don’t know . . .”

Scott didn’t push him on it, and Zach was mostly glad and

maybe a little disappointed Scott didn’t want to hear it. They

lapsed into silence until Laura pulled up a chair next to Scott.

She handed him a plate with a few burgers and a few onions,

some fries. Zach reached over and stole one of the fries before

Scott managed to slap his hand away. Both of them laughed.

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“You’re looking good.” Laura opened her beer, toasting

them can-on-can in style.

“So are you.” Zach couldn’t help but smile when she

laughed and pulled at her top, couldn’t help but look down

a little farther either, full breasts and long legs under her skirt where her coat was fal ing open, the ridiculous plushy shoes

on her feet.

“Still charming, I see.”

“Trying. Failing but trying.” His voice twanged on the

words. Laura and Scott looked at each other before they both

started chuckling and Zach flushed.

“You’ve gone through with it then,” Laura said after

another sip of beer, kicking the elephant in the room square

in the balls when no one else had. The lack of breasts, the

differently shaped body, the voice, the stuff under his clothes

they didn’t see but that got hard and horny with a few sips of

alcohol and the right mood, like right now.

“Few years ago now. Never even think about it anymore.”

Except when he’d stood there with his bag and half the

neighborhood remembered him as Hannah, the girl who’d

never quite fit in, while Scott and Laura had known him as

Zach. To be fair, he thought about it sometimes when he

watched porn and palmed his crotch, rubbing at his would-be

cock that wasn’t quite a cock, but that price was small enough.

Scott’s gaze dropped to the absence of his breasts with

just enough regret that it made Zach smirk and shrug, then

laugh when Laura elbowed Scott, making Scott roll his eyes

in response.

Zach had spent a whole winter sucking Scott off and eating

Laura’s pussy, fucking and playing around, or just kissing in the middle of the field with the melting snow cooling them down

to freezing in nothing flat. He’d spent those last months with

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Scott’s hands on his breasts and Laura’s fingers in his vagina,

and they clearly remembered it as well.

They’d inched from holding him down in a bit of play to

the serious sit-down conversation of “you know you can stop

it when you want, right?”

Nothing had made him feel more like flying than

everything they’d done to him then, moving from blindfolds

and ties to standing on the porch naked while they watched

from inside, wanting to hold out, then wanting to give in and

have them hold him after. Nothing had come close since, none

of the munches and clubs and carefully controlled play with

the few people he’d been comfortable enough with.

So no regrets? That went only so far. He was the coward

who’d run and now come crawling back, begging for scraps.

“So you stayed . . . What happened to L.A.?” Zach asked,

sidestepping the emotions that sat heavy in his chest.

Laura raised her eyebrows.

“L.A. You were always saying how you’d go to L.A. after

college and . . . I don’t know . . . I just seem to remember

something about L.A. acting careers. The whole thing.” He

took another swig of his beer as laughter rose from another

group and the fading shine from the grill tugged them

more and more into the shadows of the house to avoid the

snowflakes drifting across them whenever a gust came in just

right.She laughed. “That! I guess I did say that. That sounds so silly now. No, no, we came back after college, took over the

farm. We’re happy here, and it’s ridiculous to think about that

now with Leanne and Benny and all the animals.”

Scott rubbed Laura’s thigh and leaned in for a kiss, beer-

flavored, no doubt, and a bit sloppy from the looks of it. Laura 218

laughed and tried to fend him off as he slobbered over her

cheek in faux doggy licks.

“You’re disgusting,” she said, but still kissed him with a

smile, then rubbed the back of her hand over her mouth. She

went to say good-night to people leaving, friends who took

their kids to sleep over.

“You took on your dad’s farm then? How’s he?”

“Died.”

Zach swallowed his beer wrong, coughed, muttered,

“Sorry.”

“Been seven or eight years now. I thought I’d do great

with my life, conquer-the-world kind of thing. You know the

stuff we used to say, but it’s good here, wouldn’t trade it.”

“That doesn’t mean he’s not talking about it.” Laura curled

her fingers around the back of Scott’s neck as she returned.

“You’ve no idea the number of times we’ll watch TV and he’ll

see some place across the country or in Europe and have us

moved there within a ten-minute conversation.”

“Lies, all lies,” Scott said over the sound of Zach’s and

Laura’s chuckles, but he smiled with it. “Guy’s gotta have

dreams, that’s all I’m saying.”

“Sure.” Laura grabbed her chair and moved it closer to the

last heat of the grill. Zach scratched at the back of his head,

and after exchanging a look with Scott, they did the same,

until they looked at one another over the orange heat of the

flames.

“Still a skinny little fucker. You must be freezing, man,”

Scott said.

Zach rubbed his hands down his arms and tried to

remember them from fifteen years ago, the differences

between the lines and al . He’d been on their side of the fire

then, exchanging those familiar glances and sharing in the

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same jokes, sitting between them with both their hands on

his thighs, calming, playing even as no one else had known.

“I’ll feed you,” Laura had whispered, and Zach had gotten

wet just from that and from taking food from Laura’s fingers.

They’d made it look like stupid messing around, but it had

been foreplay in the open, followed by everything else later.

“Gotta check on the car.” Scott set his beer down and

looked at his socks with half a grin, then across at Zach and

down to Zach’s boots. Zach shrugged out of the boots and

moved them over, only realizing he’d done that when Scott

was wandering off into the dark beyond the glow of the fire.

His face heated, butterflies in his stomach, and Laura smiled

at him, shaking her head as she poked at the coal with a stick.

Zach shifted uneasily, Scott’s thin excuse to give him and

Laura a few moments alone fairly obvious.

“He took it pretty hard, you know.” Laura glanced toward

the sound of the footsteps in the darkness and the screech of

the gate and looked back at Zach again. “You . . . disappearing.”

“It was just that one winter.”

“Just, hmm?” Laura drained her beer.

Zach looked down between his knees. “I didn’t mean

it like that,” he said slowly, because really, it was the exact

opposite. “I just had to get out. Not from that, just in general.

Had to get my head clear. Figure out who the fuck I was, what

I wanted. Could’ve stayed forever between you, and it was . . .

I don’t know . . . it would have been too tempting or too easy.

And everyone was talking about Y2K and how everything

would change and there I was hiding away from it al .” Zach

paused and looked at his socked feet and remembered Scott’s

cock in his ass and Laura’s mouth on his own like that winter

was only a few months ago. He was making a mess of it if this

was his last-shot attempt at fixing anything. He’d sat in his

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apartment in Melbourne, his T-shirt wet with sweat, photos

shaking in his hand. Thinking on what he’d left then, that

can’t have been it had punched him in the gut like nothing else and he’d booked the flight out not much later. Now that

he’d made it here, though, he was holding this second chance

in his hands and tried not to shake apart with it. “For what

it’s worth, I missed you more than anything. Figured you had

each other. I don’t know.”

“We did.”

Zach nodded and scratched his fingers over the slivers of

jealousy that brewed where they shouldn’t because he’d been

the one to give it up and give it away. He deserved the cutting

tone now and didn’t deserve the way Laura’s face softened

after.“Still miss you,” Zach said, quickly, and avoided her gaze until Scott marched back up the steps to the porch.

“All good.” Scott plopped down in the plastic chair and

looked from Laura to Zach. “I already laid it on him.”

“Hmm?”

“The guilt trip.”

Laura shook her head. “As if you know me that well.” She

kept a straight face, barely, until Scott guffawed and pulled

her in for another kiss, the kind of kiss that hadn’t changed in the intervening years.

“The town is much the same, then?” Zach asked when

they’d broken apart. He curled his feet around the legs of

his chair, eyeing his boots on Scott’s feet but just taking the

moment for himself and not pointing it out, privately reveling

in it feeling right.

“There’s a Wal-Mart ten miles down the road now,” Laura

said.“Ooh!” Zach gave the thumbs-up, laughing.

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Scott grinned. “Guess where we go for adventure.”

They talked in stops and starts, lul ing into pauses with

looks across the faint orange coal, before long lapsing into

remember when and trying to figure out who they were now and who they’d been then. The night crept in colder with

every passing minute as the grill finally sputtered to ashes and cooled. The porch light on, their breath was visible in the air, fogging the space between them.

“I remember that one time you had me kneel outside in

the snow. We were just getting into pushing the envelope

further. I think I had socks on and I remember thinking,

what if your dad comes around the corner on his tractor from

plowing snow or whatever he’d been doing. And it was still

snowing and I was kneeling outside and you were watching

from the window. And it was stupid and I could have probably

died but I loved knowing that I was being good for you, that

freezing my skin off was me being good. Wouldn’t do it now,

got more common sense, but I’ve thought back to that a few

times and that was it for me, moments like that.”

“You were so amazing,” Laura said over Scott clearing his

throat and nodding, both of them smiling before they turned

to look at Zach. Zach flushed, remembering that look from

before.

They held out in the cold for a few more minutes before

Laura suggested they call it a night. Scott rose first and Zach

helped shift the chairs together. Scott glanced down at his

booted feet and Zach’s socked feet and then pointed at his

boots inside the house. “You can take those for now if you

need them, all right?”

Laura and Scott exchanged a glance and approximately

two full pages of unspoken text, but then Laura nodded. Zach

walked them down the hal way and stopped just inside the

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door as Laura and Scott moved past him to step out on the

front porch.

“We’ll see you tomorrow?” Scott asked.

“Yeah. Definitely. Yeah.” Zach hesitated but leaned in and

brushed his lips across Scott’s.

Scott kissed him back for a moment, then stopped him

with a hand on Zach’s chest until Zach pulled back. “Not

tonight. That doesn’t mean no, just give us a bit, okay?” Scott

slid his hand down Zach’s stomach to his hip and pressed

another quick, dry kiss to Zach’s lips. “Good to see you again

though. Fantastic to see you again. I mean it, it’s not a no.

I’d say if it was.” His thumb traced along the curve of Zach’s

hipbone. “Just sleep it off. Whatever’s going on in your head

right now. And we’ll talk tomorrow.”

Laura leaned in and brushed a kiss against the stubble on

Zach’s jawline, ending with one to his lips too. “I missed you

too, you know.” Zach hugged her, not wanting to let go. The

two of them trudged down the steps and made their way to

their car and then out to the farm as Zach closed the door

behind them.

He was jittery with nerves and hope, and wet with arousal,

but pushed that far away. He made sure everything was safe

and turned off before he went up to his room. It was sparse

now but still contained his old bed and his desk and his chair,

some of his old books, the view of the garden. He stripped out

of his clothes, took note of the faint scars across his chest in the mirror, the fainter definition of something like muscles, and

had a quick shower, getting the grime of the miles and mixed

emotions of the travel off his skin. He stepped over his clothes as he sat on the bed and dried off, dragged the sunglasses from

his pocket and turned them over and around. He never went

without them in Australia, always had them handy to slip on

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and lose himself behind, but now he put them in the drawer

of the nightstand, laid down, and went to sleep. No dreams,

even if the Ramones played in his mind as he drifted off.

He got up early the next day and had a coffee over

breakfast, trying to reconnect with Kevin and Elaine and

make this as comfortable as it had once been, before he set off

down the road toward Laura and Scott’s farm, a bit over a mile

in the snow and bright blue skies.

Every step in slightly too big boots made more warmth

curl just under his ribcage. No cars passed him out here but

the roads were clear. Where fields stretched in summer, plains

of snow reached as far as he could see, touching the sky in the

distance.

The farm had changed a little, a coat of paint on the main

house, and a building off to the side that hadn’t been there

before, machinery updated to this century. Voices carried

from the barn. Zach walked over, pushed open the heavy

door, and watched Laura and Scott and their children work

away inside, clearing out the cow stalls. It took a minute or

two before Scott noticed him, grinned, glanced down to his

boots, and Zach held still and let him look his fill.

“Give us a hand.” Scott shoved a pitchfork at him, no

room for debate, and Zach dug in with the rest of them. They

worked steadily. Zach was sweating soon enough and lost

jacket and flannel until he was in only his T-shirt and jeans.

“Someone’s been working out,” Laura said as she brushed

past Zach. Zach flushed, looking at his chest and biceps, but

just put his head down to continue his work.

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Later the kids played and they sat on a bench sharing a

bottle of water, Zach between the two of them, leaned back,

legs splayed. They ended up talking music, then movies, then

took the conversation into the house over lunch. Scott cooked

while Laura and Zach sat at the kitchen table. In between,

Zach got pulled along to be shown toys and rooms by Leanne

and Benny, did a spot of play-fighting and eventually found

his way back to the kitchen for food. He cleaned off the

table after, nodded to Laura to stay seated and she laughed

but let him get on with it. She watched him, though, called

him back once to wipe the table properly. “That’s good,” she

said when he sorted the dishes into the dishwasher, and Zach

was happy he was bent over, face hidden, the flush and the

pleased butterflies in his stomach a bit too jittery and a bit too embarrassing to just show off like that.

Zach slipped back into living in the neighborhood,

almost, as he went down to Main Street for a bit of milk and

some candy on Christmas Eve. People he’d gone to school

with now ran the gas station, the convenience store, and the

pharmacy. Secrecy didn’t go very far in this kind of place, so

he ended up talking about Australia, about becoming Zach,

quotation marks and al , about the dreadful snow yet again

for another winter.

“Just those, thanks,” Zach said as he put a packet of gum

and the local paper next to the milk and Mars bars on the

counter of the corner store. He vaguely remembered the

woman at the checkout as a girl from school, a few years above

or below him, her boyfriend then now her husband glowering

from the corner.

225

“I remember you,” her guy said, hands in his pockets,

crotch pushed out.

“Yeah?” Zach counted out the money.

“Tyler,” she admonished and rang Zach up without

meeting his eyes.

“Bit rich to come back a freak show.”

Zach turned and stared, coins in hand, trying to process

the bullshit that spelled welcome back to the middle of nowhere like nothing else. He shrugged and put the coins on the

counter, ignoring the guy. “Merry Christmas, okay?” he told

the woman with a smile as he took the gum and the paper and

walked back out into the snow.

Christmas the next day with Kevin and Elaine was a

somber affair. After he’d evaded the question one too many

times, they carefully didn’t ask how long he’d be staying,

when he’d be leaving. The fierce familiarity and sharp longing

still rolled low in Zach’s gut even after Kevin and Elaine had

retired for the night.

Zach had another glass of wine, tried to pace himself into

a state of calm and tired, but every turn had him walking past

a stack of photos, bringing home what he hadn’t had in the

last fifteen years.

It had started snowing again at some point during the day,

but Zach ventured out anyway. The damp snow had frozen

to dry flakes, shifting under his boots. Flashlight shining the

way, he walked to the farm, relieved when the porch light was

still on. He knocked against the kitchen window and waited

until Laura opened the door, sweatpants and knit socks and

sleepy face.

“Sorry,” Zach started, but Laura waved him inside and let

him shrug out of his coat and Scott’s boots.

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They had candles in the kitchen, burned mostly to the last

fingers, half-empty glasses of wine, the smell of roast still in the air, plates piled in the sink.

Scott raised his eyebrows at Zach but only gestured with

the wine. Zach nodded and sat and watched them watching

him, both of them far too intense and he far too jittery. They

talked gifts and Christmas and things on the television,

enough to distract Zach for a while before he got lost in his

thoughts again after al . He only noticed it when the tick of

the clock became the only sound in the kitchen.

“Late night,” Scott said.

“Yeah.”

“Mm-hmm.”

Zach twirled the wine in the glass. “I was down on Main

Street yesterday, just buying some things, and snap of your

fingers, it’s like I’m back where I was, never mind all the things I became and fought too fucking hard for. Bit of a mindfuck,

as if we’re all still waiting for Y2K.” He took a sip. “Had a bit of a run-in with Tyler? The one from the shop on the corner

of Charleston, and here I thought I’d never hear that shit

again. Trust this place to bring it all back.” He’d not signed up for any of that when he got on the plane, hadn’t agreed to let

this place just wash away the years and the changes like they

were nothing. He scratched at the tabletop with his thumb

and watched the wine cling to the sides of the glass. “Aside

from that, I guess I thought it’d be harder to be back, that I’d miss Australia more and I don’t. And it’s fucking me up a bit

that it’s this easy” When he was with them he wanted to be

back on his knees, head in their laps, and let them take care of the rest. The time in between hadn’t done anything to temper

that.

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Laura shuffled on her chair but waited him out until he

looked at her, looked at Scott, looked at her again.

“Or that hard to . . .” Zach continued, voice low. “To make

a choice? I don’t know.”

“That not what you came for?” Scott asked.

“I’ve got no idea what I came for. For Kevin and Elaine

because I owed them that.” He hesitated. “For you because I

owed myself that? I don’t know. I thought I’d come here, wave

hello, put on my sunglasses, and walk away again. Drop my

guilt and walk away into the sunset kind of thing.”

Scott chuckled. “No need to be walking anywhere now,

buddy.”

In light of the few thousand he’d paid for the plane ticket

he now wasn’t sure he’d use, Zach kept the or ever to himself.

He was too old to break away again from all he’d known and

built to come crawling back here, to the bullshit of smal -

town life, for the chance at something that might not work

out. And yet, over wine and with his knee drawn up to his

chin in the warmth of their kitchen, he wasn’t sure how he’d

resist crawling and begging and being swept off his feet. All

the experience in the world hadn’t changed the warmth in his

chest when he was with them, much as he’d thought it would.

They both kissed him good night a while later, light and

easy and so welcome, and told him he could have the couch,

leaving him with the glass of wine and his thoughts.

Zach dropped in at the farm for a few hours in the

morning or the afternoon the next few days, helped clean

out the stables or repair some fences, whatever needed doing.

Amidst talking about the past, they slipped into a present

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together full of the easy physicality of sweaty work. It wasn’t

so much picking up where they’d left off as finding who they

were now. While Zach startled the first time Scott held him

close, hand on the nape of his neck, brushing his beard over

Zach’s stubble, he soon shifted to moving between them like

he’d done before.

“When’s your ticket back?” Laura asked one of those

afternoons, curled against Zach’s side, poking at that open

wound.

“Not sure.”

“Hmm?”

“I don’t know.”

Later that night, Zach caught himself leaning in for a kiss

before either of them had offered, and he stopped himself,

froze, but they both smiled at one another, then him, before

they let him have the kiss. Zach played his tongue over theirs,

daring, wanting, and ate up their chuckles and their easy

permission.

“Wasn’t sure if you’d be up for lunch?” Zach said at their

door the day before New Year’s, with some stew he’d cobbled

together, Elaine’s car parked alongside the barn.

Laura, in jogging pants and a too-big sweatshirt, nodded

and pressed a kiss to Zach’s cheek as he stepped in, handed her

the stew, and slipped out of his coat and Scott’s boots.

It had been less than a week, but Australia seemed already

more than just half a world away. Whenever Zach’s thoughts

got away from him, spinning into in a few weeks and in a few months, the odd pressure in his chest caught him out cold.

He pushed the thoughts far away, though they inevitably

returned as he juggled scenarios in the stark light of day that

were only safe as dreams in the middle of the night. The best

dreams, though.

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“Hey, buddy,” Scott said when he took the pot from Laura

in the kitchen and kissed Zach on the lips, quick, as if it didn’t mean that much at al , while it meant the world to Zach.

After dinner, a few beers, the kids off to bed, Laura

sat sideways in a chair, half splayed over Zach while Scott

watched from across the table. They were laughing about

something inane. Laura had her fingers circled firmly around

Zach’s wrists, keeping his hands on her belly where her shirt

had ridden up a bit, her skin warm and soft. Zach touched

her, stopped, but couldn’t resist moving his fingertips over her skin. Every now and then he leaned in and brushed his nose

through Laura’s hair, relaxing, happy, utterly comfortable,

until Scott scraped his chair back and leaned forward, arms

on the table.

“I can’t believe you’re waiting for me to start this

conversation.”

Zach pulled back, but Laura wouldn’t let him go

immediately. She turned and kissed at his neck before she

released his hands to let him sit at the table properly. Zach was scared out of his mind with what he wanted and not sure if it

was even on offer. The light on the porch was on and made the

fake-snow Christmas decorations—abominable snowmen

and horror reindeer probably made by Leanne and Benny—

throw eerie shadows across the kitchen table and counters.

“We didn’t expect you to come back,” Scott started. “And

even if you had, it’s been fifteen years. The kids listen to God knows what these days.” The Ramones were back in Zach’s

mind, “I don’t want to fight tonight” scratching under his

skin. “But you’re here and it’s nice. It’s good, I think, for all of us.” He exchanged a glance with Laura. “I think we’re just

both wondering how far you want to take it. We’re up for it,

for probably most of anything, for having a few days of fun or

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whatever else might be spinning in your brain, but it’s mostly

up to you and where you’re at.”

Laura glanced at Zach. “Basically, we could fuck like that

winter or we could just have this or more even, if that’s what

you’re looking for.”

Zach put a foot up on Laura’s chair and hunched forward,

playing his fingertips over the tabletop as he tried to sort

his thoughts, and what he wanted from what he thought he

should be saying, being sensible from being horny from still

being stupidly, selfishly in love with both of them.

“We didn’t know anything then,” Zach said slowly. “And

it still—I mean, I’ve had, what . . . fifteen years to figure it out, and we did a lot of shit that nowadays I’d say we were crazy to

do, but so much of it felt right. And I’ve gone out to find play partners and had a good time and got off on it al , but nothing

quite compared to what we had.

“So . . .” Zach tried, hesitating on the word.

Laura looked at him from the side, while Scott leaned

back in his chair, hands crossed behind his head.

“I miss it. I miss you, both of you. That’s just . . . all I have.”

Zach looked up at them. “I’d like to give it a shot, for a few

hours one evening just to see, one way or another. If that’s

what you’re offering, I’d like that.”

“Obviously not tonight,” Scott said, nodding at the empty

beer bottles on the counter. “So, we knew you then, but what’s

different now?”

And with that Zach relaxed, sinking back into the kitchen

chair as they discussed scenes and shared experiences they’d

had in the years between, good ones and bad ones. Laura

and Scott talked about a guy from Lawrence they’d met a

few times, beautiful and responsive, and Zach had to quell

the jealousies, found it easy when Laura kissed at his frown,

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shaking her head and chuckling. They moved past condoms

and safewords and limits, and shared a laugh when Zach

brought up Matt, a guy from Sydney, and a scene turning from

boring to mind-numbing until they’d both decided to call it a

day over a nice dinner and a few drinks, going for friends with

no chemistry for play whatsoever, even though they’d both

wanted to make it more.

When Zach left that night he could’ve fucked right then,

high on the adrenaline, nerves only slipping back into his

mind when he was in bed and the first excitement had worn

off.

They toasted to the New Year on Elaine and Kevin’s

porch, Benny and Leanne with glasses of orange juice, and all

of them singing “Auld Lang Syne.”

The day after, the children were asleep by the time Zach

arrived at the farm. He’d spent most of the day doing minor

repairs around Kevin and Elaine’s house, keeping busy, only

texting Laura to let her know he was still more than happy to

go ahead with it.

“Still okay?” Laura asked at the door when they said hello,

and he grinned at her, nodded.

“Have a shower, relax.” Scott kissed him slowly, not

pushing for anything, but letting Zach get comfortable with

them both again. “We’ll start when you get out, okay?”

He had a shower in their bathroom, hot and on the long

side, trying to calm his nerves and push anything from his

mind that didn’t have to do with the here and now, but he

was bubbling with excitement and impatient to get going. He

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toweled off, dressed in his jeans and T-shirt again, and ran a

hand through his hair, then stepped out of the bathroom.

“I’m good,” he said, looking from Laura to Scott and

back. Laura sat on the bed in panties and a T-shirt, legs folded under her, while Scott leaned against the bedroom door.

“Take a minute,” Scott said.

His voice rumbled low and went straight to Zach’s pussy,

leaving him horny and turned on as if he hadn’t managed to

jerk off three times a day over the last week or so. He glanced

at the floor at his feet, dropping his baggage at the door, just tried not to overthink this and be the twenty-year-old he’d

been then instead, stumbling into it half-blind because it had

felt good. None of them had analyzed what they’d been doing

much, just let themselves go step by step on pure instinct.

Tension dropped from his shoulders and he relaxed into his

body, just breathing in and out, focusing on the quiet over the

faint clacking of the radiator.

“Undress,” Laura said a while later.

Sweat pooled in Zach’s pits even though they’d not yet

started, not so much second-guessing as just hoping that who

he was now was good enough for this still. His nerves spiraled

into hard arousal, had him wet even though he wasn’t quite

naked yet, his skin still damp from the shower. He didn’t

dawdle as he stepped out of the rest of his clothes, not even

when he pushed his boxers down and away and stood with

his pussy on display, looking from Laura to Scott. Hands at

his sides, he fought every instinct to cover himself as his heart thumped in his chest, wanting them to do everything to him

right that moment and wanting to be perfect for it al .

Scott pushed off the door and walked over, socked feet,

pants, shirt, still so much more massive than Zach, no surprise

there, heat welling off him when he stood next to Zach, chest

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touching Zach’s shoulder. Zach glanced around, only just

caught himself from leaning in to kiss Scott because he was

that close. The bastard chuckled, knew Zach and his little

thing about getting his mouth on everything too well not to

have anticipated it even after all these years. Zach just felt the need hotter and harder in his pussy, his clit stiffening between his legs.

“Eyes front, hmm?” Scott said, quietly admonishing, and

twisted Zach’s chin around until he was looking at Laura

watching from the bed. Scott brushed his thumb from Zach’s

chin along his jawline to his throat and down across his chest

before he splayed his fingers out wide, soft touch, across his

pecs.They breathed in unison, Zach’s heartbeat rapid under

Scott’s palm, and only when Zach had calmed did Scott move

his hand lower until his fingers pushed through Zach’s pubes

to his clit and lips.

“Nice.” Scott moved behind him, belt buckle sharp against

the small of Zach’s back as he wrapped his free arm around

Zach’s shoulder and pulled him closer. His fingers played over

the definition of muscle in Zach’s chest and shoulder and

biceps, exploring the things different to his body now, the

lack of breasts and thinner hips. “Enjoying this?” he asked

into Zach’s ear, beard scraping along Zach’s jaw.

“Yeah.”

“Good.” Scott pushed his foot between Zach’s and made

him spread, putting him even more on display, and shifted

index and middle finger down either side of Zach’s clit. “That’s changed.” Scott rubbed his thumb over Zach’s clit, about

the width and size of Scott’s thumb now, his fingers already

dipping into the wetness between Zach’s legs. “I like it.”

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Zach leaned into Scott’s body for a moment, let himself

be held, when Scott’s knee pressed into the back of his, harsh

and sudden. Zach crashed to the floor in a free fall and hit

the ground, Scott’s hand immediately in his hair and jerking

Zach’s face around to press it into his crotch.

The pain rolled through Zach from his knees, a sharp

reminder of his place between them that only made him

wetter, the right amount of pain to bring him higher. He

could smell Scott through his pants, sweat and musk. With

mouth and nose mashed against Scott’s cock and balls, he had

no choice but to inhale, fabric getting damp under his open

mouth.

“Missed having you there,” Scott said, tightening his

fingers a little more.

Zach tried to catch a glimpse of Laura and was dying to

sneak a hand between his legs, but he knew better and just

waited it out. He heard Laura shift off the bed and step in

closer, felt her hand in his hair as well. She moved right in and forced his face harder against Scott’s crotch with her body as

they kissed above him, noisy and wet, and he was caught on

his knees between their bodies. Laura’s knee dug into Zach’s

spine, making him arch to accommodate their bodies on

either side of him as they moved against each other.

When Scott stepped back just a little, Laura turned Zach’s

face around and pressed it into her crotch. “Stick out your

tongue. Lick.”

She smelled heady. Zach tasted her pussy even through

her panties as he mouthed at her, sucking the fabric between

his lips then pressing his tongue up against her, soaking her

in his spit and her slickness. He’d walked out fifteen years

ago with her taste still on his lips, and it was there again now.

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Right now he wasn’t sure why he’d ever left or how he’d ever

be able to leave again.

Laura shifted her panties aside, and Zach pressed his lips

to her skin without a second thought, a hint of stubble under

his lips. Moments he’d never thought of until just then came

crashing back as he licked from her clit down her slit, inching

his tongue between her lips, sucking and slurping as Scott

chuckled above him, fingers still in Zach’s hair.

They all shifted as Laura sat on the bed, the frame low

enough to be in Zach’s field of vision, and Scott and he paused

just long enough for Laura to slip her panties completely off

and spread her legs. Zach crawled after her, ass out, chest on

the bed, kneeling up from the floor, the wooden frame cold

against his thighs. She pulled Zach in again and caught his

head between her thighs, muting all sound. Zach closed his

eyes and lost himself in her, tasting her, having her, working

her as his lips got a little numb and his jaw and tongue sore.

Laura pulled his head up, watched him pant with her

slickness all over his mouth and chin, laughed when he

whined like an idiot. “Is this okay?”

“Yes,” Zach got out before Laura pushed his face between

her legs again so he could tongue at her hole, playing over the

folds of skin and deeper. The carpet prickled against his knees, the side of the bed cold against his thighs, but he didn’t move

away.Scott knelt behind him, hard cock in his jeans pressed to

Zach’s naked ass. “Kind of loving this,” Scott said, fingers wet with Zach’s juices as he dragged them over Zach’s clit, grasped

him between thumb and fingers to jerk him like he would any

other cock, rol ing Zach’s clit back and forth.

Zach pushed his ass out again, showed off his pussy more.

Laura slapped his face for it before he had time to blink.

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“I’m seeing your pussy just fine,” Scott said as he draped

himself over Zach’s back, whispered it into Zach’s hair, the

sound just carrying past Laura’s thighs and the slurping of

Zach’s lips on her pussy. “Just right, isn’t it, you doing this for us, all selfless like that.” Scott wet his fingers in Zach’s pussy, slid first one, then two deep before he dragged them to Zach’s

ass and slowly screwed them inside. “Nice and easy, you’ll just

let us do whatever we want, won’t you?”

Zach pushed back against Scott’s fingers, grabbing for

Laura’s thighs for balance but she just caught his hands in

hers and pressed them to the bed, leaving Zach helpless to do

much at all as Scott pushed in deeper.

“Open nice and easy for me, that’s a good boy.”

Scott’s breath flowed hot over the back of Zach’s neck

as Zach tried to spread his legs a little more, press back onto

Scott’s fingers and get him to move them. Scott just chuckled

as he twisted around to fumble for lube and managed to

drench the top of Zach’s ass with it, making everything wet

and wetter, lube dripping down to his pussy.

Laura pulled his face up from between her thighs, made

him focus. Dazed and blurry and sweating from being

between her legs and Scott screwing his fingers into his ass,

it took Zach a few moments, a few breaths that Laura used

to shift down on the bed and pull Zach up a bit higher. She

pushed her thigh between Zach’s legs as Scott pulled at Zach’s

hips, lifting his pussy and ass to full view. Her pussy was hot

against Zach’s thigh, making him shiver when she ground

against him and brushed up the hair on his leg the wrong way.

“It’s still a good look on you.” Laura dragged her thumb

over Zach’s lips, his cheeks, his chin, all aching and wet. He

tried to rub his face on her shoulder but she wouldn’t let him,

made him look up and meet her eyes. “I’ll make you spend

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hours down there while riding a dildo. You’ll be fucking

yourself sore, crying with how much your face hurts, but you

won’t stop. Tongue.”

Zach pushed out his tongue just as Scott got three fingers

into his ass, making his half-moan half-croak come out harsher

and harder and louder, making all of them laugh, even as Zach

flushed under it.

Laura carded her fingers through his hair and watched

him, mouth open, tongue hanging out, face hot.

“Keep it open,” she said as she pushed two fingers into

his mouth, scraping along the back of his tongue, making spit

pool just inside his lips and then spill over, slipping down his chin and dripping to Laura’s breasts. “No, keep looking at

me,” Laura said when Zach looked down to follow the path of

the spit, rocking his pussy against her thigh with every twist

and thrust of Scott’s fingers. When Scott pulled out, Zach’s

whine croaked from his throat but he obediently kept his gaze

locked on Laura’s face. He’d give anything to come like that,

between the two of them. All the fears and doubts had gone

and only left this gooey mess of need and arousal behind and

he wanted to be good for them. To prove that he could be all

this. She said, “Suck,” and so he did.

Foil packet, lube again, and Zach ground his crotch

against Laura’s thigh as she rubbed against his in turn, both of them rocking against one another as he sucked on her fingers,

tongue and lips going for it.

“Open again,” both Scott and Laura said, near

simultaneously, about his ass and mouth, and the heat spread

from Zach’s face down his neck to his chest. He opened his

mouth, though, for Laura to fit three fingers into him and

make sure that he wouldn’t be able to keep a single sound to

himself.

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“Shhh, slowly now.” Scott pushed his cock against Zach’s

ass, squelching in the mess of lube and Zach’s arousal. “Nice,”

Scott murmured and pushed harder until the head of his dick

slid in, making Zach’s hole strain to take it.

“Hurts,” Zach got out, trying to breathe through it and

contain the hitches in his breath but Laura wouldn’t let him

hide, wouldn’t let him turn his face or close his mouth, even as his spit dripped freely. Scott burned against his back, still had his shirt on with his pants and boxers only just pushed down

his hips, belt buckle pressing into the back of Zach’s thigh as

he slowly pushed deeper into Zach’s ass.

The pressure, feeling Scott move inside him, just added to

Zach’s arousal, made the pain blend into burn into plain cock

in his ass as Laura fucked his mouth, rode his thigh and left it wet before she shifted back up on the bed and forced his head

down between her legs again.

Scott braced his hands on Zach’s hips, every finger digging

in, scraping his nails sharply down Zach’s spine every once in

a while, as he started fucking him properly, going for it, just

using Zach’s ass for his own pleasure. Zach got his tongue into

Laura’s pussy, nose pressed to her clit, every inhale immersing

him in the scent of sex as Scott pushed him into the bed with

every thrust, hard and fast. Zach tried to sneak a hand down

to his pussy, but Laura dug her nails into his wrists and kept

him focused right there between the two of them, everything

sore and tired and aching and wet.

Laura clenched her thighs around his head, trapping him,

her heels pushing against his spine, as Scott went for the last

hard thrusts, pushing for it, cock pul ing almost all the way

out before he slammed it back, curled around and humped

away at Zach, fast, hard, until he pushed deep once and came,

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panting against Zach’s back. Laura curled her hands into

Zach’s hair, fucked up against his face, as Scott pulled out.

Already feeling empty with Scott not inside him anymore,

Zach had to stop himself from clinging when Laura pushed

away next and made him splay backward on the floor. She

rolled around and reached for her vibrator, watched him as

she pressed it to her clit. She fucked against it and came with

it, not him, while she was watching him. He half knelt, half

laid with his legs splayed and his wet pussy, curling pubic

hair on display, caught on his elbows. He knew better than

to push up and get his lips back on her clit or her pussy but

with the cool air curling around him, still turned on like fuck

and unable to do her, he wanted to do something. The whine

stuck in his throat as this awkward needy noise. It made Scott

chuckle behind him, which in turn made Zach flush more,

stomach flipping. Laura came quietly but hard, legs jerking

with it as she got herself off.

“Good?” Scott asked from the bathroom, toweling his

cock, and Laura laughed as she turned off the vibrator and

pushed it aside, laid back, panting for air.

Scott stepped around Zach and knelt on the bed to kiss

Laura, slow, soft, cleaning Laura’s breasts of Zach’s spit and

Laura’s thigh of Zach’s pussy while Zach was still mucky with

it al , ass empty, jaw sore, pussy pulsing with arousal, wanting to get off right there and then.

“Knees,” Scott said as he passed by Zach on the way back

to the bathroom, tone near-dismissive.

Zach glanced after him, stunned into nothing—heart

aching, hell, pussy aching more—but he got his knees under

himself. Looking at Laura didn’t give him any reprieve, so

he knelt, arms at his sides, head down, gaze on the floor, and

waited, trying to breathe through it. Scott stepped up behind

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him and settled cool plastic wire over his shoulders, dragged

it around his chest and thighs, between his legs, tickling as it slid over his skin, down to his ankles and along his arms. He

hoped with everything he had that Laura was still watching,

her toes just inside his field of vision.

“Now just have to get you plugged in.” Scott moved

around and turned off the bedroom lights, plunging them

into darkness, then pushed a plug into the wall outside Zach’s

sight. Zach’s body lit up in all colors, greens and red and blues, a few yellows in between, curling in LED lights from his neck

down his chest and stomach and thighs, between his legs and

around the top of his head.

Scott sat on the bed next to Laura. “Look up.”

Zach did. His body illuminated the room in soft shades.

Scott was naked now as well. The two of them were holding

hands, just looking at him, and he tried to keep his gaze on

them. The lights played over their bodies, the colors shifting

as he trembled, moved a little and strained to be good and not

move and blame the way his eyes teared up on lights too close

to his face.

“Come here,” Laura said.

Zach shuffled forward on his knees, “I don’t want to fight

tonight” starting insidious at the back of his head as he moved

to kneel between their legs, dirty face pressed to Scott’s thigh when he drew him in, Laura’s hand in his hair, his pussy still so wet for them as they were both calm and warm.

“I missed you, you know,” Laura said, tracing his skin

between the wires of the lights, tugging at his hair, and Zach

turned his face farther into Scott’s thigh, hiding there over

their chuckles, as if they knew the things going on inside his

heart like . . . they knew him.

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Scott pushed his foot between Zach’s thighs, shifting it

closer until Zach had to spread his legs more to accommodate

him. “Move those,” Scott said and dragged his toe across the

lit wires riding right along Zach’s pussy.

Zach reached down, fingers shaking as he pulled the

wires, wet with his arousal, from his skin and shifted them to

the outside of his labia, framing his pussy nicely, his clit hard and pulsing at the center of it.

“New Year and al , consider this a welcome-home freebie.

The next one will be a while in the making,” Scott said. “Spit

in your hand. Rub it in.”

Zach spat in his hand and circled his clit with the tip of

his finger once, just around the ridge of the head, then curled

his palm and pressed his pussy, lips and clit and al , into the

spit and ground against it.

“That’s enough,” Scott said. He jerked Zach’s head up

by his hair, pulled it back until Zach had no choice but to

look at Laura and Scott, both watching him. At the same

time, Scott’s foot pushed up tight against Zach’s pussy. “You

want us watching? We are watching. Got to witness this rare

moment. Go on, make yourself come. No hands.”

Zach flushed, heat spreading from his chest up to his face,

pricking into a hint of wetness in his eyes because they didn’t

give any on this. He tried to turn his head away but only pulled at his hair, Scott’s grip firm. Laura was smiling, nodding, and

it made it even harder but he wanted to be good. He pushed

forward against Scott’s foot, clit rubbing over hairy skin until he ground himself down tighter.

He must’ve blinked, eyes burning with the strain and face

flaming, but wanting this sat in his chest much like it did in

his pussy, pulsing hard and wet as he humped Scott’s foot like

it was the best he could do for them right now, be the best

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he could possibly be. And both of them kept watching him,

never straying from him as the center of their world right this

moment, and it surged to fill a hole in his chest he’d not really let himself think about in the last fifteen years. Not since he’d left and thought he’d have to try without. It seemed stupid

now as he fucked Scott’s foot, higher, higher and harder and

wanting it more and chasing after it, orgasm and approval

both.When he came, it was loud, and Laura chuckled as Scott

patted him on the cheek in a well done and didn’t say anything when Zach hid his face in Scott’s thighs as he shuddered

through the aftershocks, pussy clenching on nothing,

squelching wet.

He’d never done proper winters in Australia, had done

his best to escape them with sunglasses on the beach and feet

in the water. Now it was the New Year and it was probably

snowing outside and he was back in the middle of the winter,

back right in the middle of the things he’d run from because

they’d been too much. Yet the ticket home was this right here.

It still felt like too much now, but both Scott’s and Laura’s

hands were on him. Touching him. Keeping him. He closed

his eyes, knowing he was still glowing bright for them, and

stayed.

243

Ring Out the Old

and In the New

Alexa Snow

just don’t feel like it, okay?” Evan yelled through the

“M W “I D “A P

open doorway to the kitchen. He pulled his feet up

onto the couch and curled himself around the pillow

he was holding. He was pouting and he knew it, but he didn’t

want to go to Grace and Charlotte’s on Christmas Eve. He

hadn’t wanted to go anywhere since the night his life had

changed.

“But you love Grace and Charlotte,” Russell shouted back

over the noise of the washing up.

“I just don’t want to go. Let’s do something else that night

instead.”

“It’s Christmas Eve,” Russell protested from the doorway,

a wineglass in one hand and the cloth he was using to dry it

in the other. The bright white glow from the kitchen light

glinted off the silver at his temples. “We always go to theirs.”

Maybe he should take the glass from Russell—he’d need

another drink if Russ wasn’t going to let the conversation

drop. No, that seemed like too much effort. “That doesn’t

mean we have to do it forever. Things change.” He hesitated,

narrowed his eyes. “You’re older than me; you must know that

by now.”

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Russell frowned, opened his mouth, then frowned again.

“You think you’re clever, but you aren’t fooling me. And you

know you’re being cheeky.” He turned back into the kitchen,

and Evan sighed and hugged the pillow more tightly.

By the time Russell finished the dishes and came into

the sitting room to join him, Evan had worked himself into a

fairly impressive sulk, even by his own standards. Russell sat

next to him; Evan didn’t move.

“I’ve been endlessly patient with you,” Russell said.

“You’ve been through a difficult time, I know that, but you

can’t continue like this. It isn’t healthy.”

Fuck you, Evan thought but didn’t say. He knew Russell

would punish him for that deliberate rudeness, and he didn’t

want to deal with that right now, fun as he might have found

it at another time. He hadn’t wanted anything to do with

their sex life at al , not for weeks. “We could go to Prezzos on Christmas Eve instead? You love it there.”

“I do, but I’d prefer to be with our friends. Our family,

when it comes right down to it.”

“I just don’t want to go, all right?” But this was a lost cause

if Russell was finally putting his foot down. “This one time.

Why does it have to be such a big deal?”

“Because you’re hiding,” Russell said. “No, look at me.

Evan.”

Two months ago, Russell’s command voice would have

had Evan scrambling to obey, possibly even sliding off the sofa

to kneel on the floor. That bastard on the Tube had changed

everything, even this.

Evan reluctantly turned toward Russell, but kept his gaze

just to Russell’s right. He didn’t want to see whatever was in

Russell’s eyes. Whenever Russell looked at him now, all he

could see was pity and revulsion. “What?”

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“We’re going,” Russell said. “There won’t be any more

discussion about it.”

“I don’t want to,” Evan whispered, and Russell sighed and

reached for him, drew Evan closer to rest his head on Russell’s

chest. That was better—it meant Russell wasn’t staring at him,

and it made Evan feel warm and safe to be cradled in Russell’s

arms.“I know. But you will.”

Evan didn’t cry, even though the urge was strong. He’d

learned to hold in his tears while the scar that twisted its

way across his cheekbone and up beside the outside corner

of his eye healed, and now he wondered if that lesson would

ever fade. Instead he closed his eyes as Russell stroked a hand

through his hair, which was getting long now. At first he

hadn’t cut it because it had been the furthest thing from his

mind; now he didn’t because he hoped that eventually, when

it grew long enough, it would help hide his face.

“This has been a terrible time, I know,” Russell said gently.

It was weird how Russell could be so stern and unforgiving in

the bedroom, his hands hard, leaving bruises that lingered for

days, yet when Evan was upset, he could be so kind. Not that

Evan would want to be with someone who wasn’t nice to him.

It was just a fascinating combination of qualities. “It’s been

horrible. But you’ve had time to heal physically, and now it’s

time to begin healing in other ways.”

Evan had only been in the hospital for one night, and that

had primarily been for monitoring. He’d lost some blood in

the attack, but not enough to put him in any danger. A plastic

surgeon had been called in to stitch him up and had reassured

him that in time the scar would be nearly invisible, but Evan

didn’t see how that was possible. He’d spent the long, bleak

night in a bed where he hadn’t slept at al , even with Russ

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there holding his hand. He hadn’t felt much of anything

then—just shock, he supposed—so he hadn’t discovered until

later at home when he’d looked at himself in a mirror for the

first time that crying got salty tears into his stitched cut and made it sting.

Evan hadn’t taken the Tube since the incident. He’d stayed

in as much as possible, actually, wanting to give the angry scar on his face time to heal and hopefully fade before he had to

be around people again. He hadn’t worked—he’d been quite a

successful artist’s model for some years, but he assumed all that was over. He couldn’t imagine anyone wanting to draw him

now. He couldn’t imagine sitting with an entire classroom’s

eyes on him, studying him.

God, no matter what was happening, Evan couldn’t

stop thinking about it. It was with him every waking hour,

haunting him from his peripheral vision. The cold scowl of

the boy who’d cut his face followed him in his nightmares,

bringing him awake in the dark of night while Russell slept

peacefully beside him.

“You think I can just forget,” Evan accused.

“No,” Russell said calmly. “I’m sure you’ll never forget

it entirely. But the memory of it will fade. It will get better, you’ll see. And there is help available.”

Maybe the scar would do the same, but Evan knew it

would always be there. It wouldn’t be invisible to him. He

could barely look at himself in the mirror anymore; he’d

seriously considered growing a full beard just to eliminate the

need to shave, and he hated beards.

It was funny how marks of a different sort, the marks

Russell left on him, temporary though they were, thrilled

Evan. Before, they’d talked about the possibility of something

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more permanent, something that would claim Evan as

Russell’s. But now things were different.

“I’m not going to see some shrink,” Evan said, seething at

what he imagined Russell was thinking, that he was crazy, had

some sort of post-traumatic stress disorder. “I talked to the

one at the hospital because they made me, that’s al .”

“I know.”

Evan pushed himself away from Russell and glared at

him; Russell’s steady gaze just made him more angry. “You

keep saying that, but you don’t know. You don’t know what

it’s like, and you can’t help me. So stop trying.”

“Not possible,” Russell said. How could he stay so calm

when things were so fucked up? “We’re going to sort this out

together.”

Together. But it hadn’t happened to Russell, had it? Just

Evan. Russell hadn’t even been there. Maybe, if he had, things

would have been different—

No. Stop. That train of thought was dangerous and needed

to be derailed at once. Evan pasted a cheerful expression onto

his face—even that didn’t work all that well, since smiling

made the scar tissue on his cheek twist and pul , though at

least it didn’t hurt anymore—and said with forced merriment,

“Let’s put up the Christmas decorations now. Otherwise the

poor tree might die of a broken heart.”

“I thought maybe you’d prefer a quiet evening,” Russell

said, and Evan shook his head.

“No, we’ve had enough quiet. Let’s do something fun.”

He was already headed down the hal way to the spare room,

where he’d piled the boxes of glass ornaments on the bed the

day before. “Anyway, it won’t take long. The tree’s already up,”

he called back.

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Once Evan had carried the ornaments to the sitting

room and was confronted with the tree, he lost some of his

enthusiasm. He’d refused to go to the Christmas Forest on

Twickenham Road they always bought their trees from, too

self-conscious to appear in public if he didn’t absolutely have

to. Now he regretted it, because the tree Russell had bought

without him was definitely sub-standard. It was already losing

needles despite Evan’s near-constant watering.

“We need music,” he said, and Russell moved to turn on

the radio he insisted on keeping, no matter how often Evan

told him it was time to join the twenty-first century and

get an MP3 player. Russell was able to find a station playing

instrumental Christmas music, and its soft, festive melody

drifted through the air.

Evan hung some ornaments, alternating the older glass

ones that had come from Russell’s family with some silly

plastic ones he himself had bought over the past few years.

Russell stood behind him, humming under his breath and

unwrapping tissue from an ornament. “This was one of my

grandmother’s,” Russell offered, passing him a delicate green

glass teapot.

“I think you told me that last year,” Evan said, turning to

kiss Russell quickly before he lost his nerve. There’d been plenty of hugs and cuddling between them since the attack, but not a

lot of kissing and no sex at al . Soon, Evan kept thinking, but

the thought of being naked made him uncomfortable in ways

that didn’t even make sense. It was a relief to be reminded that kissing Russell, at least, still felt right.

Returning his attention to the job at hand, Evan picked

up the next ornament, a lightweight sphere decorated with

glitter. He fumbled it, and it bounced to the floor and beneath

the sofa.

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“Shit,” he said, kneeling down to reach for it. His fingertips

bumped it and it skittered further away. “Damn it.” His

seeking fingers found crinkly plastic and he grabbed hold of

whatever it was and tugged it out from under the sofa. “Oh.”

As soon as he saw the deep red of the fabric in the bag, he

recognized the T-shirt he’d been wearing the night he’d been

mugged. He’d brought it home from the hospital wadded up

in this plastic carrier bag, thinking that even though it was

blood-stained it would probably come clean in the wash since

it had been red to begin with. He must have dropped it onto

the sofa or the floor, and it had slipped out of sight and been

forgotten about.

“I wondered where that had gone,” Russell said carefully.

“I can throw it in the wash, if you’d like?”

Evan found himself unable to speak. Against his better

judgment, he slowly pulled the T-shirt out of the bag and

unfolded it. On the front, in simple block letters, were the

words, “Some People Are Gay. Get Over It.” It had been one

of his favorite shirts. The fabric around the col ar had been

soaked with blood and then dried, leaving it stiff.

“Or in the bin?” Russell asked.

“Yeah,” Evan said, thrusting it blindly at Russ. “Throw it

away. I don’t . . .” He scrambled to his feet to leave the room

before he could do anything embarrassing, like scream or

vomit or cry, but Russell’s voice stopped him.

“Evan.”

He was trembling, and startled when Russell’s hand

touched his shoulder, even though he’d heard Russ coming

up behind him.

“Shh,” Russell said. “Come with me.”

Evan found himself being led along to their bedroom and

seated on the bed he’d made neatly that morning. He did the

250

majority of the household chores, and he liked things neat

and tidy. What he didn’t like was being made to sit on the bed

and having a once-loved, now forever defiled shirt put back

into his hands.

“Talk to me.” Russell sat beside him but didn’t put an

arm around his shoulders. Evan wished he would. “It isn’t a

request, Evan. Would it be easier if you were on your knees?”

“Maybe,” Evan whispered.

“Go on, then,” Russell said gently, and Evan slid down

onto the floor where he did, almost immediately, feel better.

When he was kneeling for Russell, he felt safe; he knew

Russell would take care of everything.

“I don’t know how to do this.” Evan was careful to speak

loudly enough for Russell to hear him. “It’s too hard. I just

want to stay here, inside, behind the door. Where no one can

look at me, and think—”

“Stop.”

Evan stopped. He twisted the blood-stained shirt in his

hands.

“You’re a smart boy,” Russell said. “You know the people

who love you aren’t going to be put off by a scar. And the

people who are put off don’t matter.”

“They’ll stare at me.” Evan could hear how ridiculous he

sounded. He’d loved having admiring eyes on him before;

now when people looked at him they wouldn’t be thinking he

was lovely, they’d be staring at a freak.

“Not nearly as much as you imagine they will. You have to

stop allowing yourself to think like that.” Russell touched his

hair, petting him soothingly. “Now, what would you like to do

with this shirt?”

“I don’t know. You decide.”

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Russell often made the decisions, but in this instance he

shook his head. “No. Think about it. Don’t do what’s easy, do

what’s right. You know what that is, Evan.” He smiled when

Evan glanced at him. “I have faith in you.”

Evan flattened out the shirt on the floor next to him.

It didn’t come close to being the oldest item of clothing

he owned, but he’d had it a few years, long enough for the

material to soften with hundreds of washings. “I think,” he

started, then hesitated, touched the blood-stiff col ar. “I

think—I think I should throw it away and get a new one.

Because I like it as a shirt, but even if this one were cleaned it would still make my skin crawl.”

“Good,” Russell said, like he meant it. “We’ll throw it

away. And we’ll finish the tree tomorrow. For now, take off

your clothes and come to bed.”

It was early, but Evan knew better than to question Russell

when there was that edge in his voice. Profound relief—that

Russell was in control, that they were going to have sex—

washed over him as he did as he’d been told. By the time he

crawled into bed, he was hard and trembling.

“Here.” Russell maneuvered Evan into position on his

back, half propped up on pillows. “Now this.” There was a

black blindfold in Russell’s hand, one Evan couldn’t remember

having seen before. “Close your eyes.”

He obeyed, but couldn’t stop himself from flinching

when he felt the blindfold touch his face.

“Shh, there. It’s all right. It’s lined with fleece.” Russell

settled the elastic strap along the back of Evan’s head.

“Comfortable?”

“Yes, Sir.” Using the term of respect was second nature

after their years together. From the feel of it, the blindfold

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must have hidden most, if not al , of his scar. Relief and need

flooded through him. “Please.”

“I know it’s been a long time.” Russell’s hands ran down

Evan’s body, and Evan couldn’t help it, he arched himself

upward. It had been so long, and though he’d thought he

hadn’t missed it, he knew now how much he had. “I wanted

to give you a chance to recover. But I’m going to enjoy you

now, and I’m only going to ask one thing of you, so I know

you’ll obey.”

Evan nodded, then inhaled sharply as the slow slide of

Russell’s hand up his inner thigh came within what felt like

millimeters of his scrotum.

“You aren’t permitted to come until I’ve told you to.”

That was it? That was al ? But that had been the rule all

along, with the rare exception to honor a special occasion.

Evan wasn’t sure he’d even be able to come without permission.

A righteous anger burned in his chest; why would Russell be

so easy on him? He must feel sorry for him. Well, that just

wasn’t on. Evan had the market cornered on feeling sorry for

himself, and there was no room for—

Oh holy Christ, that was Russell’s mouth on his cock.

Evan made a startled, strangled sound and bit down on

his lip. The sheer thought of Russell sucking his cock, let

alone the reality of it, was enough to make Evan uncertain

about his ability not to come. He could count on both hands

the number of times Russell’s lips and tongue had touched his

cock, and most of those had been before it had become clear

the equality in their relationship wasn’t reflected in their sex life.Russell hadn’t forgotten how to suck cock, thank God.

His tongue traced the length of Evan’s shaft, slicked wetly

over his balls, and then traveled up again, lips encircling the

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tip. Hot suction had Evan’s toes curling, and he clenched his

hands into fists instead of reaching for Russell, who surely

wouldn’t appreciate having his hair tugged. Russell kept at

it, sucking and licking until Evan was a quivering wreck of

whimpers and gasps.

“I’m close,” he whispered finally, because if Russ didn’t

back off for a minute he was sure to come in his mouth, orders

or no.

Instead of stopping entirely, Russell slid lower on the

bed, pushing Evan’s thighs apart and getting his mouth in

close to the tender skin behind Evan’s balls. He licked, gentle

flicks of his tongue. With the soft heat of the fleece inside

the blindfold settled securely over Evan’s eyes, it was almost

possible to believe everything was the way it had been before,

Evan’s face still unmarked, perfect—

The sweet, warm stab of Russell’s tongue into the ring of

Evan’s arsehole overturned all thought.

“God. Russell, Sir, please. Please, I need to come.” Evan’s

voice was uneven and he clutched the edge of a pillow with

his right hand.

“I always like hearing you beg.” Russell’s breath warmed

Evan’s skin. “But I haven’t finished. You’ll have to wait.”

Being licked by Russell’s tongue, being fucked by Russell’s

tongue, was exquisite. Evan’s cock was so hard he thought

he might die, and he found himself silently praying that this

wasn’t a tease, that Russell didn’t intend to take him to the

edge and then refuse to let him come. That really might kill

him. Russell’s tongue was so soft, it seemed impossible that it

could push inside Evan the way it did, open him up, make him

shiver and beg. But it did.

Finally, Russell backed off again, licking the inside of

Evan’s thighs and a line around his groin without touching

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his cock. Evan heard the click of a lube bottle lid, and the slick sound of Russell spreading it on his cock. Now, he thought.

Russell’s hand touched Evan’s face. This time he didn’t

flinch, not even when Russ slipped the blindfold free and

tossed it toward the foot of the bed. But when Russell ordered,

“Look at me,” Evan had to force himself to obey. It still wasn’t easy to meet Russell’s eyes.

Bracing one hand on the mattress, never taking his gaze

off Evan’s, Russell used the other to press the tip of his erection to Evan’s wet hole.

“I’m going to fuck you now,” Russell informed him. “And

I want you to look at me the entire time. And I’m going to

look at you, and you’re going to know that you are every bit as

beautiful to me tonight as you’ve ever been.”

It might have been the most difficult thing Evan had ever

done, keeping his eyes open and fixed on Russell’s as Russ

pushed inside him. Russell’s lips were parted, his breathing

even as he stretched Evan with his thick cock. Evan kept his

gaze trained on Russell’s, but couldn’t help when his eyes

started to lose focus—with Russell thrusting into him, finally,

for the first time in so many weeks, it was impossible not to

become overwhelmed with the physical pleasure. Evan’s own

cock ached for release as Russell found a rhythm and started

nailing his prostate repeatedly.

“You’ll come when I tell you to,” Russell reminded him.

“Yes, Sir.” God, he was so fucking turned on it’d be a close

thing if he held off until Russell told him it was okay, but he’d do his best. He couldn’t even care about the fact that Russell

was watching him, not when he was poised on the edge like

this.“It’s been too long.” Russell grunted with the next thrust.

“Are you close?”

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Evan almost laughed. “Yes. God, yes. Please.”

Russell nodded and leaned down to kiss him, stomach

providing delicious friction for Evan’s desperate cock. “Now,”

he said tightly. “Now, Evan, come.”

Evan came powerfully, crying out and closing his eyes—

he couldn’t help it—as Russell plunged deeper into him a

few more times. The pleasure was overwhelming and left him

shaking even as Russell’s cock throbbed inside him.

It wasn’t until Russell had finished and eased out of

him that Evan started to cry. He felt engulfed by a tangle of

confusing emotions—relief, despair, anger—and he didn’t

know how to push them back down. Russell began to say

something, probably something comforting and reassuring,

but Evan didn’t want that, or maybe he wanted it too much.

He lifted trembling fingers to Russell’s face and pressed them

against his lips, silencing him, and Russell allowed it. Evan

cried himself out, until he was empty of not only tears but of

the emotions that had fueled them.

Russell had held him every night since he’d been mugged,

but now when Russell gathered him close, it felt different,

better. It was like Evan had been reminded that things weren’t

messed up forever. Eventually, they’d go back to normal, or

close enough.

Maybe.

It wasn’t until a week and a half later, standing at the top

of the escalator at Richmond station, that Evan wondered if

he’d initially been right. “Is it too late to change my mind?” he asked plaintively, squeezing Russell’s hand.

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“It’s never too late to change your mind,” Russell said.

“But I don’t think it’s what you want to do.”

“I never know what I want. You shouldn’t listen to me.”

“Bit late for that. Deep breaths. I’m with you. I won’t let

anything happen.”

Evan clutched the handle of the carrier bag he was

holding—it wasn’t heavy, Russell had deliberately given him

the one with the lighter presents they were taking to Grace

and Charlotte’s—and nodded. “Right. You’re full of lies, but I

love you anyway. Let’s go.”

Evan had lived in London all his life, and had used the

Tube thousands of times, maybe tens of thousands. But

descending the escalator now, the first time after the attack,

was scary. His palms were sweaty, his heart was racing, and

if Russell hadn’t been there holding his hand, he’d probably

have turned and bolted for the street. It was too much.

“You’re all right,” Russell murmured in his ear as they

stopped on the platform to wait for the next train. “The train’s going to come, and we’ll have a bit of a ride. Before you know

it, we’ll be among friends.”

Evan realized he was starting to hyperventilate. He tried

to slow his breathing and turned toward Russell, thinking

that hiding his face from the people around them would make

him feel more secure. Unfortunately, he immediately became

aware that this meant he couldn’t see anyone coming, and

even though he believed Russell would do everything possible

to keep him safe, not being able to watch his surroundings

was too unsettling. He had to turn back around again, at

which point Russell slid an arm around his waist.

“All right?” Russell asked, and he nodded.

He found himself scanning the waiting crowd for anyone

who might appear suspicious, but everyone seemed relaxed

257

and happy. The bustling crowd carried wrapped packages, and

Evan saw multiple people wearing Father Christmas hats. It

made things seem festive and safe, utterly different from the

night he’d been attacked, when it had been late and the Tube

station nearly empty. Besides, it was Christmas Eve—people

were too busy to pay him any attention. He hoped.

The whole of Richmond station was peaceful and familiar.

He’d save Pimlico station, near the art college where he’d

modeled and where he’d been mugged, for another time.

Tonight was for baby steps.

The train came, and it was crowded enough that there

weren’t two seats together. Russell gestured at the nearest open one and Evan sat, perching the bags Russell had been holding

on his lap. Once the train was moving, Evan felt better. He

smiled up at Russell and nudged Russell’s calf with his knee.

A quick glance around proved no one was looking at him.

Maybe Russell was right and people were more worried about

their own troubles and schedules than what some guy with a

scar on his face was up to.

Evan’s heart raced when they changed lines, but once they

were finally outside Clapham North station, it was pounding

for a different reason. He felt exhilarated, like he’d just climbed a mountain or finished his A-levels, like something dreaded

was behind him. He wasn’t an idiot, he knew it would only

be a little bit easier next time, but for now it was over. He’d

done it.

Grace and Charlotte’s front steps were decorated for

Christmas, ivy twisted around the railings and a fir wreath

with pine cones and a red ribbon on the front door. Russell

had barely knocked when the door flew open.

“There you are! Grace, they’re here!” Charlotte tugged

Evan inside and hugged him tightly, then pulled back and

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studied his face. Her scrutiny made him cringe, but he pasted

on a smile. “It’s got a lot lighter, hasn’t it? Lucky you’ve always been so devastatingly handsome. Just gives you a rakish look,

and in a few months no one will even know it’s there. I assume

you’re taking good care of him?” This last was directed over

Evan’s shoulder at Russell, who’d shut the door behind them

and set the carrier bags down.

“Of course,” Russell said.

Grace called from the kitchen. “Happy Christmas,

you two! If you want to say hello you’ll have to come back;

I’m trying to make sure we get to eat before it’s officially

tomorrow.”

Charlotte still hadn’t let go of Evan’s sleeve. “We’ve missed

you at college, love. Some of the students have been asking

after you, wanting to know when you’re coming back.”

This was the conversation Evan had been trying to avoid,

but even hours of thought hadn’t helped him prepare an

answer. He stammered, “But—my face—”

“Don’t be silly. A little imperfection makes for a more

interesting subject, you know that. Say you’ll come back

after the holidays and have a chat about it, at least. If I can’t convince you, maybe Professor Coldwell can.”

Swallowing hard, Evan nodded. “I’ll think about it.”

“Good.” Charlotte seemed pleased and turned her

attention to Russell, asking him a question as Evan fled to the

kitchen, where Grace was stirring something in a glass bowl.

“Brandy butter?” It was a stupid thing to say, but Evan

needed a little casual conversation while he recovered from

Charlotte’s questions.

“Bloody Charlotte and her brandy butter,” Grace

complained, but she was grinning. “Nearly done, I just hate

259

when it’s not mixed together properly. How are you? We’ve

missed your smiling face.”

“I’m good. Well. I haven’t been, I suppose, but it’s getting

better.”

Grace gave him a shrewd look. “Russell’s been worried

about you.”

Evan sighed and leaned against the work surface. “I guess

I would have been, too. If it was the other way around. It takes time, I suppose. Going out, in public. The thought of it—it’s

frightening.” He’d forgotten how easy Grace was to talk to.

“Not surprising, considering what you went through.”

Grace turned back to the stove.

“I’m pouring wine,” Charlotte said from the doorway into

the dining room. “Evan?”

“Please.” He said it with a little more fervor than he’d

intended, and apologized. “It’s been a long day.”

“Well, now you’re here and you can relax. Come and sit,

get comfortable.”

An hour and a half later, stuffed full of turkey, dressing,

roast potatoes, and an assortment of other classics including

the traditional Christmas pudding with brandy butter, the

four of them retired to the living room. Evan and Russell had

insisted in previous years the huge meal wasn’t necessary, but

Grace stubbornly refused to give it up, explaining that their

dinner on Christmas day with Charlotte’s family was all from

Marks and Spencer and she’d be damned if they wouldn’t

have one proper meal.

They exchanged small gifts at a leisurely pace and lingered

over mugs of sweetened coffee. Then Charlotte and Grace

walked them out to the street to meet their cab—it was

late and they’d known it would take ages to get back on the

Underground, so they’d booked the cab in advance. Thank

260

God, because he wouldn’t have enjoyed the evening as much if

he’d known another Tube journey was looming over his head.

Once they were home with the front door locked behind

them, Russell said, “Go and wait in the bedroom. If you need

something to do while you’re waiting, light the candles. Oh,

and don’t undress.”

“Okay,” Evan said, then stopped with one shoe off. “Wait,

what?”

Russell smiled and repeated, “Keep your clothes on. I

have something for you.”

That was weird. Yes, it was Christmas Eve, but they’d

always exchanged gifts on Christmas morning. But a present

couldn’t be bad. He hoped.

Evan lit the collection of candles they’d put out as part of

the holiday decorations. Then he waited impatiently, perched

on the edge of the bed, becoming more anxious as the seconds

passed. Russell didn’t waste much time, though. When he

came into the room, Evan started to drop down onto the

floor, but Russell shook his head. “No. We need to talk first.”

Okay, that really didn’t sound good. “Talk?” The panic

Evan felt imagining all the things Russell might want to talk

about must have shown on his face, because Russell was quick

to reassure him.

“Not about anything bad. At least, I don’t think it is.”

Russell was holding a smal , wrapped package. He sat next to

Evan on the bed and handed it to him. Evan turned it over,

too unsettled to unwrap it immediately.

Russell sounded tense when he spoke. “Open it.”

Evan didn’t know what to think, so he tried to stop

altogether and instead tore the paper away from the box. It

was about the same size as a watch box, but Evan had seen

plenty of watch boxes and knew this wasn’t one. It was just

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made of cardboard—nice cardboard, if there were such a

thing, but cardboard all the same. He pried the lid up and

folded back tissue paper, revealing a thick wrist cuff made of

dark brown leather.

“I know you don’t want to be col ared,” Russell said. It

was true—they’d talked about it more than a year ago, though

the issue was more that Evan didn’t like anything around his

throat, not even a tightly buttoned dress shirt. “But it didn’t

seem right for you not to have some physical symbol of our

relationship. I thought this might be a compromise.”

“Oh.” Evan bit his lip, overwhelmed and flushing and

aware that the heat in his cheek made his scar tingle and

probably stand out even more than it already did. “Please

don’t take this the wrong way, but why? I mean, why now?”

“I’ve wanted to for a long time. I suppose I was hesitant to

bring it up, in case you didn’t like the idea any better than the col ar. But now—I don’t want you thinking even for a second

that I want you any less than I ever did. Though if you feel you can’t accept it, or if you’d like to wear it as jewelry that isn’t symbolic of something more, I’ll understand.” Russell rarely

seemed anxious, but there was a hint of it about him now.

Evan didn’t answer immediately—he was too

overwhelmed with love and gratitude.

“If you’d like some time to think about it—”

“No! I don’t need any time to think about it. Of course

I’ll wear it. I’ll wear it every day for the rest of my life if you’re the one putting it on me.” Evan smiled and lifted the cuff from

the box. “Will you?”

Russell leaned in and kissed him, the kind of kiss Evan felt

all the way down into his toes. “I will. But for that, I think, I’d prefer you naked and on your knees.”

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Evan smiled. Some things never changed, and that was a

fucking relief. It didn’t take long to strip off his clothes. The wool carpet was familiar and rough against his knees when he

dropped to them, and when Russell gestured, he obediently

lifted his right arm for the cuff.

“You’re sure?” Russell asked. “You know what this

means?”

“It means I’m yours. That’s all that matters.”

“It’s not.” Russell sounded serious. “It does mean you’re

mine, but not just as a possession. You’re mine to care for,

always. You’re everything I’ve ever wanted, Evan. When I got

that phone cal —” He swallowed and pressed his mouth to

the inside of Evan’s wrist, right on the pulse point.

“I know,” Evan whispered. “I know. Me, too.”

Slowly, as if he were giving Evan time to protest, Russell

fastened the cuff around his wrist. “There. Now it’s official.”

Evan leaned forward and wrapped his arms around

Russell’s waist, hugging him tightly. There’d never been anyone

as perfect for him as Russell, and knowing that Russell wanted

him, for always . . . he didn’t need anything else. This was his Christmas morning. It was everything he’d ever dreamed of.

He turned his head and breathed Russell’s scent through the

thin fabric of his shirt, felt Russell hard inside his trousers.

“Suck me,” Russell ordered softly.

Trembling at the thought, Evan unfastened Russell’s

trousers and pulled out his cock, took it into his mouth and

sucked hard until he tasted the sharp tang of pre-cum. He

circled the head of Russell’s cock with the flat of his tongue,

slid his lips down to the base until the head nearly blocked

his airway. He loved that, the brief—and sometimes not so

brief—moment he couldn’t breathe. It was transcendent.

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Russell murmured, “You’re so beautiful,” and Evan’s eyes

flew up to meet his. “Of course you are. That hasn’t changed.

I hate that you were hurt, but no scar could make you any less

beautiful to me.”

Evan pulled back, licked the tip of Russell’s cock. His

throat felt thick with emotion and hot tears filled his eyes,

and he didn’t want to do this, not now. He kept thinking he’d

reached the bottom of the fear and anger, and kept finding

out he’d been wrong. “I hate it.”

“It will get better,” Russell promised, but Evan shook his

head.“Not the scar. That you weren’t the one to put it there.”

His voice cracked. “I’d love it, if it was yours.”

“It is mine,” Russell said fiercely. “Every bit of you is mine.”

He reached down and gripped Evan’s chin. “You belong to

me, just as you are, and everything you’ll become. Mine.”

Evan whimpered. Russell could say those words a

thousand times and he would still need to hear them.

“You’re perfect,” Russell said, more gently now. “Perfect.

You have to believe me.” When Evan didn’t answer right away,

Russell looked sad. “Evan, say you believe me.”

He shook his head and Russell stood, pul ing him to his

feet as well.

“Come with me.” He led Evan to the bathroom, standing

him in front of the washbasin and lifting Evan’s head when

he would have looked down rather than into the mirror. “No,

look. This is you, Evan. I love you. Just like this.”

Evan’s gaze was drawn to the twisted scar on his cheek in

the reflection. It was ugly. He’d never thought of himself as

beautiful, but he’d certainly been more attractive before his

face had been carved open by a nutter with a pocketknife and

more greed than sense.

264

“Tell me what you see,” Russell urged him.

Evan bit his lip and stared into his own wide eyes.

“Someone who’s fucked up.”

“No, what you really see.”

Somehow, he knew what Russell was asking, and knew

it wasn’t more than he could give, even if it might not be

easy. He looked, and he saw all of it—who he was, what had

happened, how it had changed him. He saw his scar, the cuff

on his wrist at the same time he felt it there, still unfamiliar but desperately wanted at the same time. And, in Russell’s

eyes, he saw the truth in the reassurance that he was loved,

imperfect and unsteady as he was. “I—I see what you see. I see

all of me, and—I believe you.”

Russell looked relieved and hugged him around the waist

with one arm. When he spoke, his voice trembled. “Thank

you.”They stood there for a few more moments, just gazing at

each other, then Russell wordlessly led Evan back to bed and

tugged him down onto it, one hand touching Evan’s cock as a

prelude to what was to come. It was what they both wanted.

“Open yourself up for me while I watch,” Russell said,

handing him a bottle of lube.

Fucking himself open with two fingers was one of Evan’s

favorite things to do. He loved lying back, legs spread wide.

Even now he loved the way Russell watched him, eyes half

lidded, lips pressed together. It made Evan feel like a slut to

slide slick fingers into his eager hole, knowing that Russell

would be fucking him soon enough, whether with his cock or

the huge glass dildo he favored.

Evan stifled a moan as he pushed his fingers deeper.

Russell ran a hand up his thigh, making his cock throb and

his balls draw up tighter.

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“Another,” Russell said. Evan added a third finger, then,

wanting to see the expression on Russell’s face, a fourth. He

shouldn’t have—Russell hadn’t told him, and doing it without

permission was likely to earn him a punishment—but he

needed to increase the intensity and take this to another level.

“Hands above your head,” Russell said immediately. The

hungry look in his eyes was a delicious reflection of what

would follow, Evan knew from previous experience, and he

did as he’d been told, crossing his wrists.

Russell went to the small cupboard near the bed and

rummaged inside it, then came back with a bright red twisted

silk rope and secured Evan’s wrists to each other. He knew

how Evan liked it, just on the verge of tight enough to hurt.

The new wrist cuff changed the sensation, adding a thrilling

edge of discomfort.

“Better. Now, relax.” With no further warning, Russell

flattened one hand on Evan’s sternum and used the other to

lift one of the candles from the table beside the bed. He tilted it above Evan’s stomach, and a moment later, Evan felt the

searing heat of the melted wax on his skin.

He inhaled sharply, but said nothing. He wasn’t upset

about the pain—on the contrary, he welcomed it. Hopefully

he’d have burn marks, temporary though they’d be. Any bruise

Russell put on him was one he wanted, a reminder that he was

Russell’s in every way that mattered.

Russell had to get up and move around the room to collect

several other candles, which he set on the table with the first

one. The amount of time that took allowed Evan to anticipate

what was to come. He loved when Russell would tell him in

the morning what he had planned for that night, so he’d have

the entire day to think about it and look forward to it. This

was almost as good. Jesus, he was so fucking hard.

266

“I doubt very much this is what people had in mind

when they gave us candles.” Russell settled himself back on

the bed. There was a candle contained within a small glass

cup in his hand. “They are festive, aren’t they?” His tone

was conversational as he tilted the cup, and Evan tensed and

whined as the hot wax hit his right nipple. First there was heat, then a prickling sensation as the wax hardened and tugged at

his skin and chest hair. It wasn’t excruciating, but it hurt. He let himself sink down into the pain, let the next flare of it—on his other nipple—lap up around him like water. As he sank

beneath the surface, all his everyday worries dissipated.

Hot wax hit the tender crease of his elbow. He twitched

and held onto the pain, wrapped it around himself like a

blanket.

The next target was his throat. He saw it coming and

closed his eyes, fearing it would hit his face. When it didn’t,

he was both relieved and startled; he took those emotions and

gathered them up into the pain.

When melted wax seared his inner thighs just below

his balls, he whimpered, couldn’t help it. He wanted to curl

up around his cock to protect it—instinct was so bloody

strong—but forced himself to relax instead, welcoming the

pain rather than fighting it. It overwhelmed him perfectly,

taking over so he didn’t need to worry about anything.

“One more,” Russell said.

The base of his shaft near his balls—it was bad, and he

arched up off the mattress and choked back a sob. He was

grateful for Russell’s care; Russ lifted him upright and soothed him with gentle words and warm hands. He barely knew what

was happening until he felt Russell’s cock nudging at his hole,

still slick with lube, and then he realized he was straddling

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Russell’s lap and sinking down onto Russell’s cock as surely as

he’d sunk into the gift of pain Russell had given him.

Russell murmured reassurances, told him he was lovely

and beautiful. Russell’s cock worked deep into him, gravity

pul ing at Evan so Russell went even deeper. Evan’s wrists were

still bound, his arms draped over Russell’s shoulders, but it

didn’t matter that he couldn’t do much to help. Russell knew

what to do, and Russell would do it. All Evan had to do was be

done to, marked, fucked, made to come at Russell’s command.

Thrusting forcefully, Russell came first, groaning as his

hips jerked upward. “You,” Russell said. “Come for me, love.”

There was nothing Evan could do but obey. Orgasm was

nearly an afterthought following the incredible experience

he’d just had, the pleasure incomparable to the pain, but his

body tightened around Russell’s cock anyway, sending sparks

that made his nerves sing.

After, Russell laid him gently on his back, untied his

wrists, and cleaned him up a bit—the hardened wax would

have to wait—before lying down with him, the duvet pulled

up to keep them warm.

“We should get some sleep,” Russell said finally.

“We can sleep in if we like,” Evan murmured. “It’s

Christmas Day. We can do whatever we want.”

“True.”

“I’ve had all the Christmas I need,” Evan told him, and

kissed him with all the gratitude and love he was feeling.

“Have you?” It didn’t sound as if Russell didn’t believe

him, more that he found it amusing.

“Yes, of course.” He lifted his wrist and rubbed the new

cuff against his lips. “I’ve got you, haven’t I?”

Russell smiled and kissed his temple. “That you do, love.

That you do.”

268

His Very Last

Chance

Kim Dare

Everyone deserves one last chance.

We have until midnight tonight.

Pentworth Hotel. Suite 501. Now.

rew Claymore raced along the hotel corridor. Five zero

“M W “I D “A P

five, five zero three, five zero one . . . He skidded to a

stop outside the door. Pushing back the sleeve on his

leather jacket, he glanced at his watch. He’d made pretty good

time, considering he’d had to get into the centre of London

through the thousands of New Year’s Eve revellers crowding

the streets.

Unfortunately, “pretty good” didn’t feel like anywhere

near good enough for this particular situation. Bending over,

he forced deep lungfuls of air into his body in an effort to

catch his breath before facing his master. It was no use—he

couldn’t waste any more time.

Straightening up, Drew shoved his hand through his hair,

pushing the messy brown strands out of his face. He knocked

on the door. A lifetime seemed to tick past before the door

swung open, but at least it gave Drew a little more time to

prepare himself.

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He had another apology rehearsed and ready to leave his

lips the moment Kingsley stepped into view.

“I’m so sorry, sir, I—”

“Save it.”

Drew fell obediently silent, realising it had been a bloody

stupid idea to speak without an invitation. Kingsley hadn’t

allowed him to apologise the night he’d screwed up, or even

the morning after, and the look on his face made it clear he

had no interest in hearing it now, either.

“Inside.”

As Kingsley closed the door behind them, Drew

desperately tried to get a read on his mood. Kingsley’s eyes

were even more serious than usual. Lines furrowed between

his brows. He was immaculate as always, in a crisp white

shirt and black dress trousers. But he also looked undeniably

stern—like a man who’d summoned Drew halfway across

London to punish him more harshly than he ever had before.

Drew took a slow, deep breath. This was a good thing.

Once the punishment was over, they could both put his

stupidity behind them, everything could get back to normal,

and—

“Strip.”

Even before Kingsley had finished saying the word, Drew

had shrugged his jacket off his shoulders. He was good at

undressing himself quickly. He was even willing to consider

it one of his greatest life skills. Tonight, anything that allowed him to please his master was right up there with the ability to

breathe.

Drew set his jacket on the floor to the left of the door.

T-shirt, trainers, jeans, boxers, everything came off, even his

watch. He didn’t hesitate once.

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Lowering himself to his knees, he bowed his head and put

his hands behind his back, presenting himself as perfectly and

as submissively as he knew how. His hair fell forward, long

strands obscuring his vision, but there wasn’t much to see

from that position anyway.

“Follow me.”

Lacking any order to rise, Drew took his hands from

behind his back and crawled forward. He had to rush to

keep Kingsley’s feet within his field of vision, but he didn’t

dare look up. If he did, he’d pick the exact moment when

Kingsley happened to glance over his shoulder and check on

him. It would look like he was being cocky and not taking the

occasion seriously.

Kingsley’s shoes were as shiny as ever. Drew couldn’t quite

see his face in them, but that was only because Kingsley didn’t

stop moving. The stitch in his side Drew had earned while

running up five flights of stairs to reach the room returned.

He ignored it and kept crawling.

The flooring changed from the rich maroon carpeting of

the entrance to the cream-coloured marble tiles of what he

assumed was the suite’s main room. In turn, that gave way to a

dark green carpet, its pile thick and luxurious under his palms.

“Stay there.”

Drew stopped. He remained motionless on his hands and

knees as Kingsley’s shoes left his line of sight. Behind him, a

door clicked closed. The light flickered, almost disappearing

entirely.

A moment ago, Drew hadn’t cared if he’d been allowed to

study his surroundings or not. Now, he frowned at the carpet,

wishing he could at least glance up and work out what the

hell was going on. The lighting steadied, but it was still dim

compared to the other parts of the suite.

271

It almost felt like the place was lit with randomly flickering

Christmas fairy lights.

A birthday party. Yes, that was it.

It was strangely like that moment in a child’s birthday

party where the lights were dimmed and the cake brought

in. Unfortunately, Drew was sure tonight’s entertainment

wouldn’t include Pass the Parcel or balloons. He—

“Do you remember what you said just before I joined you

and your friends at your table?” Kingsley asked, his tone sharp

enough to cut through such hazy recollection with ease.

Drew didn’t bother to feign ignorance. They both knew

exactly what occasion they were discussing. Boxing Day,

in their favourite club, when they’d each met up with their

respective kinky friends.

It had been so fantastic just to relax and catch up with the

guys, especially after being away from the scene for almost a

month in the run-up to Christmas. The doms had given all

the subs permission to unwind at a separate table, and the

beer had been flowing, and . . .

“I said, ‘My master doesn’t have a romantic bone in

his body. Kingsley doesn’t do love, he does leather.’” But it wasn’t intended as a criticism, sir. I swear, I didn’t mean to be disrespectful. I’d never make fun of you, no matter how drunk I was. If anything, I was boasting that my dom is better than all their doms put together!

Drew bit his lip as he fought back all the excuses he

wanted to make. Kingsley didn’t do excuses. Hell, Drew had

worked that out even before he’d realised Kingsley didn’t do

love.A deep metal ic taste filled Drew’s mouth as the skin on

his lip split under his teeth.

272

Kingsley studied Drew very carefully. “Take your hands

off the floor. You have permission to look up.”

As Drew sat back on his heels and put his hands neatly

behind his back, Kingsley pushed Drew’s hair out of his face,

then stepped to one side, ensuring he didn’t block Drew’s

view. He wanted his lover to receive the full impact of the

scene laid out before him. That was important.

Even viewed in profile, Drew’s response was impressive.

His jaw actually dropped. He didn’t look to the side or try

to meet Kingsley’s eyes. He stared straight in front of him,

his gaze going first to the grand four-poster bed, then to the

lit candles arranged across every surface that could safely

support a candlestick.

For a moment, Kingsley saw Drew’s attention swing across

to the Christmas tree lingering in the corner of the room, its

heavily decorated branches blocking out part of the view over

the Thames, reminding them both that it hadn’t been long

since they’d enjoyed their first Christmas together.

Finally, Drew seemed to focus on the lush red rose petals

scattered across the crisp cream bed sheets. “Sir, I . . .”

Kingsley had been impressed by Drew’s restraint in

remaining silent, but he couldn’t bring himself to be sorry that Drew’s resolve failed him now. If Drew expected Kingsley to

cut him short again, he was mistaken.

Drew took a deep breath, apparently realising this was

his chance to say his piece. “I’m so sorry, sir. I really didn’t mean for it to sound as if I was complaining or like I was

asking for . . .” Even though Drew maintained his position

and was only able to gesture with a nod, he eloquently

indicated the whole set up. “For—”

“Enough.” Kingsley had heard all he needed to hear on

that particular topic. “You didn’t ask me for anything, and

273

even if you did—a submissive can only request. It’s always up

to the dominant to grant or deny him, isn’t it?”

“Yes, sir. But—”

“But nothing.”

Kingsley stepped forwards to stand directly in front of

Drew. Very slowly, Drew tilted his head back. Their eyes met.

It took all of Kingsley’s self-control to prevent himself from

uttering something stupid when Drew looked up at him like

that, his eyes so full of confusion, and need, and submission.

“I’ll determine tonight’s activities,” Kingsley said, his tone

sharpening as he fought to avoid any hint of sentimentality.

“Whatever I do, whatever actions I take, they are down to me,

not you. Do you understand that?”

“Yes, sir.”

“You said I don’t do romance. For the most part, you’re

right.” Kingsley folded his arms to quash a sudden inclination

to fidget. “However, I am very much the kind of man who

does last chances. When better for a man to have his last

chance than in the last few hours of a year?”

Drew swallowed rapidly, his Adam’s apple bobbing with a

rush of nervous energy. His breathing altered. His eyes opened

wider. If it were any other man, at any other time, Kingsley

would have thought he was heading for a panic attack.

No. That was nothing but bollocks. He was blatantly

projecting his own emotions onto the boy. Drew had no

reason to worry about their upcoming scene.

“Stand up,” Kingsley snapped, before he made an even

bigger fool of himself than he already had.

Drew pulled himself gracefully to his feet. His body was

as glorious as ever. However, for the first time, his cock was

completely soft at the start of one of their scenes.

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“Anxious?” Kingsley asked, not entirely sure he’d hid his

surprise.

“I’m not afraid to take a punishment, sir.”

Kingsley’s lips twisted into a wry smile. The boy really

didn’t get what their scene was about tonight. He didn’t want

to punish Drew. He wanted to make the most of the last few hours of the year to tell him he was in—

Kingsley’s mind stopped short. Bloody hell! What chance

did he have of telling the boy how he felt if he couldn’t even

utter the appropriate words inside his own head?

Kingsley’s hand tightened into a fist at his side, as if he

could hold onto the boy that way, or perhaps even keep a grip

on his sanity. He wasn’t sure what was more terrifying, caring

about another man so deeply, or the fact that he might never

have realised Drew was entirely ignorant of his feelings if he

hadn’t stumbled upon Drew mouthing off to his friends.

He’d been so certain he’d shown Drew how he felt a

hundred times over, so convinced it was obvious he felt

anything but casual about him. Well, this time there would be

no room for misinterpretation—Kingsley would make damn

sure of that.

“You can move freely within this room,” he said, striding

away before the temptation to reach out and grab Drew got

the better of him. There would be plenty of time for touching

later. Now was the time for talking.

Kingsley glanced over his shoulder as Drew lifted a hand

to push it through his hair and rub at the back of his neck.

Even though the boy was stark bollock naked, he didn’t seem

the least bit concerned that the curtains were open.

Drew looked calmly around the room, but didn’t take

a single step in any direction. Within twenty seconds, his

attention was fixed unwaveringly upon his master.

275

“What do you think of the bed?” Kingsley asked when it

became obvious he wouldn’t get a word from Drew unless he

prompted him.

His question seemed to unstick Drew’s feet from the

carpet. He stepped forward, making his way closer to both

Kingsley and the bed, but only ever looking at his master.

He came to a halt barely a yard away from Kingsley and

right next to one of the big elaborate bedposts. His hand

settled upon the bed’s deeply carved footboard. “I guess it’s

great, if you’re into that kind of thing, sir.” His tone made it quite clear he wasn’t interested in it himself.

“You mean, if you’re someone who prefers love to

leather?” Kingsley asked. Closing the gap between them, he

leant against the bedpost.

Drew nodded. His attention never wavered from

Kingsley’s face. Of course, that meant he wasn’t paying the

slightest bit of attention to Kingsley’s hands.

“What—?” Drew’s attention dropped to the handcuff

Kingsley had just snapped into place around his wrist. “Sir?”

“Romance and bondage don’t have to be completely

separate,” Kingsley said. “The décor may be different, but do

you really think I invited you up here for nothing more than

a quick fumble under the blankets followed by missionary-

position sex with the lights off?”

Drew blinked as if he still couldn’t quite wrap his mind

around the fact that he hadn’t been summoned to the city

centre for the mother of all punishments, let alone take in

anything else.

Kingsley lifted an eyebrow. “Romance? Perhaps. But

vanilla? Give me some credit, Drew.”

“No, sir,” Drew rushed out. “I’d never accuse you of

anything like that.”

276

“I should think not. A man doesn’t have to be a genius to

notice that even the most staple romantic notions have a great

deal of potential, in the right hands.”

Kingsley walked away. Drew had little choice but to

remain where he was. The handcuffs were already attached to

a length of silk, which Kingsley had, in turn, knotted firmly

around the bedframe, out of sight beneath the mattress.

“Potential, sir?” Drew asked, his tone more than a little

wary.“Certainly.” Kingsley selected a rose from the bouquet

arranged artistically on the dressing table. Keeping his pace

calm and almost sleepy, he retraced his steps until he stood in

front of Drew once more.

“Roses don’t just have petals,” he reminded Drew. He

trailed the head of the flower over Drew’s chest, brushing

the velvety softness across his nipples along the way. They

immediately pebbled, the sensitive nerve endings looking for

more attention. As he stroked the flower back in the opposite

direction, he let the stem caress Drew’s skin, too.

A sudden intake of breath. Drew met Kingsley’s gaze.

There was no doubt that Drew knew how the sentence ended

now.“Roses have thorns, too, sir,” he whispered when he

seemed to realise that Kingsley expected him to say it aloud.

“That’s right. There’s nothing in this room that a suitably

kinky man couldn’t pervert to his own ends.”

Drew didn’t look away, but Kingsley sensed the tension

in him. He was desperate to inspect the room for other things

that his master might use on him in unexpected ways.

Kingsley smiled. Drew’s gaze didn’t falter. Yes, the boy

had very good self-control. But, if Kingsley had learnt one

thing since Drew had uttered those fateful words, it was that

277

there were occasions where too much self-control could feel

far less like a blessing and more like a curse.

Kingsley knew all too well that if he didn’t find a way to

relax and get his message across now, his own excess of self-

control could easily prevent Drew from ever realising just

how much his master . . . cared for him.

It seemed to Drew as if weeks passed before Kingsley

spoke again.

“Your safeword is the same as it’s always been. Do you

have any questions?”

Millions. Drew wanted to know so many things it was

impossible for him to pick the most important one to ask first.

What do you intend to do with me? Are you trying to tell

me I should have been really careful what I wished for? Do you want the punishment to put me off everything romantic for the rest of my life?

It was relatively easy for him to dismiss those queries as

minor concerns, but other issues were impossible to think of

as anything less than life-shattering.

Will you take me back if I accept my punishment well, or

have you already decided this will be the last time we’ll do a scene? Are you so fed up with me you’re going to disown me when the clock strikes twelve, no matter what I do between now and then? Is this my last chance to prove I deserve your attention? My last chance to do a scene with you?

Drew’s heart raced faster and faster. His shoulders tensed,

making him tug at the cuff around his wrist. If he screwed up

his last chance to convince Kingsley he really was sorry and

deserved to be taken back, then . . .

278

Nothing.

He looked out across his future, but there was nothing

there. No orders, no scenes—or none that involved Kingsley,

which felt like the same thing. There would be no shared

breakfasts in the cheap little café around the corner from

Drew’s place, no surfing online trying to find a new toy his

master might like to try out on him, no heady cocktail of pain

and pleasure.

Without Kingsley, there was nothing. Drew was nothing.

Black emptiness extended before him, and Kingsley was the

only man capable of rol ing a carpet full of life and colour out across his future.

“No, sir,” Drew finally managed to say. “No questions.”

Or at least, no questions important enough to ask. He

wanted to submit to his master far more than he wanted

answers from him. The need to simply let go and hand over

control to Kingsley while he still could overruled everything

else.Kingsley gave a curt nod, as if he understood every

thought in Drew’s head without either of them needing to

say another word. He trailed the rose very slowly over Drew’s

chest again.

The topmost part of the rose was very pretty, but delicate

petals really couldn’t compete with the scratch of the thorns.

Even while panic filled his mind, the sensation of thorns

catching against his skin thrilled his body. As if realising the flower’s head was superfluous at exactly the same moment,

Kingsley wrapped his fist around it and tore the petals away

from the stem.

Drew stared up at his master in shock as the scent of

roses filled the air. Kingsley’s expression remained unreadable

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as he extended his hand and let the petals tumble onto the

bedspread and mingle with those already scattered there.

Romance or kink? It was impossible to know which was

which in that moment. Was Kingsley just messing around

with him before the punishment started, or was this the start

of the punishment?

Across his chest, down over his abs, pinpricks of pain sent

adrenaline coursing through Drew’s veins. He held his breath

as the flower stem trailed lower. Kingsley’s destination was

obvious, but he didn’t seem at all inclined to rush along the

way. Drew had no choice but to gasp in a fresh breath of air

long before the rose finally made the acquaintance of his cock.

The rose’s stem danced gently on the tip of his erection,

smearing pre-cum down its length. Suddenly, a thorn

scratched across the exposed glans.

A sharp jolt of electricity shot straight through his

nervous system. He jerked. His hips rocked.

Kingsley tutted. “So little self-control?”

Drew swallowed, but said nothing. He knew when his

master was teasing him, but he still realised there were ways

Kingsley could use the rose’s stem on his cock that would

make it a true punishment.

Kingsley’s lips curved into a small smile. “Perhaps I’d best

tie you up, make sure you can’t wriggle at all . . .”

He wasn’t asking for permission. He didn’t need it—not

from Drew. They both knew he already had it.

Drew remained silent, waiting as patiently as he knew

how. He had no doubt the decision had already been made;

Kingsley just wanted to make him writhe on the end of the

line for the sheer fun of it.

Finally, Kingsley caught hold of Drew’s free wrist and

guided him onto the mattress. With Drew’s right wrist

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already attached to one of the huge posts at the bed’s base,

Kingsley didn’t bother to untie him and start over. Within

half a minute, he’d cuffed Drew in place, with his head at the

foot of the bed, his feet by the pillows, and his limbs stretched out towards each corner. Kingsley had obviously worked out

just how much dark red silk was needed to bridge the gap

between the cuffs and the bed frame. Little slack remained,

little freedom offered.

Drew closed his eyes. He’d been put on his back, so

Kingsley didn’t intend to whip his back or paddle his arse

straight away. That still left a hell of a lot of options open to Kingsley. He’d brought handcuffs with him. He could just as

easily have packed a whole variety of—

With a startled yelp, Drew tried to curl into a foetal

position in an instinctive attempt at self-preservation. Not

one cuff gave way.

“Now, aren’t you glad I tied you up?” Kingsley asked

conversationally.

Drew jerked his head to face his master, sending several

locks of hair fal ing across his face.

Kingsley sat on the bed beside him in apparent comfort.

He hadn’t undressed. Not one strand of his hair was out of

place. Very calmly, he picked something up off the sheet

alongside Drew and placed it back on Drew’s stomach.

Once more, instinct kicked in. This time Drew was slightly

more prepared. He managed to limit his response to lifting his

head off the mattress so he could look down his body.

An ice cube.

“You can’t get more romantic than chilled champagne,”

Kingsley said. He lifted a glass to Drew in a mock toast

and took a sip. A glance at a small table positioned easily

within Kingsley’s reach, and Drew spotted a silver ice bucket

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glimmering in the candlelight. An open bottle of champagne

peeked above the rim.

A line of ice-cold water ran down Drew’s side. Kingsley

swiped his finger through the rivulet and examined the damp

tip before offering it to Drew’s mouth.

Refusing anything Kingsley offered was unthinkable.

Drew parted his lips. At the same time, he frantically tried

to think of every punishment that might involve ice, and his

chances of pleasing his master with his reaction to each of

them.

“Rumour has it the hotel uses cubes of frozen champagne

to fill these buckets. What do you think?”

The single drop of moisture hadn’t been enough to

lubricate Drew’s vocal cords, or provide him with an answer

to give his master. He made an attempt to clear his throat.

“Perhaps a sip will help you make up your mind?” Kingsley

suggested. He lowered the glass towards Drew’s face.

Drew automatically lifted his head to make it easier to put

his lips to the rim of the glass.

“If I want you to move your head, I’ll tell you. It’s one

thing to be unable to completely control your body when in

pain or shocked, quite another to wriggle when you’re entirely

capable of remaining still.”

Drew hesitated, blinking up at his master.

“Would you prefer me to restrain your head? I brought

some very romantic lace with me; it could do the job very

well.” He said it so bloody politely, too.

“That won’t be necessary, sir,” Drew promised, the words

gruff with a sudden increase in nerves.

“Good boy.” Kingsley tipped the glass forward.

Drew opened his mouth. That degree of voluntary action

seemed to be permitted.

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Kingsley poured a little of the sweet, sparkling liquid

past Drew’s lips. He kept the flow slow, but the very fact that

the champagne was completely under someone else’s control

made it almost impossible for Drew to swallow.

Unable to bring his lips together while the champagne

continued to pour, the volume of liquid in his mouth rapidly

built up.

Reaching out with his other hand, Kingsley placed two

of his fingertips against Drew’s nostrils. Combined with the

champagne in Drew’s mouth, Kingsley’s gentle touch was

better than a gag, more effective than any cloth held roughly

over his lips and nose. Drew peered up at Kingsley as his lungs

burned in protest.

Kingsley had earned Drew’s complete trust over the last

six months. There was no reason to think that he would

suddenly decide to either drown or suffocate him. Whatever

his punishment was to be, it was unlikely to be capital.

Everything would be fine. Drew still found it impossible

to ignore the fact that he was under more of Kingsley’s control

on this night than he had ever been when they met up in any

leather club.

His cock responded long before his mind was able to

wrap itself around what was happening. As he held his breath

and struggled to match the kink to his surroundings, his shaft

hardened even further, until his entire erection ached with

need and he felt like his balls would burst.

Finally, with a tiny tilt of the glass, Kingsley stopped

pouring. He lifted his other hand away.

“Swallow.”

Drew had never been more grateful for any order. He

pushed the chilled alcohol down his throat as quickly as he

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could and rushed to gulp down huge lungfuls of oxygen in

its wake.

He closed his eyes, stars dancing behind his eyelids as

relief rushed through him. No man should be able to get that

much reaction from a submissive with nothing more than a

mouthful of champagne and two fingertips.

Another gasp of air, and he reopened his eyes.

Kingsley watched him with an air of interest but very little

obvious emotion. It was impossible to know what he thought

or what he wanted. Eager to please in any way he could, Drew

parted his lips, offering up his mouth for a repeat of the same

treatment. If this was part of his punishment, he could take

it. If Kingsley wanted to play before he punished, then Drew

wouldn’t refuse that either.

“No,” Kingsley decided. “That’s enough for now. I want

your head clear.”

Drew closed his mouth. Drawing another breath in

through his nose, he watched Kingsley set the glass aside. He’d

said for now. There was nothing to stop him from changing his mind, or making it part of his punishment. He still owned

every breath Drew took, even if he didn’t choose to exercise

his control over each one right then.

Placing one fingertip on the ice cube that still rested on

Drew’s stomach, Kingsley guided it away from the patch

of skin that had become numbed to its presence and up to

Drew’s breastbone.

Lacking permission to lift his head and watch, Drew

could only track the ice’s progress by the chilly trail it left on his skin. Across his chest, around and over his nipples, making

the skin pucker and the nerve ends stand to attention.

Drew couldn’t change the way his body reacted. He didn’t

even try; he simply stared up at the deep red canopy above the

bed, giving himself up to the experience.

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His nervous system had already keyed into that mode

that turned everything upside down. Frigid pain felt more like

scalding pleasure. His cock relished each bit of the twisting

journey the ice took over his torso.

Kingsley had all the control, and Drew wouldn’t have had

it any other way. He trusted Kingsley. God help him, but he

loved Kingsley, too—no matter how much of an idiot that

made him.

Drew’s heart raced at the sudden realisation. He was in

love with Kingsley. Every other thought in his head scattered.

He was in love with Kingsley.

Once more, Kingsley took control over Drew’s ability

to breathe, but he didn’t need to use his fingers, or even the

champagne. He did it simply by existing.

He was in love with Kingsley. The fact circled around and

around in Drew’s head. He didn’t just think Kingsley was

hot as hell. It wasn’t only about enjoying playing with him or

submitting to him. He was in love with—

Drew let out a whimper that had nothing to do with the

way the ice chilled each bit of skin it touched.

He was in love with a man who didn’t, who wouldn’t,

perhaps even who couldn’t, love him back. He peered blindly up at the canopy. Kingsley hadn’t needed to say a word on the

subject for Drew to know he was the kind of guy who thought

love was a weakness that should only be tolerated among the

vanilla population.

A few short days ago, Drew had even thought that was a

good thing—that it was something to brag about. The idea

that he might lose his master over being so bloody stupid

chilled him right down to the bone. A shiver ran through him.

“Cold?”

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The question brought Drew back to the real world. He

glanced towards his master and remembered the ice.

Damn, but even if Kingsley didn’t have the capacity to

love, Drew had to admit the man had patience. He kept the

ice cube moving over him, as if it were the most interesting

thing he’d ever done in his life.

Yes, that was a far safer topic for Drew to think about. Ice,

and sex, and whatever was happening to him right now. None

of them threatened him the way love, or the absence of love,

could.

He focused intensely on the details of his physical rather

than his emotional predicament. More and more droplets of

water melted from the ice and slid down his sides to soak into

the sheet beneath him. It soon felt as if they bound him to the

bed just as firmly as any handcuffs or silk bindings. Kingsley

could easily pin him in place with nothing more than a

gradually shrinking bit of ice—that was how much of a hold

he had over him.

A movement just within Drew’s field of vision grabbed

his attention. Kingsley’s hand slid away from his torso and

towards the edge of the bed, but it soon came back.

Drew gasped.

A lance of pure cold hit the inside of his thigh. Kingsley

had pulled another ice cube out of the bucket. Very slowly, he

moved it up the exposed skin towards Drew’s balls. There was

no way Drew could close his legs.

As much as his cock loved the messages his brain sent out

whenever he was at the mercy of a hot, dominant man, Drew

was very sure his erection wouldn’t like feeling ice pressed

against it one little bit and neither would his ball sac.

Inch by inch, the ice moved higher. Drew studied

Kingsley as best he could from his current position, but he

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couldn’t hold the other man’s gaze for more than a second.

What if Kingsley saw something in his eyes? What if he saw

something in Kingsley’s expression? What if he had to face

the fact that he was losing his mind, right now, in the middle

of the most important scene of his life? He quickly turned

his attention back to the canopy above them; rich red fabric

stared back at him.

Drew whimpered. His hole tightened as Kingsley slid the

ice across it. Stopping there, Kingsley moved the ice against

the ring of muscle in firm little circles. It was a cruel imitation of how warm, lube-covered fingers had worked their way

inside him so often in the past, preparing him for the full girth of Kingsley’s cock.

There was no way to object without saying his safeword

and cal ing a halt to the whole game. The very thought made

Drew tense far more than any degree of discomfort could.

The chains in the centre of each pair of handcuffs rattled.

“Do you like the ice?” Kingsley asked, his tone still as

polite and conversational as ever.

Drew hesitated, caught off guard by the sudden query.

Hell, he didn’t even know if this was supposed to be the start

of the real punishment.

“The truth.” There was nothing genteel about that order.

“It’s a little . . . um . . . cold, sir,” Drew admitted.

Kingsley made a thoughtful little sound in the back of

his throat. “Then perhaps we should heat things up. We can’t

have you getting chilly.”

Kingsley studied Drew thoughtfully. That had taken a lot

of faith, not so much for Drew to tolerate the ice, but for him

to admit he wasn’t entirely comfortable under its caress.

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That gave Kingsley hope, but it wasn’t enough.

“Do you trust me?” he asked. It was as close as he dared

venture to the question he really wanted to ask.

“Yes, sir,” Drew confirmed without hesitation.

“Good.” That meant it was time to see how well Drew

knew his own mind on that particular matter. Kingsley got off

the bed. “You’re allowed to move your head if you wish.” He

didn’t look to see if Drew took advantage of the permission.

He concentrated all his attention on rol ing up his sleeves.

They’d had enough ice. Heat. That was what they needed

now.Kingsley moved to the tall chest of drawers next to the

dressing table. Four candelabra crowded on top of it. Three

sets of pure white candles already burned brightly.

The candles in the fourth candelabra were somewhat

different. Kingsley carried it across to the bedside table.

Drew’s curiosity was palpable; Kingsley felt him watching his

every movement with interest so intense, its tendrils seemed

to reach out and wind around his limbs.

“I mentioned earlier that I believe a man should always

be given one last chance to correct his mistakes. He should

always take full advantage of that opportunity,” Kingsley said

as he studied the unlit candles.

“Yes, sir.”

“I always make a point of starting each new year with

a clean slate. Any mistakes my submissive may have made

during the previous year are forgiven when midnight strikes.”

He paused for a moment as he selected a candle and removed

it from the candelabra. “That also means that, if he wants to

make amends for anything, he needs to do that before the

following year begins.”

“Yes, sir,” Drew said again.

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Kingsley frowned, but he pushed aside the suspicion that

Drew was so focused on watching his preparations he wasn’t

listening to a damn word he said. He couldn’t let himself

make excuses and stop now.

Taking a small penknife from his pocket, Kingsley neatly

trimmed the wick of the plain black candle.

“I follow the same principle myself,” he added, lighting

his candle from one of the white ones that filled all the other

candelabras provided by the hotel. “That means that, if I have

given a submissive an incorrect impression about something,

or if I haven’t explained a situation properly, I need to correct that by the end of the year.”

“Yes, sir.”

Kingsley half turned, but he still didn’t look towards

Drew. He didn’t dare. He knew he’d lose his nerve if he met

Drew’s gaze. Kingsley hadn’t been at ease since he’d gate-

crashed Drew’s conversation with the other subs, but now

his stomach was a mass of knots. Drew’s minimalist answers

weren’t helping.

Taking a deep breath, Kingsley focused on the physical

task at hand. At least he knew what he was doing there. The

wax near the tip of the black candle quickly began to glisten.

The low melting temperature soon caused a droplet to form

just beneath the flame.

Kingsley extended his arm, positioned the candle about

a foot and a half above his bare skin, and patiently waited for

the wax to hit his forearm. Finally, a little black pearl of heat fell.Kingsley heard Drew gasp, but he still didn’t look towards

him. Satisfied the melting point was just as it should be, he

altered the angle of the candle, making sure none of the wax

would be wasted on the hotel’s carpeting.

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Kingsley stepped forward, positioning himself so close

to the edge of the bed his legs pressed against the side of the

mattress. “You remember your safeword?” he checked.

“Yes, sir.” The words were obviously spoken entirely on

auto-pilot. Just like every other response Drew had issued in

the last five minutes.

Kingsley cursed himself for not trusting his instincts on

that score earlier.

In hindsight, Drew’s previous “yes, sirs” were annoying.

They meant Kingsley would likely have to say everything

he’d struggled to utter all over again, but at least the only

person who’d feel like his teeth were being drawn during that

repetition would be Kingsley himself.

But the final “yes, sir”—that was completely unacceptable.

Safewords were far too crucial to be taken so lightly. The

thought of Drew risking himself that way sent a spear of anger

through Kingsley.

“Focus,” he snapped, more than willing to let his tone of

voice inform Drew of just how important the subject was to

him.

Handcuffs rattled as Drew tried to sit up. His bonds

pulled him back against the mattress, tugging roughly at his

wrists and jolting his shoulders.

He blinked at his master. Kingsley was angry with him.

He wasn’t just not-in-love with Drew, he was furious with

him. Every other thought in Drew’s mind fled with that

realisation. “Sir?”

“Have I ever given you any reason to believe I don’t

respect your safeword?” Kingsley snapped. He took several

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paces back, increasing the gap between them until it became

a canyon.

“No, sir, never.” Drew tried to sit up again, and failed

again. He couldn’t bring them closer together. The realisation

sent his heart racing. He was trapped, unable to kneel at his

master’s feet and beg Kingsley to forgive whatever the hell

he’d done wrong this time. Bondage had never been harder to

tolerate. He tugged at his cuffs again, but his frustration failed to give him superhuman strength.

“Then why do you think I’d accept you treating a reminder

of the word as if it’s nothing more than a commonplace

formality? It’s important. When I ask you if you know what

your safeword is, it’s for a reason.” Finally, he took a step closer to Drew.

“It won’t happen again, sir,” Drew promised. The very

fact that it had pissed Kingsley off so badly had instantly

hardwired its importance into Drew’s mind. He would never

make the same mistake again.

“I’m not a mind reader,” Kingsley said. “I won’t have you

trying to bluff your way through a scene or tough something

out if it triggers a problem inside you. I’ve seen too many good subs ruined that way.”

“I understand, sir. I do know my safeword, and I know

when you expect me to use it.”

Kingsley now stood directly alongside the bed. He stared

down at Drew for several seconds, as if judging his sincerity

very thoroughly. Drew gazed back at him, praying both that

Kingsley would like whatever he saw in his eyes, and that he

wouldn’t see too much.

Slowly extending his arm, Kingsley held the candle

directly over Drew’s bare chest. Sheer relief at the scene not

being abandoned made Drew giddy.

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A droplet formed beneath the flame. Drew stared at his

chest in expectation. He held his breath. His abs tensed.

Nothing.

He glanced up. Halfway between the candle and his skin,

Kingsley caught the wax in the palm of his hand.

“Tell me what this makes you think of?” Kingsley ordered

with a nod to the candle.

Drew swallowed rapidly. He peered back up to the shiny

black candle. “Devil worship and satanic offerings, sir,” he said with complete, if possibly badly-timed, honesty. The thing

looked like something out of an old Hammer horror movie.

Kingsley chuckled. The atmosphere in the room instantly

altered. “You’re truthful, at least,” he allowed. “However, I

don’t think you qualify as a virgin sacrifice.”

Drew wasn’t so sure. Right now, it didn’t matter how

many men Drew had screwed before they’d met. He couldn’t

have picked a single one of them out of a line-up. Kingsley

occupied his whole world. He wasn’t just the first man Drew

had ever fallen in love with. Right now, he might as well have

been the first man Drew had had sex with, too.

Without another word, Kingsley moved his hand from

beneath the candle.

Drew’s attention went to Kingsley’s face. What the candle

did to his skin wasn’t important now—what happened in his

dom’s head was.

A sudden burst of heat fell against Drew’s breastbone,

followed by a strange, tightening sensation as the wax

solidified on his skin. Drew didn’t look away from his master’s

eyes for a moment.

He saw approval burn brightly in Kingsley’s gaze and

instantly fell in complete lust with candles, molten wax, and

everything else in the room. Whatever made his master look at

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him like that was worth its weight in gold-plated leather. The

simple pleasure he felt at pleasing his master was intoxicating.

“Go ahead,” Kingsley allowed after a few seconds. “You

can look.”

Drew gazed along his body. The black wax formed a

strange abstract shape against his skin. It was completely

cooled now but, just like the ice, the effect it had on Drew’s

mind lingered.

Without any warning, another drop splashed down next

to the first.

Jerking his gaze up, Drew turned his attention first to the

candle, then to Kingsley. “I never realised . . .”

“That candles could do anything other than look pretty at

romantic dinner dates?” Kingsley asked.

“No, of course, I mean I’ve seen . . . I just never—” Drew

cut himself short. He’d just never trusted any other dom

enough to let them play with him and matches at the same

time. He couldn’t admit that. If he did, Kingsley might guess

how he felt about him and that was far more terrifying than a

bit of candle wax could ever be.

Drew glanced back at the candle. Kingsley had moved it.

It looked like—

The third drip confirmed Drew’s guess as it scored a direct

hit on his left nipple. He bucked. For some reason, rather than

pull away from the heat, his body just wanted to push out his

hips as far as his bondage would allow.

His erection bobbed in the empty air as if begging for

Kingsley’s attention, for the candle’s attention.

Drew’s eyes opened very wide. His safeword rushed to

the front of his mind in an effort to make sure nothing bad

ever happened to his penis, but his lips remained closed. He

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pushed the instinct towards panic aside and ordered the more

fearful parts of his mind to trust his master.

Very slowly, Kingsley guided the candle down Drew’s

body. Wax dripped onto his abs, making him squirm with

unexpected pleasure. Then it moved lower, just above his

crotch. Drew whimpered.

Wax continued to patter down upon him, landing on the

inside of his thighs like the first rain after a long summer’s

drought. A slight movement of Kingsley’s hand and it

splashed against his balls. Drew bit down on the inside of

his cheek. Heat seared through his whole body, making him

moan with pleasure.

Another drop, then another, and another, gradually

coated his balls with wax. Then, finally, one fell against his

erection. Drew’s hands formed into fists, but it was pleasure

rather than pain that burst through him. Maybe even more

than the patterns the wax painted on him, the fact that

Kingsley had the right to do it made his mind reel.

Drew had given him that right, and not just because it

was a hot, kinky game. It went far deeper than that. Suddenly,

the physical aspects of the scene careered into the emotions

he’d been trying to keep at bay ever since he’d first realised

they existed. There wasn’t any time for a screech of brakes, or

even a hand brake turn. The resulting fireball would have been

a worthy climax to any Hollywood blockbuster’s chase scene.

There was no way for Drew to escape his emotions now.

Even if he were able to get out of his cuffs, he’d never be able to run far enough to free himself from what was in his own heart.

His mind whirled; his body struggled against the restraints—

as if that could possibly help. Fear of the kind of pain that

could never morph into bliss inside him sent shivers down his

spine. If Kingsley ever walked away from him, then . . .

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Drew tossed his head, sending his hair flying into his face.

His eyes opened very wide. Without any warning, his gaze

caught Kingsley’s stare.

Drew fell still, gasping for breath. Kingsley altered the

angle of the candle and blew out the flame. In the aftermath

of the col ision between physical bliss and mental anguish, all

that remained inside Drew was debris. Panic raced through

him, but that didn’t hide the fact that there was an unexpected, shimmering beauty to it al . He was in love with Kingsley. He

was in love with a man who didn’t do love any more than he

did apologies or excuses, and there was nothing he could do

about that.

It wasn’t cuffs or silk that kept Drew in place now. He was

far more restrained by his submission than by his bondage.

Kingsley sat on the bed next to him. “There’s not much

left of the year.”

Drew said nothing in response. He wasn’t sure what could

be said. If there really wasn’t going to be a punishment, he had no idea how to convince Kingsley that he deserved another

chance. The moment was slipping away, and all he was capable

of was gawking at the man he loved, like a devout worshiper

faced with the incarnation of his one true god.

“Did you take in anything I said about last chances and

clean slates?” Kingsley asked, just a touch of wry annoyance

in his tone.

“Yes, sir.” In an effort to prevent the words emerging as a

weak little whisper, Drew said them far more loudly than he’d

intended. “I want to apologise for—”

Kingsley placed the tip of the candle against Drew’s lips.

The wax had already cooled and solidified, and was no more

than comfortably warm against his skin.

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“I didn’t bring you here to hear an apology,” Kingsley

said. “Has anything that’s happened tonight felt like a

punishment?”

Drew shook his head, careful not to dislodge the candle

as the hardened wick rubbed beneath his nose.

“Tell me what it seemed like to you.” Kingsley lifted the

candle from Drew’s lips, giving him permission to speak.

A treat? No. “A lesson,” Drew realised. Yes, that was

exactly what it felt like.

Kingsley dipped his head once in acceptance. “Yes.” He

touched the candle to Drew’s lips again, removing his right to

reply. Looking down for a moment, he seemed to inspect the

candle as if determined to find any flaw in the smooth, black

surface.

Drew waited, still unable to decipher the moral of

the lesson. Subs who mouth off lose the men they love? Good

dominants don’t put up with men who insult them? Doms only

bring out romantic clichés when they’re about to dump their

subs? Each possibility was more gut-wrenching than the last, but they all had one similarity: they all sentenced Drew to a

life without Kingsley.

“You were right about one thing,” Kingsley finally said,

his tone strangely soft. “I don’t usually do romance.”

He took the candle away, but there was no hint of

permission to speak. It took all of Drew’s self-control not to

open his mouth without a clear indication that he was allowed

to do so.

“But you were wrong about the other half of the equation,”

Kingsley went on. “I can, apparently, do love.” Suddenly, he

stood up, turned his back on Drew, and moved towards the

candelabra holding the other black candles.

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Permission be damned. Drew would take a punishment

for speaking up if he needed to, but he couldn’t just let

Kingsley leave things like that. “Apparently, sir?”

“Yes,” Kingsley said, putting the half-used candle back

into its space on the candelabra. “I seem to have fallen in love with you.”

Kingsley stared down at the base of the candelabra. His

reflection stared back at him from the well-polished surface.

Drew said nothing. Each moment of silence stretched out

into a year. Kingsley felt himself age a decade every minute. It flashed through his mind that he should have untied Drew. It

would be very irresponsible for a dom to have a heart attack

without releasing his sub first.

“If that is a problem for you, I suggest you say your

safeword. I’ll release you and you’ll be free to leave.” Kingsley’s pulse beat so loud it echoed in his ears; it almost drowned out

his words. He couldn’t make his tone casual, but at least he’d

managed to keep his voice level.

“Am I allowed to say something that isn’t my safeword,

sir?”Kingsley turned to Drew and raised an eyebrow. Even in

this situation, his inner disciplinarian wasn’t willing to forgo correcting a submissive’s mistakes. “You’ve already broken the

command to remain silent,” he pointed out. “Continuing to

break it won’t change anything a great deal.”

Drew swallowed rapidly, as if his throat was dry with

nerves—Kingsley understood that feeling very well.

“I know it always sounds dodgy when someone says ‘me,

too,’ sir. But . . .” Drew looked at the canopy, at the bedposts, 297

at the dressing table, everywhere except towards Kingsley.

“Me, too.”

Kingsley remembered how to breathe. No false declaration

could have been issued so bashfully. He strode across the room

to stand alongside the bed. “You can do better than that.”

Drew looked at him for a moment, glanced away, took a

deep breath, and finally turned his attention back to Kingsley’s face.“I love you too, sir. I never intended to. I just thought you were hot, that we’d have some fun and move on, but . . .” He

closed his eyes. “I love you, sir. I don’t ever want to move on.”

He squinted as he opened his eyes, as if fearful of a reality in which he’d said those words out loud.

Kingsley allowed himself to smile and let Drew know

how much he treasured hearing him say that. Relief danced

inside him like a drunken loon celebrating the biggest football

victory since the creation of the game, but he wasn’t willing to make quite that much of an idiot out of himself. “Good,” he

said, very soberly.

Drew grinned back at him.

A sudden burst of bright red light filled the room.

Kingsley turned towards the window.

“Just in time,” he murmured.

“Sir?”

Kingsley’s lips twisted into an ironic little smile. “Happy

New Year.”

Another firework exploded above the Thames, its light

easily bright enough to overpower the candles.

“Yes, sir.”

Those words were all it took to pull Kingsley’s attention

away from the fireworks and back to Drew. He ran his eyes

slowly over his submissive’s naked, wax-decorated body. It was

298

a glorious sight to admire as the partygoers passing along the

corridor outside the suite sang “Auld Lang Syne” at the top of

their voices.

Midnight had never looked more stunning.

“I wonder what would be the best way to start the New

Year,” Kingsley mused. Sitting alongside Drew’s bound body,

he ran his fingers over the splashes of wax, one by one, from

Drew’s chest down to his abs.

Drew tensed. His breathing altered. It seemed to Kingsley

that expectation crackled through him like lightning in a

storm.

“Do you think we should start as we mean to go on?”

Kingsley asked.

“Yes, sir!”

“And how would we do that?” Kingsley skirted around

Drew’s cock and balls to run his fingers over the wax that had

fallen against the tops of his legs.

“However you want, sir.”

Kingsley shook his head. “If I ask a question, I expect you

to answer it properly. You should know that by now.”

Drew cleared his throat. “I’d really like us to have sex, sir.

And, if you don’t have any objection to me coming, I’d really

like that, too.”

Kingsley stood and reached for the cuff at the head of the

bed, where Drew’s right ankle was bound. In seconds, both of

Drew’s legs were free.

Drew said nothing—probably because he had no way of

knowing what his master’s actions meant yet. All he could do

was hope that his dom would act in the best way for them

both.The trust Drew put in him was even more erotic than his

wax-splattered body.

299

Kingsley grabbed the tube of lube he’d stashed under

one of the pillows and smeared it over his fingers. He saw a

change in Drew’s attitude when he realised he wasn’t going

to be completely freed. No man had ever looked happier to

remain in bondage.

Fireworks continued to shoot through the air almost

directly outside the window. Light danced across every surface

in the room, turning the world blue, then yellow, then red in

turn. Kingsley shook his head and tuned out every whiz and

bang they made. He didn’t care what colour his hand became

as he worked his slicked fingers deep into Drew’s hole.

If there had been a suitable moment for patience and

tenderness, that time had passed. The second Drew was

ready for him, Kingsley snatched his hand away. Fly undone,

condom on, he knelt between Drew’s spread legs. Placing

his hands on either side of his lover’s body, Kingsley leant

forwards and pressed the tip of his cock against Drew’s hole.

Their eyes locked. Kingsley stilled for just a moment,

staring down at Drew.

Another explosion. A flash of bright purple flooded the

hotel room. Kingsley thrust forwards, lodging his cock inside

Drew’s body to the hilt.

Drew bucked. Handcuffs rattled. Arching his spine, Drew

kicked against the sheet beneath him, scrabbling for any kind

of leverage.

Supporting most of his weight with his arms, Kingsley

gazed down at his submissive’s face. With his hair fanned out

against the bed sheet, his eyes closed, and his lips parted in

ecstasy, Drew was more gorgeous than ever.

Kingsley rocked back and thrust into him again. Drew

gasped and lifted his hips up off the bed to meet him halfway.

300

More fireworks zoomed past the window, seeming to

glory in a kind of freedom the handcuffs stole from Drew.

Kingsley didn’t try to be gentle. That wasn’t what either of

them needed, not at a time like this. Kingsley ploughed into

Drew as if his life depended on making them both come as

quickly as possible—he was half-sure it really did.

Squirming beneath him, Drew lifted his legs and wrapped

them around Kingsley’s body. Perhaps it wasn’t the most

submissive thing to do, but Drew hadn’t been ordered not to

hold onto his master that way. It felt too good for Kingsley to

object to it without a bloody good reason.

He thrust into Drew again. They were equally trapped

now—Drew by the cuffs, and Kingsley by Drew’s grip on

him. Whether Drew knew it or not, he had a greater hold

on Kingsley than any man had ever achieved in the past. It

wasn’t just a new year they were starting together—it felt

suspiciously like the beginning of something that would last

a lifetime.

Drew whimpered then, making it impossible for Kingsley

to think about anything other than the present. Drew’s cock

was trapped between them. Kingsley felt the tip of it rubbing

against his stomach each time he pushed forward. Drew stood

on the sharpest of knife-edges, keeping his balance through

sheer force of will.

“Come,” Kingsley ordered. A flash of bright white light

exploded outside the window at the same moment as the

command hit the air.

As Drew spilled obediently between them, a rapid

sequence of fireworks sent showers of light spiral ing across

the room, making Kingsley feel as if he could actually see the

301

pretty lights that sparkled behind Drew’s eyelids when he

came.

Drew’s legs tightened around Kingsley as he found his

release. More importantly, Drew’s hole clamped down around

his cock, too. A few more thrusts were all it took for Kingsley

to discover his own private firework display. Rockets shot

through his veins. Catherine wheels spun inside his mind,

their sparks burning brighter and brighter until, as quickly as

it had started, the display came to an end.

As Drew unwrapped his legs from around him, Kingsley

col apsed on the bed next to him.

The show outside the window had reached its climax at

the same time as them. The candles once more provided the

only light in the room. “Happy New Year to you too, sir,”

Drew whispered.

Kingsley was sure that deserved some sort of verbal

response, but his brain was so full of afterglow it was far easier to react by levering himself up and undoing the cuffs around

Drew’s wrists so his submissive could rest more comfortably.

And, since Kingsley had made the effort to raise himself up

onto one elbow and was already leaning over Drew, it would

have been a criminal waste not to bring their lips together.

The kiss was slow and lazy. No steamroller of desire

chased them forwards now. There was no real need to kiss at

al , except for the sheer joy of having Drew part his lips for

him without any order needing to be issued.

Drew was his. His to kiss. His to restrain. His to screw.

And, to hell with it, yes, Drew was even his to love.

As he broke the kiss, he smiled wryly down at Drew. As

last chances went, he didn’t think either of them had done

too badly.

302

“Sir?” Drew asked with sleepy curiosity.

“I’ll tell you later,” Kingsley said. For now, he just lay

down and gathered Drew in his arms to rest against his body

and begin the new year exactly how he wanted it to go on.

303

About the Authors

Kim Dare is a twenty-nine-year-old, ful -time writer from Wales (UK). First published in 2008, she has since released over eighty BDSM erotic romances. While most of Kim’s stories

follow male/male relationships, she actually writes about all

gender combinations. Her titles include contemporary stories,

fairy-tale retellings, vampires, werewolves, and werelions—

not to mention the occasional wereduck. Regardless of the

gender of her characters, the different genres they inhabit, or

the length of their stories, there are three things Kim always

wants to give her characters—kink, love, and a happy ending.

Visit Kim Dare on the web at www.kimdare.com.

Jane Davitt is English but currently lives in Canada with her husband, children, and cats. Writing and reading occupy most

of her time, and she likes it that way. Jane has been writing

since 2002 and wishes she’d started earlier. She has a tendency

to get addicted to TV shows that get cancelled all too soon.

She owns over 4,000 books, rarely gives any away, but is happy

to loan them, and is of the firm opinion that there is no such

thing as “too many books.” Visit Jane Davitt on the web at

www.janedavitt.com.

Joey W. Hill, winner of the 2011 Romantic Times Career

Achievement award, has published over thirty contemporary

and paranormal BDSM erotic romances, including four

series. Her characters include everything from vampires,

mermaids, witches, and angels, to boardroom executives,

cops, and simple housemaids. Free excerpts from all her works

are available at her website, www.storywitch.com. Additional vignettes, character interviews, and graphics inspired by the

work are at the fan forum site, www.jwhconnection.com.

Ava March is a multi-published author of smoking hot

M/M historical erotic romances. She loves writing in the

Regency time period, where proper decorum is of the utmost

importance, but where anything can happen behind closed

doors. Visit Ava March on the web at www.avamarch.com.

Katie Porter is the co-writing team of Lorelie Brown and Carrie Lofty, friends and critique partners of six years. Both

are multi-published in several romance genres. Carrie has an

MA in history, while Lorelie is a US Army veteran. Generally

a high-strung masochist, Carrie loves weight training and has

no fear of gross things like dissecting formaldehyde sharks.

Her two girls are not appreciative. Lorelie, a laid-back sadist, would rather grin maniacally when Carrie works out. Her

three boys love how she screams like a little girl around spiders.

Visit Katie Porter on the web at www.katieporterbooks.com.

Elyan Smith lives in the southwest of England. He works in research during the day and spends most of his free time writing LGBT fiction. You can find him at www.elyansmith.com and

www.twitter.com/ElyanSmith.

Alexa Snow is an emotional person who appreciates

practicality in others. She’s prone to crying at inconvenient

times, drinking too much coffee, and staying up too late

playing with words (either reading or writing). A background

of schooling she wasn’t all that interested in resulted in a

Bachelor’s degree in Sociology and a vague sense of wasted

time. Alexa lives in a tiny old house in New England with

her husband, young son, and a small collection of pets. Visit

Alexa on the web at home.comcast.net/~alexasnow.

L.A. Witt is an abnormal M/M romance writer who, after

three years in Okinawa, Japan, relocated to Omaha, Nebraska,

in late 2011. She lives there with her husband, two cats, and

a buck-toothed turtle named Sheldon. In between writing

smutty books full of smutty smuttiness, she continues her

tireless pursuit of her archnemesis, erotica author Lauren

Gal agher. Visit L.A. Witt on the web at www.loriawitt.com.

About the Editor

Sarah Frantz has a Ph.D. in English Literature from the

University of Michigan. She edited two academic collections,

Women Constructing Men: Female Novelists and Their

Male Characters, 1750-2000 (Lexington, 2009) and New Perspectives on Popular Romance Fiction: Critical Essays

(McFarland, 2012). She is President of the International

Association for the Study of Popular Romance, recipient of

an Academic Research Grant from the Romance Writers of

America, and has published academic articles on Jane Austen,

J.R. Ward, Suzanne Brockmann, Joey W. Hill, and scenes in

which the romance hero breastfeeds from the heroine. Sarah

reviewed romance at Dear Author for almost four years and is

now an acquiring editor at Riptide Publishing.

Enjoy this book? Visit

RiptidePublishing.com

for more BDSM!

The course of true love doesn’t

Give me six months,

always run clean.

and I’ll give you the world.

ISBN: 978-1-937551-77-3

ISBN: 978-1-937551-28-5

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