Contents

Also by Robin Moray

About

Chapter One

Chapter Two

Chapter Three

Chapter Four

Chapter Five

Chapter Six

Chapter Seven

About the Author

OPENING UP

His Boy Next Door 34

By R.J. Moray

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

Copyright ©2019 Robin Moray

All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in or introduced into a retrieval system, or transmitted, in any form or by any means (electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording or otherwise), without the prior written permission of the copyright owner, except by a reviewer who may quote brief passages in a review.

This book is sold subject to the condition that it shall not, by way of trade or otherwise, be lent, re-sold, hired out or otherwise circulated without the author's prior consent in any form of binding or cover other than that in which it is published and without a similar condition including this condition being imposed on the subsequent purchaser.

First Electronic Edition

Also by Robin Moray

(Up-to-date listing at robinmoray.com)

Bonded to the Alpha series

Bonded to the Alpha

Loyal

Claimed

Mated

Mallory Witches series

Something Wicked

The Omega Colony series

Changed: Mated to the Alien Alpha

As R.J. Moray

Novellas

Finding Elliott

Serials

His Boy Next Door
(Channon Beaumont series)

Season One

Season Two

Season Three

A Collar For His Brat

(Ewan McKinney series)

About His Boy Next Door 34 : Opening Up

While Jack recovers from his accident, Channon can't stop worrying about his Sir. Jack's too stubborn to take this lying down, and Channon doesn't want to be the one to stand up to him. Every submissive bone in his body tells him to let Jack have his way, but sometimes you have to be tough on the ones you love, and Channon loves Jack more than anything.

This book is episode 34 in an ongoing serial, and contains acts of an adult and sexual nature. Read at your own risk.

Chapter One

“Mom,” Jack said, feeling decades of exasperation billow up fresh, “I’m going to be fine. They let me go, didn’t they?”

His mom gave him a Look. “They let you go home for bed rest, not conference calls and international flights and corporate takeovers.”

Her view of what he did made him smile—it wasn’t entirely inaccurate, after all. “I promise I won’t fly anywhere until I get signed off. And I’ll take it easy on the corporate takeovers.”

She ignored him, walking past him into the bedroom he shared with Channon and frowning at it. “Honey, it’s too dark in here.”

“I like it dark in here.”

“How do you wake up in the morning?”

“I have an alarm.”

“That’s not good for you,” she said, opening the curtains. “Look at that view! How can you waste it?”

“That’s a good question,” Jack agreed.

Out of the corner of his eye he caught a flash of red. Ah! A pair of lace panties caught under the dresser. Channon’s, of course, discarded in a moment of distracted passion. Jack discreetly tucked them all the way under with one foot while his mom was fussing with the drapes.

“How long are you staying?” he asked, sinking onto the bed.

There, that Look again. “Tomorrow. Once you’re settled in.”

Which meant she was staying the night, and Jack wouldn’t get Channon all to himself the way he’d wanted.

He stifled a sigh and forced a smile instead. “Thanks for coming. You didn’t have to.”

“Of course I did. You’re still the baby, no matter how big you get.” She patted him on the cheek. She smelled of attar of roses, a scent from his childhood that made him homesick in a way he rarely felt, and it shocked him. His mom, who came to him in the hospital and saw him home to make sure he was okay. Could he really turn that down?

“Thank you,” he said again, meaning it this time. “I’ll try not to overdo it.”

“I’ll believe it when I see it,” she said. “Channon will have to keep you in line.”

Jack grinned. “I’m sure he will.”

Her smile turned cheeky. “If you don’t listen to him, maybe he’ll have to handcuff you to the bed.”

For a second, Jack thought she knew. But then his brain rolled back into gear, and he realized she was joking. “I don’t think Channon owns any handcuffs,” he said, feeling a little light headed.

“Then maybe I’ll have to buy him some.”

The idea of it made him laugh. Instantly, his head felt like it was full of glitter, a burst of pain and dizziness spilling into him. He squeezed his eyes shut, covering them with his palm but it didn’t help much, just isolated him in a glittery, spinning darkness.

“Jonathon?”

He refused to be sick. It was undignified. It was unnecessary. He was going to be fine.

“I think you’d better lie down,” his mom said, and there was a firm hand on his shoulder, pushing him back into the pillows. He allowed it, because there was little else he could do.

He heard her move away, her footfalls on the stairs. More footsteps, and then— “Jack?”

Jack opened his eyes, squinting into the light. He groaned and covered them with his hand. “It’s too bright.”

There was a rustle and the light dimmed. Then the mattress sunk by his side, and Jack opened his eyes to see Channon looking worried and pale. “Are you okay?”

“I’m fine,” Jack said. Was it a lie? Not quite. He wanted it to be true, and it would be, soon. “I’m just a bit fragile right now.”

Channon nodded, his fingers twisting in the cloth of Jack’s sleeve. He was so solemnly serious it made Jack’s chest ache, and Jack reached up to touch his cheek.

“Hey. Sweetheart. I really will be fine. Especially with you taking care of me.” God, he hoped that was true.

Channon nodded again, his smile obviously forced. “I will take care of you. I promise.”

“That’s good. You’re all I need.”

This wouldn’t take long, Jack thought. It couldn’t. He needed to get over it and back to work, to take charge of his life. Such a stupid thing, to be so stupidly injured. It couldn’t be allowed to get the better of him. He was stronger than this, surely.

And until he was well, he’d try not to lean on Channon too hard. This wasn’t Channon’s fault, and Channon shouldn’t have to shoulder the burden of it.

So. “I’ll be all right. Go make my mom some tea, okay? Heat something up for dinner?”

Channon hesitated, but he stood up obediently. “I’ll check in on you. Just rest, okay?”

“Sure, sweetheart.”

He could hardly do anything else. Right now, he was at Channon’s mercy. And that was a feeling he didn’t like at all.

❧

“He’s going to be difficult.”

“I don’t mind.” Channon set out cups next to the kettle and tried to look like he was coping just fine. He found one of Jack’s decaffeinated evening teas, put bags in the cups, and leaned on the counter as he waited for the kettle to boil.

Jack’s mom sighed and pushed him gently out of the way. “Go sit. I’ll take care of it.”

“I should—” Channon protested, but she just shooed him into a chair and then bustled around the kitchen like she owned it.

“Do you like eggs, Channon?”

“Yes, Mrs Nash?”

“I’ll make omelets, then.”

“You don’t have to,” Channon said. “I was going to heat something up.”

“Jonathan likes omelets,” she said, already pulling things out of the fridge.

Channon let her, too overwhelmed to really argue. It had been a long few days at the hospital while Jack got every test under the sun, and now they figured he was mostly fine. Some bruising, a few minor lacerations. And the head injury.

That was the one that frightened Channon the most. Jack had been dizzy and disoriented, and kept getting these headaches Channon didn’t know how to fix. He’d got all this advice from the hospital and tried to remember all of it, bringing home pamphlets and paperwork now stacked on the dining table. He spread it out, going over the instructions again: no bright lights, no screens, no lifting, no running, no sex…

God, he’d felt like he was dying when they’d told him that. The doctor hadn’t lingered on the subject, briskly professional, but Channon had been unable to look her in the eye. No sex. For a month. And then nothing ‘athletic’ or ‘strenuous’. Channon couldn’t imagine what that left on the table, but he knew what it didn’t. Pretty much everything.

“He’s not good at being ill,” Mrs Nash said, far too lightly for Channon’s mood. “He’s never been able to sit still for long. Even when he was a boy. Christopher was happy enough to lie in bed and listen to the radio, but John couldn’t stand it. He’d try to read, or play one of his games, and wear himself out. He’ll make himself sick again if you let him.”

Channon swallowed, looking up at her wide, dependable shoulders and the knitted wrap stretched across them. “I don’t let Jack do things. He just does them.”

“Don’t let him walk all over you,” Mrs Nash admonished. She did it kindly enough, but Channon couldn’t help feeling it like a criticism. “He’s headstrong. If you give him an inch, he’ll take a mile. He likes being the one in charge.”

Channon said nothing, just listened, unable to think of anything worth saying.

“Sometimes I think all the success has been bad for him. Oh, I’m happy about the money, I suppose. And the business makes him happy. But he works too hard and he never takes any time out for himself. You can’t like it, being cooped up here all year round. What’s the point of all that money if he won’t spend it on himself? Take the two of you to the Bahamas, or Rome.”

“We went to Paris,” Channon said, tentative. “For our anniversary.”

He felt like he was defending Jack but also…well, Jack should relax more. Not just play with Channon, at the Club and such. Something else. Something fun.

Something normal, Channon thought, something so he could tell Jack’s mom that Jack was taking care of himself, and Channon was taking care of him too.

“Oh, yes, he said. And how did you like Paris?” Mrs Nash asked.

“It had, um, good architecture. I took a bunch of photos, but they didn’t really turn out that great.”

“That’s the tourist experience,” she agreed, smiling at him. “Do you think you’ll go again?”

Channon hadn’t considered it before. “I think,” he said slowly, “I’d like to go someplace else first. Like maybe Osaka.” Because Jack had said they might go in the spring, to visit his friend. Channon would probably end up dangling from a net of rope in front of strangers, but that was okay. He wanted to go to Tokyo, see Akihabara and Harajuku, buy some T-shirts with random English on them. “Or the Maldives,” he added, because Dana had sent him a photo of a cabin in the sea, just on legs out in the water, and Channon had fallen in love with it at once.

“That’s wonderful. I’m sure Jonathan would love to take you, if you drop enough hints. You know,” she said, bringing him a plate of omelet folded over what looked like bacon and tomato. “Leave a magazine out open to the page and then just mention it until he gets the idea.”

“I think I could probably just ask,” Channon said, feeling like it was the only way to end up not getting his ass tanned. Anyway, like anyone bought magazines anymore.

Mrs Nash chuckled. “Well, if that works, you’ve got him well trained.”

She took a plate and some tea up to Jack, while Channon chewed on what she’d said. It felt strange to think that he’d trained Jack when it was obviously the other way around. It stuck in his head, something about it that didn’t make sense.

When Mrs Nash came down again, she sat across from him to eat her dinner. “I suppose you’ve got your own ways of getting John to do what you want,” she said. “I was never very good at it, so I wish you better luck.”

“I don’t really get him to do things,” Channon said—again. Hadn’t they just been over this? “It’s not like that.”

“Mmm, I imagine. Jessica said much the same thing.” Mrs Nash didn’t seem to notice Channon stiffen, just took a sip of her tea. “Such a stubborn boy he was, and I imagine just as stubborn now he’s grown into it. You have to be clever with men,” she added, and Channon felt something shudder down his spine because, oh God, it made so much sense. “They want their own way and they’re not good at giving it up. You have to trick them into thinking it was their idea in the first place.”

The way she said it. Channon chewed his mouthful slowly, unable to respond aloud.

She thought he was the girl. She thought there was a girl, like it had to be the same as every heterosexual relationship in every book or movie or marriage joke ever: the man had to be coddled and tricked into things the woman wanted, to spare his pride. It was so clear it made Channon’s head hurt, because he and Jack had talked about this before, about how people perceived heteronormativity, about how they applied it to non-normative relationships. And if Jack was the man, that made Channon the obvious other choice.

We’re not like that, Channon thought. Because they weren’t. Channon was supposed to be honest with Jack, and Jack would be honest with him. If Jack wanted to tan his ass, Jack would. If Channon needed him to, Jack would do it then, too. And the rest of the time? It wasn’t like that. Channon never had to deceive Jack about something to get his way—he just had to ask and, if it was reasonable, Jack would say 'yes'. He’d never said 'no' before now, not to something like a holiday or going out to dinner. Maybe because Channon didn’t ask often. The point was that Jack was Channon’s Sir, and he was in charge. But he wasn’t a tyrant.

“It isn’t like that,” Channon said weakly. “We don’t…do that.”

The look she turned on him was pitying, as if he wasn’t living up to his full potential. “Well, honey, you might have to start. He’s going to be cranky, cooped up in the house. If you want him to make the best recovery he can you’re going to have to make sure he doesn’t hurt himself by taking on too much, or over-exerting himself. He’ll try to go back to work too soon, or lift too many weights, and it’ll only make it harder for him to recover. So, when he doesn’t respond to logic, you’ll have to use cunning. Like a Slytherin,” she added, beaming at him.

“You know about Harry Potter?” Channon asked, surprised.

Mrs Nash gave him a sidelong look. “Witches and wizards and dragons? Of course! Who did you think got the boys into The Lord of the Rings?”

❧

In the morning, Channon watched Jack hug his mom goodbye before Channon drove her to the airport. Mr Nash was picking her up at the other end. “I get to enjoy business class on my own,” she said, winking at Channon over the latte he’d bought her.

“Uh, please give Mr Nash my regards,” Channon said, as politely as he could manage.

Mrs Nash shook her head. “We’re coming up to your second Thanksgiving, honey. You’d better start calling us Mom and Dad.”

Channon laughed, too nervous to do anything else. “I can’t do that.”

“You will if I tell you to,” she insisted. Then she fixed him with a level look. “Remember what I said. You have to be firm with my son. He’s going to be impossible, but you’re the boss now, Channon. Let me hear you say it.”

“I’m the boss now,” Channon said dutifully, because Jack might look like his father, but when it came to determination, he was definitely his mother’s son. “Thanks for everything, Mrs Nash. Hopefully we can come up for Thanksgiving.”

“Or we can come down,” she said firmly. “Don’t you try driving fifteen hours by yourself just to eat turkey.”

“I’m really coming for the mac and cheese,” Channon said, smiling for her because she was kind and deserved it.

Once she’d boarded the plane, however, Channon felt the low-grade anxiety that seemed to live behind his ribs creep up on him again. He drove extra carefully on the way home, checking his mirrors obsessively, and it didn’t go away, not even once he’d stepped out of the elevator into Jack’s penthouse apartment.

He found Jack lying on the sofa with the privacy glass fogged and the lights down low, the TV off and the speakers playing The War of the Worlds.

“Radio plays are old tech,” Channon said, dropping down on his knees beside the sofa. “Now there’s these things called ‘podcasts’.”

“Tell me of these things you call podcasts,” Jack murmured, reaching for him without moving the sleep mask covering his eyes. “Sell me on one.”

“You’ve got Wolf 359, if you want weird space mystery. Or Welcome to Night Vale, if you want weird surreal middle America. Um. With gay stuff.”

“Give me gay stuff,” Jack said, running his fingers up Channon’s spine before letting him go. “And tea.”

Demanding. But it was the kind of demanding Channon could deal with. “Yes, Sir,” he said, bending down to kiss Jack’s cheek. “Whatever you say.”

They’d be okay. Jack could tell Channon to do whatever he wanted, and Channon would take care of it. Jack was going to get better and nothing would change. They were going to be fine, he told himself, and by the time the kettle had boiled he almost believed it.

Chapter Two

Jack gave it a week. They really couldn’t have asked more of him than that.

A week in the condo with Channon should have been a blessing, an opportunity to pour himself into his boy until he overflowed. Instead, Jack spent seventy percent of it asleep or dozing, and thirty percent bored out of his mind.

‘No screens’ turned out to be everything Jack ever did. Work, research, entertainment. He couldn’t work out—not that he had the energy—and he wasn’t supposed to exert himself, so play was out. What else was there to do?

There were only so many podcasts he could listen to, only so many games of Dominion he could stand—it was too mentally taxing to play well, and playing poorly meant losing to Channon, who seemed unhappy when he won, as if it were further evidence that Jack was still unwell. And it was, but Jack refused to accept that he had been ‘brung low’ by a concussion. He should by rights be fine. Well enough to do a little of the work piling up for him in the office.

But when he called Cynthia for an update, she shut him down at once. “Nate left standing instructions that you were not to be disturbed.”

“You’re not disturbing me,” Jack told her—with, in his opinion, admirable patience. “I’m disturbing you. So. What’s on the to do list for today?”

“Nothing,” she said, prim as a schoolmistress. “Can you hold for a moment?”

Before he could tell her ‘no’, she’d already done it, and he had to wait ten seconds before— “What the fuck are you doing?” Nate snapped over the line, sounding tired and done.

“My job, or I’m trying to. Did you tell my PA not to talk to me?”

“For the next week at least,” Nate said. “You’re in work jail.”

“What the fuck does that mean?”

“Like Facebook jail.” Nate sounded pleased with himself. “You know, when you post too much and you get locked out.”

“That’s never happened to me.”

“Then you’re using Facebook wrong.” There was a flurry of typing on Nate’s end, and then he made a satisfied noise. “Okay, I’ve locked you out of all systems. You can’t log on from home, so don’t even think about it.”

What. The fuck. “I wasn’t going to try,” Jack said tightly, “but I resent you preventing me like I’m a liability.”

“You’re a liability to yourself, at least. Come on, Jack. You can have admin privileges back when Channon tells me you can, and not a second sooner.”

“When Channon says so?”

“Yep.” Nate popped the ‘p’ like a teenager, and it made Jack want to grab him and shake him. “I trust Channon not to tell me you’re okay to go back to work until you’ve cleared it with your doctor.”

“I could just order Channon to tell you that,” Jack said, flopping down on the sofa and covering his eyes with one hand. It was dim in the living room, but this conversation was making his head ache. “He’d do it, no question.”

“But if I asked him if you’d ordered him, he’d tell me. He’s no liar.”

“I could order him not to.”

“Would you really put your precious baby angel in that position? Making him lie for you? Jack, I’m shocked.”

He didn’t sound shocked. Maybe because he knew Jack didn’t mean it.

Jack blew out a breath, exasperated beyond belief. “So, you’re going to run interference with my staff and my boyfriend to keep me safe from imagined harm, is that it? What happened to my agency?”

“You lost it when you went and got yourself clocked in the head,” Nate said, sounding far too cheerful about it for Jack’s liking. “I’m only looking out for the shareholders by keeping our intrepid CEO out of peril.”

“What about just a little bit of peril?” Jack asked, smiling despite himself. Fucking hell, Nate.

“No, it’s unhealthy.”

“Fine.” Jack heaved a sigh, sinking into the sofa cushions. Tired again. Maybe Nate had a point. “I’ll call back in a week with an update.”

“That sounds great! Want some company? Ewan can take Channon out for walkies, and we can drink horrible herbal tea and reminisce about how great it used to be to get drunk.”

“Actually, that sounds pretty good right about now,” Jack admitted. “Definitely come over. Bring crullers.”

“Fuck, you really are unwell. Yeah, I’ll do that. See you Saturday?”

“I can’t wait.”

He hung up. Goddammit. Saturday was three days away. What the fuck was he supposed to do until then?

Nap, he supposed, pulling a cushion over his eyes. Nap and be useless.

“Okay, Google,” he sighed, tilting his head so his phone could hear him. “Open podcast manager and play Wolf 359.”

He’d been enjoying it so far. Space antics and surrealism, and a mad scientist who was almost certainly evil. The mad scientist was his favorite character so far, which probably said a lot about him.

He drifted, listening with his eyes closed. He must have slept a little because he was suddenly aware that he was awake, and Channon was sitting on the floor next to him, tapping away at his laptop.

“Sweetheart,” Jack breathed.

Channon stopped tapping immediately. The soft click of the laptop lid was followed by a dull thunk as Channon put it on the coffee table. “Hey. You okay?”

“Just peachy,” Jack said, blinking his eyes open. Channon had been sitting in near darkness, the lights down low for Jack and his lingering sensitivity, and it made Jack feel both cosseted and frustrated. He wasn’t supposed to be this fragile. Channon was supposed to be able to rely on him, to let Jack be strong for him.

He wasn’t supposed to sound worried when he asked Jack how he was, nor was he supposed to look quite so anxious as he examined Jack’s face in the dim light.

“How are you doing?” Jack asked. “Coping okay?”

Channon nodded, and Jack caught his hand, squeezing his fingers before lifting them to his mouth to kiss the tips of them.

“You can tell me if anything’s worrying you. I don’t want you to worry.”

“I’m not worried…I mean, it’s not the kind of worry that’s, you know. Justified.” But Channon looked pinched and Jack didn’t like being the cause of that in this way. “I just want you to get better, Sir. I’ll do anything I can to help.”

“I’m getting better, it’s just slower than I’d like.” Jack tried to contain his exasperation, but his patience was thin after days of empty idleness. “I’m bored, Channon. Dad always said, ‘Only boring people get bored,’ so I guess I’m boring now.”

“You’re not boring,” Channon said loyally. “Do you want to play Dominion?”

“No,” Jack groaned, and the disappointed look on Channon’s face made him regret it. “Sweetheart, it’s not that I don’t want to play with you. I really, really want to play with you,” and he ran a finger under Channon’s chin to make his point. “You must be going a little stir crazy too, huh?”

Channon shrugged, lowering his gaze. “I don’t mind. I get to be near you, Sir.”

It was sweet, even if Jack didn’t entirely believe him. Poor Channon was putting a good face on it, but Jack knew he was suffering. No play. No orgasms either—Jack realized with a shock that he’d never lifted that particular restriction. God, Channon must have been losing his mind.

“Hey, how about we take a bath?” Jack suggested.

Channon wrinkled his nose. “A naked bath?”

“You’d rather keep your pants on?”

“No, just…the doctor said ‘no sex’, Sir,” and Channon looked so utterly miserable about it that Jack couldn’t help his chuckle.

“I’m not planning anything strenuous, don’t worry. Just you, me, and some bubbles. Okay?”

Channon nodded. “Okay, Sir. Want me to run the water?”

“Yeah, go do that for me.” Jack pushed himself upright as Channon thundered off up the stairs, testing out his equilibrium. He felt good. A lot better. Maybe good enough to see the doctor tomorrow and demand a medical certificate or something. Not working was driving him insane. Another week of it and he might do himself an injury.

(And if he wasn’t better? If he didn’t get better? What then?)

When Channon called him upstairs, Jack found the air thick with steam, the tub piled with bubbles. There were candles burning along the edge of the sink. The soft notes of one of the gentler pieces from the Skyrim soundtrack spilled from a speaker Channon had set high up on a shelf out of harm’s way.

Jack felt the same old rush of affection for him. “Sweetheart, this is perfect.” He pulled Channon in to kiss the back of his neck. “Come on, get your clothes off.”

The water was just hot enough to make him glad it wasn’t any hotter. Jack sunk down into the great damp clouds of bubbles with a groan, leaning back and breathing long and slow as the heat soaked into him. Then he helped Channon in, settling his boy’s back against his chest, arms wrapping around him. Channon sighed and leaned into him, tucking his brow against Jack’s jaw.

“Better, sweetheart?” Jack murmured, stroking along Channon’s belly.

“Uh-huh. Am I crushing you?”

Jack scored his nails against Channon’s skin. “I’m not made of glass, Channon.”

“I know, I just—”

“You don’t have to worry about me.”

Channon was quiet for a moment. Jack told himself it was just because he was enjoying the water, but then, so soft Jack only just caught it— “I did, though. Worry about you. If anything happened to you, I don’t know what I’d do.”

Two thoughts fired in Jack’s brain almost simultaneously: one, that if their positions had been reversed, Jack would almost certainly have gone out of his mind sitting next to that hospital bed. But that was because Channon was vulnerable, soft and breakable, and Jack did not see himself that way. Not quite invulnerable, not really, but the idea that anything permanent could happen to him…no. That just wasn’t possible.

But the second thought was that, if the worst had truly happened, then Channon really would have been left with nothing.

I need to change my will.

The thought of it tightened something in his chest. He pressed his mouth to Channon’s temple, tasting his wet skin and the salt of it. If anything happened to him, he needed to know that Channon would be taken care of, and that no one could take from him what he deserved, what he had earned with his devotion, pure and simple.

“I’m sorry,” Jack said, centering himself in the moment. He held Channon close, kissing his face. “Let me make it up to you.”

He found Channon half hard under the water and smiled because Channon was predictable—or his body was, anyway. Channon had gone without and now his cock rose easily to the occasion, thickening in Jack’s palm with the barest slide of skin.

“Sir,” Channon hiccupped, sounding almost scandalized. Jack shushed him, kissing his cheek, but Channon tried to wriggle away from him. “Sir, you’re not supposed to.”

“I’m just going to play with you a little bit.”

“Sir,” Channon whined, and Jack slipped a hand around his throat, holding him still.

“I know what I’m doing, Channon,” he said, firm this time. “I’m going to play with your cock, and if you’re a very good boy I’ll let you come, but if you whine at me about it then I’ll just torture you until the water goes cold and leave you wanting for another week and a half.” He latched his fingers around Channon’s balls, squeezing them in a threat. “Can you manage that? Three whole weeks’ worth of come building up in you. I think you’ll overflow in the middle of the night, mess the sheets like a teenager.”

Channon’s breath was rough in his throat. Jack saw his tongue flicker across his lip. “I am a teenager, Sir.”

“That’s right. Do you want to do that? See how long you can go before you disgrace yourself?”

“No, Sir.”

“Then are you going to hold still for me?”

“Yes, Sir.”

Jack grinned. “Good boy.” He kissed Channon’s cheek, loosening his grip to let his hands roam over Channon’s torso. “I think I know my limits, Channon. I’m not going to cross them.”

He traced a finger over Channon’s cock, just to see it jump in the water. “Ah! Yes, Sir.”

“And I think you know better than to argue with me.”

Channon nodded, sinking against him, letting himself go loose, taffy-like and pliant. “Yes, Sir.”

Jack teased him for a while, reveling in the feel of his boy in his arms. Channon took it as well as could be expected—he moaned, twisting himself up into Jack’s palm by infinitesimal fractions, forgetting himself long enough to grind down in Jack’s lap. Jack realized Channon was trying to get the head of Jack’s dick up in his cleft and he chuckled, slipping a hand down between Channon’s thighs.

“You need a little help, sweetheart?” he murmured, tickling the shell of Channon’s ear with his lips as he brushed a fingertip over Channon’s hole.

“Please,” Channon begged, his cock straining in Jack’s hand. “Sir, please, please can I?”

“Yeah. Yeah, show me, sweetheart.” Jack didn’t speed his strokes, kept them the same agonizingly slow pull, but he pressed up into Channon, feeling him give way under the intrusion, his body hungry for something to fill it, and Channon arched up, slopping water out of the bath as he came. There was so much of it, so much pressure that Jack felt it land on his lip, a streak of it across his mouth, and it made him laugh because—fuck. It was Channon. It was hot. Jack wanted to fuck him so badly that he almost said, Fuck it, but no, no, he couldn’t do that.

He wanted to. Channon was wet and slippery and gasping in his arms as he shuddered through his aftershocks. How could Jack resist such a beautiful, wonderful thing?

But he did. He watched Channon come down, stroking him through it, and then he washed the evidence of Channon’s climax from their skin with gentle sweeps of his hands.

Channon’s kisses were so sweet after, and so was the way he clung to Jack’s side once the bath was over, nuzzling into him as Jack rubbed him down with a towel. They ate dinner on the sofa, and then Channon put on a comedy special with the picture turned off, and Jack tried not to resent being trapped here, cut off from the rest of the world.

He had Channon. Channon was enough, surely? But Channon was going back to work tomorrow, and Jack would be alone again.

It would be fine. Jack sighed and tried to ignore the nagging itch behind his eyeball. He was going to be all right. It would just take time.

Chapter Three

In the night, Channon woke alone. It was the kind of waking where it felt almost like a hand rocking him awake—he was suddenly alert, his heart thundering, but there was no one there.

No one on Jack’s side of the bed, either. Channon put a hand out to feel the covers. Cold, where they’d been thrown back. How long had Jack been gone?

He pushed himself up and slid to the floor. He was wearing boxer shorts, an old pair he’d brought with him from Kingston, loose blue cotton things. Normally he slept naked, but since Jack had come home from the hospital it had felt weird, when they weren’t supposed to be doing anything ‘energetic’.

The ambient temperature was warm enough he didn’t bother getting dressed—he’d never felt game enough to argue with Jack about saving electricity by turning off the heating at night. It was dark in the bedroom and on the landing, and the living room was painted with the dim, silver-blue light of the city through the clear glass of the windows. It rendered the familiar furniture alien, the sofa a lurking mass with the coffee table squatting alongside, the dining table and chairs a stark skeleton bathed in shadow.

He’d expected to find Jack on the sofa drinking tea or listening to something, but he wasn’t there. Channon couldn’t see him on the deck, either, but it was dark. Jack could have been hidden in the shadows.

Something twanged in Channon’s chest. What if he’d had a dizzy spell and fallen somewhere? What if he’d fallen in the pool, and—

He had the door open in a flash, and the cold hit him like a fist. The late fall wind was knife-like, raking him with icy talons. He shuddered, bringing his arms up to his chest, but he had to look. He had to be sure.

The pool was full, the water whipped into waves that glistened under the city lights. There were no dark shadows in it, no floating mass, none of the horrible things Channon’s mind had made up for him from snippets of late-night crime shows. He shivered, his skin all over goosebumps, and he made himself walk out across the deck, made himself check the outdoor setting before going back inside.

Out of the cold, he didn’t feel any better. Where was Jack? The downstairs bathroom was unoccupied. He wasn’t in the weights room. The playroom was empty and the upstairs bathroom too. Channon checked them all, his chest growing tighter and tighter. Jack was gone. Gone where? Had he taken his phone?

He turned—and whacked his knee into the doorframe hard enough it dizzied him. “Fuck!”

“Channon?”

Channon clutched at his kneecap and hobbled into the room that had used to be his bedroom. “Sir?”

Jack was lying on the spare bed in the dark. He leaned up on one elbow as Channon came in. “Don’t turn on the light.”

So he was still sensitive. Channon dropped to the rug, relief flooding over him. “Are you okay?”

“Yes,” Jack said curtly, but he lay back down at once. “What are you doing?”

“Looking for you,” Channon said. “What are you doing?”

Jack sighed, as if this was all very tedious. “Just a headache. I needed some space. I didn’t think you’d wake up.”

Space. From Channon. In their bed. The thought of it made Channon uneasy, but he nodded. “If you want, I can sleep in here. If you need space while you’re recovering.”

“I don’t,” Jack protested, and he sounded so frustrated. “You don’t have to do everything for me. I can take care of myself.”

“Okay,” Channon said, soaking in exhaustion from the adrenaline of losing Jack. “Yes, Sir.”

“Just go back to bed,” Jack said. “Don’t worry so much.”

“Yes, Sir,” Channon said again. He hesitated. “Do you have your phone?”

“No. I can’t use it, so what’s the point?”

His voice was tight. Channon wondered if that headache was worse than he was letting on, lying alone in the dark. Still, he crossed the landing, found Jack’s phone, and brought it back to set it on the bedside table. “Call me if you need anything, Sir.”

“I’ll be fine.”

“But anything.”

“Sure. Goodnight.”

“Goodnight, Sir.”

Channon went back to bed. It was nearly four. Too early to stay up and too late to get much sleep, even if he could. He lay there for ages, running over what Jack had said and all his worries about Jack.

Don’t worry so much. As if that was possible.

He had to take care of Jack. But he had to do what Jack said. How could he do both if Jack wouldn’t let him?

❧

“You’ll be okay, right Sir?”

“I told you, I’ll be fine.”

It was the way Jack frowned that made Channon’s heart sink. Like it annoyed him to be asked, and sure, Channon kept asking, but only because he kept worrying and he couldn’t exactly stop.

But if he was irritating Jack, then he needed to get a handle on it before he really annoyed his Sir.

“I’ll call you at lunch,” Channon said.

Jack’s frown deepened. “It’s fine. You can eat lunch with your friends.”

But I want to call you. Channon didn’t say it, just nodded. “Okay, Sir. Um. Want me to get anything for dinner? Or there’s chicken cacciatore in the fridge. I can heat it up when I get home.”

“I’ll take care of dinner,” Jack said, and he sounded exasperated, so Channon ducked in to kiss his cheek and backed away.

“Then…have a good day, Sir.”

“You too, sweetheart.”

Walking out of the apartment wasn’t the worst thing Channon had ever had to do, but it ranked pretty high. He hated leaving Jack alone, hated how he couldn’t stop fussing over him. Jack must have been sick of him by now. God, Channon needed to be unannoying, just in case…

In case what? In case Jack decided he’d had enough of Channon after all and, what, kicked him out?

He took a deep breath, making his hands unclench from around the steering wheel of his car. He settled back in his seat, still in the parking lot of their building, closed his eyes, and forced himself to breathe in slow and out slower. Calm the fuck down, he told himself. Don’t freak out.

When he felt able, he opened his eyes and met their reflection in the rearview mirror.

Okay. Jack wasn’t going to just kick him out for being annoying. Jack loved him. Jack said so many things that made Channon think their relationship was solid, could withstand anything. And sure, maybe one day something would happen that broke them up, but it was more likely to be Jack slowly falling out of love with him, or something else he couldn’t control. The thought of it hurt, of course, but it wasn’t the same as Jack getting mad at him and throwing him out in the street.

And even if he did, Channon told himself, because there was that tiny part that still worried, all the same, you’d just go to Ewan’s and cry on his sofa. He can’t turn you away, it’s your fucking apartment.

Probably some kind of breach of tenancy regulations, but honestly, Channon didn’t think for a second that Ewan would bring that up as anything but a mean joke. So. Worst case scenario? Wouldn’t be the end of the world.

Except in how much it would be, of course.

Channon took another deep breath. That wasn’t happening. Jack wasn’t that fickle. Channon wasn’t that annoying. Jack loved him. He was just stressed right now. And Channon needed to make sure he wasn’t stressed, to give him a frictionless environment, make sure he was taken care of in ways he didn’t find annoying.

He could do this. He had to. This was his job.

He started the car and backed out carefully. All he had to do was get through today, and go home to take care of his Sir. Easy.

❧

It became almost immediately obvious that Channon wasn’t going to get any work done at all today. People kept stopping by to ask how Jack was doing and was he okay, offering their well-wishes and commiserations.

Unwilling to give away too much of Jack’s privacy, Channon confined himself to saying pretty much the same thing to everyone. “Jack’s doing a lot better. He’s pretty keen to get back to work. We’ll see what the doctor says. I’ll let him know you said so.”

Nate, of course, was a different matter entirely.

“Hey, Channon.” He dropped down on the end of Channon’s desk, the tension around his eyes at odds with his smile. “How are you holding up?”

Channon fixed his own smile on his face. “Jack’s doing a lot better.”

“Yeah, I’m more concerned about how you’re doing. I reassigned your tickets,” he added, his mouth softening into something more genuine. “I figured everyone’s been getting in your way.”

Mortification flooded Channon’s face with heat. Nate had noticed he was behind. Fuck. “I’m sorry. I know I shouldn’t let them interrupt, but—”

“It’s fine,” Nate said, waving it away. “I’m pretty sure you should still be on leave. But I guess Jack’s driving you nuts, huh.”

“He’s pretty keen to get back to work,” Channon said slowly, not sure what he should or shouldn’t say to Nate.

To his surprise, Nate laughed. “I know, right? I locked him out of the system so he can’t jump right back in. Stubborn bastard. Listen, how about you let me and Ewan take you out to lunch, okay? We can get pizza.”

Channon hesitated. Pizza was a treat. Jack usually wouldn’t allow it. “I can’t.”

Rather than argue or simply accept it, Nate tilted his head on one side, eyeing Channon thoughtfully. “Busy, or not allowed?”

“It’s pizza,” Channon said, ducking his head in embarrassment. “It’s a treat. I’m supposed to eat healthy.”

“Sometimes Jack takes that a bit too far,” Nate said solemnly. “Okay, I tell you what. I’ll get you permission for lunch, if you want to hang out with us. If you don’t, just say, ‘No thanks, Nate,’ and I won’t push. We’re coming over on Saturday, anyway, so it’s not like Ewan won’t get a chance to harass you.”

Channon swallowed, his throat gone tight. Nate was making it so easy for him. So he said, “Sure thing, Mr Scott. I’d love to.”

Nate grinned. “There we go. Pick you up at one? Or will you starve to death by then?”

“I’ll cope,” Channon assured him, knowing he had carrot sticks and a granola bar to tide him over.

“It’s a deal,” Nate said, and he swaggered away, looking pleased with himself.

True to his word, at one o’clock Nate swung by his desk with Ewan in tow, and he flashed his phone screen at Channon. “There. Permitted.”

I’m taking Channon out to lunch. Can he have pizza? Or has he been a naughty boy this past week?

He’s been perfect. Let him have all the pizza he wants. Tell him it’s cheat day.

Done! <3

Hands off, though. That’s my boy, don’t forget.

Pizza orgy cancelled! :(

Nate had Jack in his phone as ‘LumberJackie Nash’, which didn’t make an obvious amount of sense. Jack was hardly an outdoors person, and while he was often rugged with stubble, he didn’t have a beard. It must have been some kind of in-joke.

They had a lot of those, Channon thought as he followed Nate down to Porcini. They’d known each other since college, had been—not a couple, the way Jack told it. Lovers, Channon supposed. Maybe not in love but close, all the same. Best friends with benefits.

And one of those benefits had been sharing themselves with other people, like, say, twinky submissives willing to kneel for them both at once. That was, after all, how Channon had met Nate in the first place.

How intimidating Nate had been then. How thrilling to kneel down for him, a virtual stranger, and hold his dick for him, to be good for him because Jack had told him to. Jack, almost a stranger then too. Channon had given himself to Jack without thinking, and Jack had gobbled him up.

The thought of it was shocking now. When he’d first gone home with Jack, knowing something would happen, he hadn’t expected any of this. How could he have? He’d been just a dumb kid, awestruck by a guy who looked hot in skimpy swim trunks, too clueless to think of anything except his dick and how Jack’s smile made it twitch.

And now Jack was at home, recovering from an injury that Channon knew deep down could have killed him, and Channon was…what? Going for pizza instead of being there with him, getting him a cold pack or tea or just staying quiet so he could rest.

“You look done for,” Ewan said, poking Channon with his menu. “Your old man griefing you?”

“I’m fine,” Channon said automatically. “Um. I’ll get the Margherita.”

Nate wrinkled his nose. “That’s a Jack pizza.”

“I’ll get it with pepperoni, then,” Channon said, feeling defensive and not sure why.

“No pineapple?”

“Not on a Margherita,” Channon mumbled.

Nate chuckled, but he turned to Ewan. “And you’re getting yours deep fried, right? Your arteries are going to clang shut.”

“Just one slice,” Ewan protested. “Come on, just one.”

“Sure,” Nate said. “You’ll work it off.”

It was such an innocent thing to say but it made Ewan’s face flood with color. Channon bit his lip, trying not to grin. It was weird to be on the outside of this, watching instead of squirming with embarrassment.

Before Ewan could recover himself enough to be obnoxious, the server came back and Nate gave their orders. When she was gone, he turned to Channon with a measuring look. “How is Jack, really?”

Channon opened his mouth, but the words stuck. The truth was he didn’t know. Jack insisted he was fine, but he’d had some migraines, and they seemed unbearable. He was often dizzy, often tired. And he’d been…not himself. Channon didn’t like to put a word to it because it seemed unfair, but if he had to? He would have said Jack was cranky. Short tempered and curt, and it made Channon anxious to be around him, unsure of what might make him more cranky.

He hadn’t said anything. How could he? Jack was recovering. Channon was supposed to do everything he could to make sure that Jack was relieved of stress, and that meant that Channon couldn’t be one of the things that stressed him out. So. That left being good, and unobtrusive, and not irritating.

But when Nate asked, Channon knew he couldn’t lie about it, and he knew Jack wasn’t fine.

“I think he’s frustrated,” Channon said quietly. It wasn’t a betrayal. He was sure it wasn’t. It just felt like one.

“Frustrating,” Nate corrected with a shrug. “He’s a pain in the ass when he’s sick. I can’t imagine what he’s like when he’s actually down for the count.”

Channon didn’t say anything. There was nothing he could say without breaching Jack’s privacy in a way he didn’t feel comfortable doing, even with Nate.

“Can’t be easy for you, having to be in charge.”

It made Channon’s brain sort of…record-scratch. “I’m not in charge.”

“You kinda have to be,” Nate said, and he didn’t say it unkindly, but it stuck in Channon anyway, a knife in his ribs. “Jack’s in no state to be rational, so you have to step up. Or, if you want,” he added, too smoothly casual for it be casual at all, “I can do it. I can call the shots for Jack when he can’t, if you won’t.”

“No,” Channon said, the word blurting out of him without thought. “I mean…no, thank you.”

“Okay then.” Nate’s shoe tapped against his under the table, but not in a flirty way. “You’re going to have to be the boss. You’ll have to make decisions for him until he’s better, because Jack? Does not know how to take care of himself. Oh, sure, he micromanages his diet and works out like a machine, but he doesn’t like admitting he has limits. So, when he pushes them, you’re going to have to tell him no.”

Channon gaped at him. “What?” he squeaked.

Across the table, Ewan made a rough sound in his throat. “Seriously? Let him make his own mistakes, he’s big enough and ugly enough.”

Nate ignored him. “Can you tell Jack no?”

“No way,” Channon said, but then he caught the unhappy look on Ewan’s face. “I mean, I can…you know, I can say ‘no’. If it’s, um. A thing.” When Nate raised his eyebrows, Channon went on, “Like for fun, or…you know, if I really mean it.”

“He means in bed,” Ewan said, too loudly for Channon’s nerves.

“What about out of bed?” Nate asked.

Channon shook his head, unable to look Nate in the eye. No. He couldn’t. Tell Jack ‘no’? The idea was just…No way.

The pizza came, and Channon found it hard to be morose while he was eating pizza, but he was so tired and couldn’t help his worry. What was Jack getting up to at home? Was he bored? Was he watching TV behind Channon’s back?

And what right did Channon have to tell him he couldn’t if he wanted to?

“It’s okay, Channon,” Nate said, sounding gentler than he ever had with Channon before. “I know it’s hard for you. You bend to Jack’s will, and he loves that, but this is…” He trailed off, his expression twisting into something almost wistful. “Jack needs people who care about him. Sometimes, helping someone you love means being tough with them when they need it, and Jack doesn’t let anyone do that for him. You’re different. He lets you get away with things I never would have thought he’d let anyone do.”

Channon shook his head in mute confusion. He was good, wasn’t he? He did what Jack wanted. He didn’t get away with things. He wasn’t a brat.

“Stop it,” Ewan snapped, his hands gone to tight fists on the edge of the table. “Nate.”

“Channon can handle it,” Nate said, not looking away from Channon for a moment. “He’s strong enough.”

“He shouldn’t have to bully his Dom,” Ewan hissed, down low enough it didn’t carry. Channon still felt his face go hot. If someone overheard—

“It’s another kind of service,” Nate said, gentleness giving way to certainty in his voice. “If you want to take care of Jack then you’re going to have to tell him ‘no’ sometimes. Just for a little while, until he can take care of himself and you the way he wants to.”

It stuck in Channon’s head like a burr. Another kind of service. Taking care of his Sir when his Sir refused to take care of himself. Something he had to do.

He nodded slowly, swallowing to wet his throat. “Okay,” he said. “Tell me how.”

Chapter Four

It didn’t take that much effort for Jack to get dinner together. There was plenty in the fridge, with careful heating instructions in Lina’s clear handwriting. Before Channon, Jack had been used to just throwing things the housekeeping service made for him in the microwave, but Channon seemed to enjoy doing some of the cooking, so the instructions were a little more complicated than ‘heat on medium for three minutes, allow to rest one minute, heat on medium for two minutes’.

Just one more thing Channon did for him, and for which he realized now he should be more grateful.

He set the table, poured some mineral water into tall flutes, and was ready to plate up the food when Channon came in.

“Hey, sweetheart,” Jack said. He had an ache behind his eye, radiating up the back of his neck, but he tried to put a good face on it for Channon’s sake. “How was your day?”

“Okay,” Channon said.

He sounded tired. He’d been up in the night looking for Jack, so Jack wasn’t surprised. Not sleeping well. They couldn’t have that.

“How about you, Sir? Feeling better?”

The question rankled. Channon kept asking him how he was feeling, if he were better, and Jack didn’t know what to tell him. No, not really. Actually, I feel like shit. I’m vaguely worried I’m not getting better, but I don’t want to talk about it because that makes it all the more real.

“I’m fine,” he said, seeing the way Channon’s mouth pinched. Why couldn’t he just take ‘fine’ for an answer? “I hope you’re hungry, after all that pizza.”

Channon gave him a weak smile. “I only had, like, three slices. Margherita with pepperoni.”

“Was that enough of a treat?”

Channon nodded. “Thank you, sir.”

Because he was a good boy and knew who to thank when he enjoyed nice things. “You deserve it, sweetheart.” Jack’s conscience panged. Channon looked so tired. Not enough sleep at all. “You’ve had a lot on your plate the last couple of weeks, huh.”

“It’s only been a week and a half,” Channon mumbled. He looked at Jack, and the chair, and seemed to come to a decision, sitting up at the table instead of kneeling.

It was perfectly reasonable, exactly what Jack would have told him to do, but something about it bothered him. Still, he fetched the plates and sat down himself. “Chicken cacciatore. Bon appétit.”

“Thank you,” Channon said, inhaling deeply. “It smells great!”

“That’s all Lina. I just heated it up.”

Channon smirked a little. “I mean, that counts, right? You always say it counts when I do it.”

It was a little ridiculous, but Jack accepted it. “So, apart from pizza, how was work?”

Channon blew out a breath, his shoulders sagging. “I didn’t get a lot done. Everyone wants to know how you are.”

He said it as if it were inconvenient. Jack felt a twinge of irritation. He was the CEO, of course people would ask. But Channon’s answer… “What did you say?”

“You’re doing better, and keen to get back to work. Oh, and I said I’d tell you they sent best wishes. I wrote down a list,” and he fumbled in his pocket.

“Is that all you said?” Jack asked, frowning. Was it better or worse that it was vague? Would that just make people talk more?

Channon looked up at him with big eyes gone dark under the dimmed lights of the dining area. “Did you want me to say something else, Sir? I didn’t know, I thought—”

“It’s fine,” Jack said, and he didn’t miss the way Channon winced. “I didn’t tell you what to say. You did fine.”

It didn’t seem to help. Channon passed on his list and some office gossip, but his heart was clearly not in it, and Jack felt that like an accusation. Channon was tired because of Jack, he had to deflect questions because of Jack. Now he was trying to entertain Jack, and Jack was thoroughly sick of being the focus of his concern when it was over something so completely unwanted.

He wanted Channon’s focus another way. Something different. Something fun.

Play, perhaps. He wasn’t supposed to, of course—it would probably come under the heading of ‘too much exertion’—but besides play, what was there? They could go out. Maybe go see a movie? Except no, they couldn’t do that. Jack wasn’t allowed screens or bright lights, for fuck’s sake.

“Hey, sweetheart,” Jack said, smiling at him. “Let’s go down to the beach.”

“It’s almost winter,” Channon said, wrinkling his nose. “We’ll die.”

“Not to swim, just to walk down the waterfront.”

Channon considered it, chewing his food. “Okay,” he said, after some unknowable calculation had been completed. “Let’s do that.”

Channon insisted on driving. Jack had expected he would—Channon usually did these days, when they weren’t using the car service or going to the Club or a play party. Jack enjoyed being chauffeured and Channon liked driving, but now? It felt like something Channon was taking away from him, something withheld. Jack resented it, though it was quite reasonable.

They parked at the north end, where the beach gave way to a jetty and a boardwalk with its many dubious attractions. It was cold out, but Jack felt over-swathed and unwound his scarf.

Channon gave him a disapproving look. “You’ll catch a cold.”

“You sound like my mom,” Jack mocked.

This had very little effect. “I like your mom. I’m okay with that.”

A truck was selling hot nuts—Jack bought a bag of them to share because that was way too much salt for one person. Channon stuck to his flank as they walked down in the half-light, the sea a vast black nothingness on one side, Santa Rita bright and noisy on the other.

“You don’t go to the beach much,” Channon observed.

Jack shrugged. “Sand gets everywhere.”

“But you moved here. Don’t you like it?”

“I came for the climate, not the beach. Plus, there were a lot of opportunities back then. Still are, for a startup.”

“Was it hard, starting your own business?”

“Yes and no. It was better than working for anyone else. I never really got the hang of that.”

Channon shivered, and Jack put an arm around him. “I like working for Mr Scott. And you, but…I mean, Nate’s the one who really tells me what to do at work.”

“Nate’s a champ,” Jack agreed. “I couldn’t have done any of it without him.”

“You like him.”

“I do. He’s my best friend.”

“But he wasn’t your boyfriend.”

Jack hesitated. He’d always answered this particular question with a ‘no’ because he’d never really thought of it that way. But now… “I think he might have been, for a while, but I never really realized it.”

“How come?”

How to say this? “I didn’t want to admit that I might have liked that. I don’t know. It was complicated.”

Channon took this in quietly. He pulled out from under Jack’s arm and leaned up against the railing, gazing out to sea. “Do you regret it? Not admitting that, I mean.”

“It’s hard to say.” This was a moment for honesty, he knew it. He couldn’t conceal the truth from Channon, but to answer honestly meant knowing what the truth was. “Things might have turned out differently. But then, they might have turned out worse. I think we’re very lucky to be friends now and have what we have. Even Ewan,” Jack added, feeling charitable. “He’s good for Nate, somehow. I haven’t seen Nate this pleased with himself…ever.”

Channon tossed a knowing look over his shoulder. “Nate likes Ewan because he’s bratty.”

“I wish I understood why.”

“I’m glad you don’t,” Channon said, turning to lean his elbows back on the railing. “If you got it, maybe you’d want one.”

“You don’t think you could brat for me if I wanted?”

Channon seemed to consider it. “I don’t know. Maybe in some kind of alternate universe.”

“And I guess I’d have a goatee in this mirror-verse.”

Channon grinned. “Sure. And I’d wear bondage gear in public.”

It made Jack laugh, and the spike of pain that shot up behind his eye was blinding. “Fuck,” he muttered, covering his eye with one hand.

He was so sick of this. Every time he started to feel normal again, this, a sharp reminder that he wasn’t, that he had no control over himself anymore. That he was human and fallible, and ultimately mortal.

“Jack?”

And that he had Channon to look after, and couldn’t. He was failing right now to be the man Channon needed him to be, and for Channon to see it was humiliating.

What if it never changed? What if this were how it would be forever?

“Do you need to sit down?”

He did need to. He didn’t want to, however, so he gripped the railing as hard as he could and hung on to it until the dizziness passed.

It faded slowly, leaving behind a low-grade nausea. Jack swallowed and took a deep breath of cold, salty air.

“Sir?” Channon whispered.

“I’m all right,” Jack told him, tipping his head back. God, if he could just get over this. “I just need a minute.”

“Should we go home?”

All those questions, never ending. “Just a minute of quiet,” he snapped, that spike still jammed into his eye socket. Migraines had always seemed such a feminine complaint, though he knew they weren’t. This, he thought bitterly, is how ingrained misogyny gets you.

When he’d recovered enough to open his eyes, Channon was standing a little way off, his arms wrapped around himself, watching Jack with a blank expression.

“I’m fine,” Jack said.

“Are you?” Channon demanded.

Jack blinked, unused to that sulky tone. “I said I was.”

“Fine.” Channon turned away, glancing back down the boardwalk. “We should go home.”

Jack wanted to argue with him, almost for the sake of arguing, so he said, “I thought we could ride the Ferris wheel.”

Channon’s head snapped back, his eyes fixing on Jack’s like magnets. “You just…you can’t.”

“What?” Jack said, completely taken aback.

“You can’t just go on rides. There’s all the lights and, and—”

“I think I know what I can and can’t do, Channon,” Jack said, his temper rising. “I’m not a fucking child.”

Channon shrank back, but only for a moment. “You know you can’t.”

“What I know,” Jack snapped, “is that it isn’t up to you to make decisions for me.”

“Then make better decisions,” Channon said, and he turned away, his whole body tensed for a fight.

Jack stared at him. What the hell was happening? Channon was never, ever like this. And he had a point, but Jack didn’t like it.

“Fine,” he said. “Let’s go home.”

❧

Jack told himself he wasn’t in the wrong here, but the miserable look on Channon’s face as he drove made him wonder.

Channon had been trying to stop him from doing what he wanted, but when it came down to it, his reasons were obvious. For Jack’s own good. Just like his mom, just like Nate. Except the difference was that when Jack dug in his heels with them, they just ignored him and did whatever they liked.

With Channon it was different. Channon was supposed to be at Jack’s whims, Jack’s to order around. Because Jack knew best, and Channon was…what? Not a child. But still, Jack’s responsibility.

And now Channon had accused him of making bad decisions. Which, he supposed, had a grain of truth to it. He knew he shouldn’t do anything fun or useful or interesting at all, but it chafed so badly. He hated this inactivity. Just a walk by the sea and laughing at something Channon had said brought him down so easily.

It was intensely frustrating, but looking at Channon’s pale, pinched expression, he could see it wasn’t a walk in the park for Channon either.

Had he snapped at Channon? He had, because his head hurt and he felt helpless, and a wave of remorse for that crashed over him, leaving him cold and guilty. He’d snapped at his boy, who was only trying to help. What a fucking fantastic Dom I am, he berated himself, the thought sharp-edged with sarcasm. What a wonderful boyfriend.

Home was a familiar prison. Jack racked his shoes and then his brain. What could he say to make things right?

“Do you want tea?” Channon asked.

There was, Jack noted, no ‘Sir’ tacked on the end of it. In fact, Channon hadn’t called him ‘Sir’ since dinner. Had Channon stopped because Jack was ill? The thought unnerved him, the idea that his wellness and Channon’s respect for him were somehow intertwined.

Maybe Channon needed a reminder. But more than that, Jack owed him an apology.

“No,” Jack said. “Channon, come here.”

The speed with which Channon obeyed him was gratifying. This, at least, was intact between them.

He lifted a hand to Channon’s cheek, and Channon tipped his face into it, nuzzling him. Jack watched, his chest aching. Channon was his. But more than that, Jack was Channon’s. He owed Channon more than his poor temper and the duties of a nursemaid.

“I’m sorry I snapped at you. I’m not angry with you.”

Channon shivered, glancing up at Jack from under those thick, black eyelashes. “Okay.”

“I’m just tired of being cooped up.”

“With me,” Channon said miserably.

“No, that’s not it at all.” Jack saw Channon flinch and realized how tetchy he sounded. He tried to moderate it, tried to sound patient. “You know I’d like nothing better than to keep you home with me for a week, a week of having you at my beck and call.” Channon stirred, looking up at him again, and Jack let the idea unfurl. “Would you like that? My plaything for a whole week, no decisions to make, only orders to follow. How does that sound?”

“Good,” Channon said, but Jack couldn’t help noticing that missing ‘Sir’. “I’d like that.”

“What else would you like?” Jack cupped Channon’s face in his hands, stroking those high cheekbones with the pads of his thumbs. “Something sweet.” Something to make it up to Channon for all the worry and stress and running after Jack like Jack was an invalid. Something indulgent. Something special. “A reward for you.”

But Channon pulled away, his expression shuttering. “I don’t need a reward. I haven’t done anything to deserve it.”

“I thought we agreed that you don’t get to be the judge of that.”

Channon shook his head, his brow furrowing. “You can’t. You’re not supposed to.”

Jack forced a smirk. “I think I should be the one who decides what I can and can’t do. If I want to fuck my boyfriend, then I’m going to fuck my boyfriend, and no one gets to tell me I can’t.”

Channon’s breath hitched. For a moment Jack thought Channon was going to go to his knees, but then— “Red,” Channon said.

It crashed over Jack like ice water. One word, and he felt sick. Red. Channon had let Jack spank him to tears, had taken the cane until he cried, had allowed Jack to hurt him again and again for nothing at all, and he’d not once used a safeword to get out of it. Not even pain he didn’t like, pain that was only for Jack.

And now he’d said it because Jack had fucked up. Because it was the only way he knew to make Jack stop, and Jack hadn’t been listening.

God, what had he done?

Chapter Five

“Channon,” Jack said, but Channon couldn’t let him finish.

“I said, ‘Red.’”

Jack held up his hands. “I heard you. I’ve stopped. Tell me what’s wrong.”

“You can’t just…” Channon clenched his teeth, hating how it felt to talk to Jack like this, hating the way his muscles wanted to fold him up at Jack’s feet. “I’m not your slave.”

Now Jack looked like Channon had slapped him. The shock and horror in his face was too much to bear, so Channon squeezed his eyes shut and tried to find the words to tell Jack everything.

“If I was, if that was our thing, then I’d let you do it. I wouldn’t have any other choice because I’d have given you that, the power to take all my choices away. But I’m not a slave. I’m not furniture, not all the time. I’m your boy, and I love you, and you like it when I do things for you. Serving you and, and caring about you. So, you don’t get to take that away now, just because you’re…you’re bored.” He took a deep breath, opening his eyes and forcing himself to look Jack in the face. “I don’t care if you get mad at me, or you punish me later, but right now I’m trying to take care of you because you won’t. And you won’t listen to anyone, so there’s no one else to do it.”

Jack stared at him, his expression strange. In this light he looked well, tall and strong and broad shouldered, the man who could hold Channon up against a wall and fuck him senseless or pin him down and take him so hard he cried. His Sir. Dominant and powerful and not to be baited or ignored.

It took everything Channon had not to bow his head and kneel at Jack’s feet, to kiss them and beg for forgiveness. But he couldn’t. He had to stand his ground. If he caved now, he’d never get the chance again, and Jack—

“I’m fine,” Jack said, and Channon felt it like a punch in the gut.

“You’re not!” he burst out, clenching his hands into fists that shook and shook. “You could have died! You keep getting headaches and, and dizzy spells, and you don’t tell me the truth about any of it, you just say you’re fine. I’m not stupid,” he said, and that seemed to touch a nerve because Jack surged forward, his hands coming up to wrap around Channon’s shoulders.

“No, you’re not stupid,” he said, his voice wrenched in something like grief. “Channon, I’m sorry.”

“I just want to help,” Channon told him, feeling his throat close on the misery building in his chest. “Let me help. Don’t lie to me.”

The sound Jack made went straight to Channon’s heart, this pained groan like Channon had hurt him. Then Jack was pulling him in, tucking Channon against his chest and holding him there. Channon clung to him, all his words drying up, his throat full of something horrifying and nameless.

“I’m so sorry, sweetheart,” Jack said, stroking Channon’s scalp with his strong, possessive fingers. “I didn’t want to worry you. And all I’ve done is worry you. I never meant that, I just…” He sighed and pressed a kiss to Channon’s hair. “I want to be fine. I don’t want to tell you I’m not because that makes it real.”

Channon squeezed his eyes shut, burying his face in Jack’s shoulder. “But you’re not.”

“No. Not yet. And…it’s scary.”

So fucking scary, and worse when Jack wouldn’t tell him the truth. But he was now, so Channon stayed silent, listening to him and loving him as hard as he could.

“I’m scared that I might not get better. I might always have these fucking migraines. And balance issues, and dizziness. And if I don’t get over it, what does that mean? I can’t run the company like this, Nate’s made that perfectly clear. I can’t drive. I can’t work out. I’ll get fat, and…I can’t afford to be weak. I’d have to give up so many things, things I love to do. With you.” He squeezed Channon, tucking him in under his chin. “What if I had a dizzy spell in a scene? We’d have to give up rope. Or I would, and I don’t know if I could watch you be tied up by someone else, knowing I couldn’t give you that. God, I want to take you to bed and show you how much I love you, but I can’t, I’m just useless like this, and—”

“You’re not useless,” Channon blurted out. He was interrupting his Sir, but he couldn’t help it. “Sir, you’re not. And I don’t care. If all that happens, I don’t care. I’m scared too but not of that. I’m scared you’ll make it worse, and you’ll die, and then, then you’ll be dead, and I’ll be alone, and I’ll know I could have stopped you, and it’ll be my fault.”

“No, sweetheart,” Jack shifted him, turning Channon’s chin up to kiss him in the corner of his mouth. “That’s not true. That’s not going to happen.”

“Isn’t it?” Channon felt like his words were dragged through mud, thick in his throat, his eyes burning with the unspoken fear that had been living in him since he’d got that first call to tell him that Jack was in hospital.

“No.” Jack kissed him again, tender with him now as if he were bruised all over, which was how he felt. “I didn’t know you were worried about that. I’m sorry. I should have asked.”

“You should have told me you were scared too,” Channon said, and Jack nodded, his eyes wet and raw in a way Channon didn’t think he’d ever seen before.

“Yeah, I should have. I guess I thought I needed to keep it from you because I didn’t want you to worry about me. But instead I did the opposite. I’m a fucking idiot.”

“No, you’re not,” Channon insisted, and he was pleased, just a little, to see Jack smile.

“I’m pretty sure that’s exactly what Nate would call me.”

It was relief, Channon thought, this loose, dizzy feeling. He leaned into Jack, mindful that Jack was still recovering and might not be able to take his weight. But Jack leaned back into him, and they stood wrapped up in each other, and it felt so good Channon found it hard to breathe.

“Tell me what you need from me, sweetheart.”

Channon took a moment to think before pulling away to look Jack in the eye. “I need you to tell me how you are, even if it’s not good. And I need you to listen to the doctor and not do things you shouldn’t.”

“Okay. That seems fair.”

“And I need you to let me help you.”

Jack made a face. “I need you to let me do some things for myself. I don’t mean you can’t help,” he went on quickly, “I mean that I need to feel like I’m not useless.”

It sounded okay. Channon nodded. “All right. Yes, Sir.”

“And I think you need some downtime.”

“Sir?”

Jack smiled, stroking his cheek. “Just some time on your knees. You like it down there, and this is stressful for you, so I’d like to give you a chance to let go of it.”

“No sex,” Channon reminded him, and Jack’s smile twisted a little.

“No sex,” he agreed. “And nothing ‘exerting’. But I think I can get you down without it. We’ll see.” He kissed Channon’s brow. “I think we both need a chance to feel like ourselves.”

By which he meant their dynamic, Channon guessed, and yeah, he agreed with that. He could be good, and Jack could be bossy, and both of them would feel better about themselves and the two of them together.

He let go of a breath. “Yes, Sir,” he said, and Jack’s smile warmed him on the inside where he hadn’t realized he’d grown so cold.

❧

The sheer relief of talking about it made it clear what an idiot Jack had been. To think of Channon, worrying Jack was going to die, all alone in his head with this awful fear. It was unbearable.

For Jack, the relief of telling Channon about his worries was tempered by a new one—that Channon might think less of him for it. But Channon didn’t seem disgusted with him, or betrayed. In fact, he seemed only grateful to be let into Jack’s confidence.

And relieved. God, the relief.

“Can I make you tea, Sir?” Channon asked, so much hope in his face that Jack couldn’t have refused if he’d wanted to.

Well. He could have. How fucking stubborn he’d been. Thank God for Channon. “Sure,” Jack said. “Green tea.”

“The one with the flowers?”

Jack smiled. Channon had initially reacted to the idea of flowers in his tea with a kind of fascinated horror, but since then he’d warmed to it. “Yeah, that one.”

Jack leaned on the counter, watching Channon get the cups and the loose-leaf diffuser. His boy had grown so much, shaped into a new person so far removed from the uncertain ingenue he’d been when they met. And yet, he was still Channon, earnest and honest, his heart on display in everything he did. He loved so much. It ached to think of how long he’d been waiting for a chance to show it to someone who could love him back. And that it should be Jack…

Nate was right, Jack thought. I didn’t think anyone would really love me. Not like this. Worship, maybe. Desire. But someone who knew Jack, really knew him, and loved him in spite of it?

Channon glanced up, a shy smile on his face. “Sir,” he said, kicking the word up at the end into a question.

“Yeah, sweetheart?”

“Um. I wondered.”

He sounded so coy that Jack couldn’t help smiling at him. “What did you wonder?”

“Could we, maybe…I was thinking about that list.”

“List?”

“We made a list, at the start. Of things I might do, or not do.” Channon licked his lips. “A kink list.”

Ah. “I remember.” He’d made Channon look up what all the terms meant, and he’d enjoyed Channon’s shock and curiosity over it all.

“So, I was thinking. It’s kinda out of date now.”

Because they’d tried some things and crossed some things off. Jack wondered how different Channon’s list would be now, and he realized that was exactly what Channon was getting at. “You want to update your list, sweetheart?”

Channon nodded. “And, I wondered. Can I see your list?”

Once upon a time, Jack might have refused. Back then he hadn’t wanted to scare Channon away. But now? “Shall we make new lists together?”

The way he smiled. “Yes, Sir. I’d like that.”

❧

They took their tea to the sofa, Channon in Jack’s lap with print-outs balanced on his knees. Jack’s kink list didn’t seem to horrify him—he wrinkled his nose at puppy play, but when Jack asked, he said it was the masks, really, he didn’t like. He didn’t want his face hidden, didn’t want there to be any mistake about who he was.

Jack understood that. Channon didn’t want to be a substitute for someone else, didn’t want to be forgotten. He wanted to know that Jack had chosen him and kept on choosing him, that he was the one who could make Jack’s blood run hot, make his palms itch to touch him.

It hadn’t started that way, but it was clear now that it was Channon Jack wanted, Channon he wanted to torture in bed, Channon he wanted on his knees, and no one else. At first Channon had liked the thrill of being Jack’s plaything, but now he liked being Jack’s property. Belonging to him. A prized possession. Jack’s treasure.

“I wouldn’t mind,” Channon said, tapping the paper. “If we did that.”

Jack followed his glance. Ah. “It takes some planning. But we could plan it, if you want.”

Channon nodded, his breath gone shallow. He was imagining it now, this illicit thing he wanted. Jack wanted it too, wanted to see it, wanted to wallow in the aftermath. To see Channon’s face, strung out at the edge of his sensibilities. God, he was beautiful when he was being debauched, when he felt dirty and slutty and loved.

“Anything else you’d like?” Jack asked.

There were a few things. Channon ticked ‘yes please’ to ‘size kink’ and ‘toys’ with a very pink face, and Jack teased him a little. They still hadn’t had a go with the monster dildo he’d bought for Channon, but it was there, in the back of his mind. Something for a special occasion, or maybe no occasion at all.

Channon ticked ‘rope’, ‘leather’, but passed over ‘handcuffs’, and Jack couldn’t help it. “Mom suggested you might have trouble getting me to take it easy.”

“I did,” Channon said, pouting.

Jack nuzzled his jaw. “She said you might have to handcuff me to the bed.”

Channon spluttered. “No!”

“When I told her you didn’t have handcuffs, she said she might buy you some,” Jack teased, and Channon made a distressed sound that turned into something suspiciously like a giggle. Jack made it worse by tickling him, until he squirmed off Jack’s lap and onto the floor with a thump.

Instead of climbing back up, Channon came around on his knees and pressed his face into Jack’s thigh, his breath hot and damp through the denim of Jack’s jeans. Jack dropped a hand onto his head and stroked through his hair. “Sweetheart.”

“Sir,” Channon said, but that was all. Jack let him stay there, playing with his hair and marveling at how thick and silky it was. Channon washed it a lot, used a good conditioner, because Jack told him to. He was always clean and groomed, even when he was scruffing around the house in sweats and one of Jack’s old T-shirts. Manicured and pedicured, waxed clean, hair trimmed into a style Jack liked, his skin moisturized and lightly scented. All for Jack. Everything he did was for Jack. How could Jack have thought he’d be any different when Jack was injured?

“I’m sorry,” he said again, meaning it.

Channon sat back on his heels, his expression soft and dreamy. “I forgive you.”

No pretense that there was nothing to forgive. Jack appreciated it, and Channon’s easy forgiveness. Such a good boy. I mustn’t waste him.

“I won’t hide from you again.”

Channon sighed, but he sounded content. “May I serve you, Sir?”

“How?” Jack asked. Channon had been so adamant that they not do anything against doctor’s orders, so he was curious as to what Channon might think acceptable.

Channon ducked his head to press a kiss to Jack’s bare toes. “May I worship your feet?”

Jack wouldn’t say that feet were high on his list of kinks, but it wasn’t unpleasant to be worshipped that way, and he would enjoy a foot rub. “Sure, sweetheart. Go get the massage oil.”

The look on Channon’s face was blissful as he rose and padded upstairs. He came back with the oil and a towel, and he knelt on the rug to take one of Jack’s feet in his lap. He was careful with them, more careful than Jack would have been, rubbing and kneading with both hands, firm strokes that didn’t tease or tickle. Jack found himself sinking into the sofa, groaning under the onslaught of Channon’s strong fingers. “Sweetheart, that’s wonderful.”

Channon hummed happily. He felt useful, Jack thought, and Channon liked feeling useful. It was something he liked about as much as he liked feeling wanted, his service kink a Venn diagram of the two. If Channon felt like he pleased then he was pleased in turn, and suddenly it occurred to Jack that there were lots of things they could do that weren’t strictly sex, or strenuous, or risky, that would make Channon feel wanted and useful and like he had pleased his Sir.

Maybe Jack needed to think more about what they could do than what they couldn’t.

“That’s very good, Channon,” Jack said. “Good boy.”

Channon made a sound that was close to a purr, slipping his slick fingers over Jack’s soles. Content. Pleased in himself. Jack’s.

Just the way they both liked it.

Chapter Six

“Feeling better?”

Jack sighed gustily. “I feel like crap on a stick.” He took a bite of his cruller and chewed it vengefully, but the cruller was too delicious for that kind of harsh treatment. Thanks, Nate.

Nate nodded, his eyes sliding up over Jack’s shoulder to the kitchen where the boys were making sandwiches. Or, Channon was making sandwiches while Ewan got in his way. “Want me to take the menace home, give you some peace and quiet?”

“Absolutely fucking not,” Jack told him, and he was rewarded with a grin. “I’m bored out my goddamn mind. I’d take your brat’s company over being alone right now.”

“Maybe I should leave him here, then. Our boys can have a sleepover.”

“You want me to babysit.”

“I want Channon to have some social contact with someone who isn’t you, and when Ewan invited him over this weekend, he said he had to stay home. Because of you.” Nate shrugged. “I figured we could kill two birds with one stone.”

That Channon would give up time with his friends to stay home and keep Jack company… Ah, of course he would. “I’ll ask him. But if your brat is a pain in the ass—”

“I’ll take it out of his hide,” Nate agreed. “He won’t. He knows when not to push his luck.”

Hah. Jack wasn’t convinced of that at all.

Still, after they’d had sandwiches, Jack cornered Channon in the bathroom. “You can invite Ewan to stay over, if you like.”

Channon’s eyes widened. “What, really?” He seemed skeptical. “But…not, like, in a naked way.”

“Did you want him to stay over in a naked way?” Jack asked, willing himself to be neutral. It was one thing for Channon to fuck Ewan on Jack’s say-so, and another to listen to them going for it in the next room when he couldn’t join in.

Channon shook his head. “No. But, in a not-naked way…”

“You can invite him, it’s okay.” Jack kissed his cheek. “Go on.”

So Nate went home, and Ewan stayed at Channon’s request, and Jack watched the two of them argue about music, and let them make pancakes for dinner, because why the hell not?

Jack’s head started to ache after the first pancake. “I’m going to lie down,” he said.

“Headache?” Channon asked.

“Medium-sized,” Jack said, which was true. It could get a lot worse after all.

“Ibuprofen?” Channon suggested.

“I’ll take some.” He touched Channon’s shoulder as he went, climbing the stairs to their dark bedroom.

He could hear them downstairs, talking quietly. When he closed the door, he couldn’t hear them at all, so he left it cracked, not to spy on them but for company. Whatever they were talking about, it soon dissolved into the sound of Mortal Kombat, and Jack smiled to himself—some things never changed.

He must have slept at some point because he roused as Channon slipped into bed, just enough to wrap himself around Channon’s shoulders, tucking up against him before sleep claimed him again. His dreams were frustrating—he was trying to run a meeting, but everyone kept ignoring him, and then the meeting turned into a seminar, turned into a summit, and no one would fucking listen to him—and he woke somewhere after midnight, hungry.

When he pulled away, Channon mumbled at him, so he kissed Channon’s cheek. “I’m getting something to eat.”

“You ‘kay?” Channon murmured.

“Much better, just hungry.”

“’Kay.” Channon rolled onto his face and went straight back to sleep. Jack envied him his ability to do that, to turn off and stay turned off all night. The fact that he’d woken at all seemed a testament to how on edge he was with Jack unwell.

Or had been. He’d calmed down, now Jack was giving him honest updates on how he was feeling. Fuck, he’d been an idiot to think that Channon wouldn’t know he was hiding something, and that he wouldn’t worry. He should have known his boy better by now.

The guest room door was shut tight. Jack went quietly down the stairs and found the kitchen perfectly tidy. Channon had put the rest of the pancake mix in the fridge, so Jack helped himself to it. There was ice cream and maple syrup, and Jack had the second pancake in the pan when he realized he had an audience.

“Good morning,” he said. It was about two a.m., and he’d slept, so he felt it counted.

“Morning,” Ewan said. His hair was ruffled up into an impossible nest, and there was a pillow crease on his cheek. The effect would have been adorable on anyone else, and even for Ewan Jack was hard pressed to deny it.

“Can’t sleep?” Jack asked.

Ewan knuckled an eye. “There was pancakes.”

He sounded sulky, as if the discovery that Jack was making pancakes at two a.m. was somehow a disappointment, and Jack realized Ewan had been expecting Channon.

Still, there were pancakes, so Jack gestured with the spatula. “Grab yourself a plate.”

Ewan put hazelnut spread and jelly on his pancakes, to Jack’s utter disgust. It was like he’d been created as a thorn in Jack’s side, everything about him grating.

Now, Ewan looked up from his plate, frowning a little.

“What is it?”

“Do you know what I like about you?” Ewan asked, as if he’d been waiting for the opportunity.

“What?”

“Fuck all,” he said crisply. “But Channon’s mad for you, and I like it when he’s happy.”

“You like it when he fucks you,” Jack said, wondering if this was a fight or something else entirely.

Ewan scowled. “So what? You like it when he fucks me.”

“True.”

“Channon was dead upset when you were in the hospital,” Ewan went on, as if they were talking about that. “I had to watch.”

“I’m sure that was much worse for you than what happened to me,” Jack said evenly, wondering if Ewan was trying to get a rise out of him.

Ewan rolled his eyes. “Oh, aye.” He carved off a wedge of pancake, rolled it up, and stuck the disgusting mess in his mouth, chewing thoughtfully. “I don’t get why you let other people go at him.”

“Why do you let Nate screw other people?”

“I don’t,” Ewan said sharply.

Jack couldn’t help his snort. “I must have imagined it, then.”

“That was different. And it’s not like I’d let him fuck you.”

It was surprisingly painful to hear. The idea that it was Ewan calling the shots there, not Nate, not Jack. He disliked it, but it was only fair. Channon didn’t want Jack fucking anyone else or playing with a sub who might think it meant something. Jack bowed to his whims because he loved him.

Did Nate love Ewan? If he did, did that mean Jack had their whole relationship wrong?

There was something about Ewan that Nate liked, that appealed to him in a way Jack never had. If Nate was willing to give up his wandering ways for Ewan—God, that hurt. He hadn’t thought that could hurt so much.

Why you? And Ewan was right there, looking at him belligerently.

Maybe that wasn’t the right question. “What is it you like about Nate?”

Ewan straightened, his eyes narrowing. “His cock,” he said sharply, but Jack just waited for him to go on, and eventually Ewan’s patience ran out. “He’s nice. He’s a cruel bastard when he likes, but he’s…safe about it.”

“And that’s what you like,” Jack said, unable to hide his skepticism.

“He doesn’t manipulate me,” Ewan said through his teeth. “He never tried to take advantage of me being naive. And he doesn’t hand me out to his friends like a fucking party favor!”

Ah. “Which is what you think I do with Channon.”

“Why not? It’s what bad dominants do.”

There was too much pain in it, too much un-lanced poison for it to be anything but personal, and Jack thought about the little Channon had shared of Ewan’s past, his fears, and what had happened at the conference. Someone had hurt him. Someone had given him away. And he thought that was what Jack did with Channon now.

“You understand that not everyone likes the same things,” Jack said, and was rewarded with a ‘piss off’ look. “If I flogged Channon the way you let Nate flog you, he’d break. If I called him a little shit and kicked him when he was on the floor, I’d tear his heart in half. If I dragged him out of a tea party by the hair to beat him, and then fucked him loud enough everyone could hear, he’d die of shame, and I would be responsible for that.” He paused, examining Ewan’s guilty face. “So I don’t do any of those things to him. And the things I do—things you don’t like—are things he wants.”

“But you made him want them,” Ewan snapped, bristling defensively. “You made that.”

“I uncovered it,” Jack argued, but Ewan shook his head.

“He’d never have asked that girlfriend he had to slap him and call him a dirty slut.”

“I don’t slap him, and I don’t call him a slut.”

“Naw, you just call him ‘perfect’, and he’ll do anything to get more of that.”

It was true. Jack couldn’t deny it, and they both knew. He had offered Channon the chance to be perfect, and Channon had seized it with both hands. He hadn’t known then what Channon was capable of submitting to for Jack’s good opinion of him. He hadn’t realized what he was playing with.

And now Channon was his, and Jack refused to let go of him unless Channon pushed him away first.

“I know,” Jack said. “Does it help that I’m not sorry?”

Ewan laughed, a surprisingly warm sound. “You’re such a bastard.”

“And you aren’t?”

Ewan shrugged. “Can I have another pancake?”

Jack made him another pancake.

“I don’t know if I made him like it or just opened the door,” Jack said, feeling it needed to be out in the open. “But I promise you, if Channon didn’t want to play these games, then they would stop.” Immediately, if he put his foot down.

“Thing is,” Ewan said thoughtfully, “whether or not he’ll regret it later.”

“I can’t help what he will or won’t regret later. That’s out of my control. I know that I intend for him to regret none of it. I want him to remember it very fondly.”

Ewan made a fussy sound, poking his plate. “And what about me?”

“You make him happy. I like it when Channon’s happy.”

It made Ewan snort. “I guess we can agree on that.”

❧

Channon wasn’t impressed to find all the pancake mix gone.

“Your boyfriend fried it up this morning,” Ewan said.

“You’ve got pancake breath,” Channon accused him, not sure what, exactly, he was accusing Ewan of doing.

“Yeah, because your boyfriend fried it up this morning,” Ewan insisted, leaning on the counter. “And I helped him eat it.”

The thought of Jack and Ewan having mid-night snacks was mind boggling. But, there was nothing wrong with it. “Okay,” he said. “You hungry? I’m scrambling eggs.”

Ewan shook his head but was happy to make tea. “I like your diffuser.”

“Jack got it so we could have loose-leaf and not mess around with teapots or whatever.”

Ewan nodded as if this made perfect sense to him. He watched as Channon scrambled his eggs and piled them up on buttered toast. “None for Daddy?” he asked archly.

Channon let the barb slide past—Ewan didn’t know, and Channon didn’t care anyway. “He got up to eat pancakes in the night, I bet he’s not hungry.”

After breakfast and losing a few rounds of Mortal Kombat, Channon proposed a swim.

“It’s fucking freezing, are you mental?”

“So you’re chicken?” Channon said. Ewan scowled at him and scowled at him again when Channon tossed a pair of shorts at his head. “I thought Scotland was cold.”

“Yeah, but I’m not barmy.”

Channon rolled his eyes. “It’s heated, idiot. Come on.”

Ewan was skeptical right up until he got in. “Oi, this is fucking decadent, this is.”

“It’s pretty cool,” Channon said, and then he kicked off the end of the pool, swimming a lap. When he came back up again, Ewan was treading water, watching him with intense, unreadable eyes. “What? Wanna race?”

“No, you overgrown penguin.” He lifted his chin. “I guess it’s worth it.”

“What is?”

“Putting up with that posh bastard for this pool.”

Channon ducked his head to take in a mouthful of water, which he spat at Ewan. “And I like him.”

Ewan sculled backwards in the water until he bumped into the edge. “Because you have daddy issues.”

“I mean, probably.” It had become evident to Channon that he did, in fact, have daddy issues, and he did, in fact, have some kinks about that. But. “He makes me feel safe. And like it’s okay to be…whatever I am. I don’t have to be anything more, just me. And that’s enough.”

“Plus, you like his dick,” Ewan added.

“I love his dick. I miss his dick.”

Ewan raised his eyebrows. “Aye? Stopped working, did it?”

“No! Just, you know. No sex, until he’s better. Doctor’s orders.”

“Really? Fucking cruel, that is.”

“Yeah.” Channon hesitated, because Ewan was Ewan, and it obviously bothered him a lot. “You know, it would be cool if you didn’t hate Jack.”

Ewan shrugged. “I don’t hate him.”

“You just don’t like him,” Channon clarified.

“I just think—I mean. I thought,” he started again, glaring down at the surface of the water, “that he was…not good for you.”

“Because he’s after my money.”

Ewan scowled. “Ha ha. I thought maybe he seduced you.”

“He did. It was great.”

“I thought maybe he got you to do things you didn’t want to do.”

“Yeah. That was great, too.”

“I thought,” Ewan said loudly, “you didn’t really like it but just did it because you wanted to please him.”

“Sometimes.” Channon splashed him. “Pain stuff. But I like when he’s proud of me, after.”

It felt good to admit it to someone, and especially when that someone was Ewan, who should understand.

Ewan made a face. “I thought you might not like it when he lets other people fuck you.”

Channon nodded. He’d known, all along, that this was the thing. That one thing Ewan thought made Jack, if not a monster, then at the very least a selfish prick. “He always makes sure it’s safe.”

“And you’re okay with it?”

“I like it,” Channon said, feeling something loosen at the admission, some fear or shame. “I like that they like it.”

“You like being liked.”

“I do,” Channon agreed. “I like that you like me, too.”

Ewan seemed to absorb this. “And you like that he makes it feel safe,” he said.

“Yeah.”

“Well, that’s all right then. Why’d you never say?”

Channon laughed. “It was none of your business,” he said, and he splashed Ewan in the face.

Chapter Seven

When Channon came in, Jack was at the dining table with a pack of cards, reminding himself why he disliked Solitaire, and he was grateful for the interruption.

“Hey, sweetheart. Dropped Ewan off okay?”

“Yep. We got this for you.”

He slid a cardboard box onto the table, a hefty armful, and opened up the top.

It was full of books. Second hand books with creased spines and dog-eared corners, a few dozen of them. They mostly ran to science fiction, but there were some fantasy series in there. Channon piled them up on the table apparently by author or type, or just because they had dragons on the cover.

“You brought me books,” Jack said, surprised.

“Yeah. No screens. But your mom said you liked Lord of the Rings, and we watch a lot of space stuff on Netflix. Ewan took me to the farmers’ market. We raided a stall for the best stuff.”

“Ewan took you.”

Channon nodded. “It was his idea. Um. It’s okay if you don’t like books, Sir. It wasn’t…I mean they’re not expensive, or anything.”

“No, I do.” It was incredibly thoughtful. Jack reached for a familiar cover, thumbed the brown, age-scented pages. “You got me Dune.”

“Ewan picked it. Have you read it?”

“Dozens of times.”

“Oh. Well, there’s others.”

“I’d read it again.” He’d used to read, before everything got so busy, and now it was something he didn’t have time for.

Except right now it was absolutely something he had time for. Something to fill that time—something he enjoyed—would be a godsend.

“Thank you,” he said, reaching out to wrap a hand around Channon’s arm to make sure he understood it was meant. “Thank you so much for this, sweetheart. Please tell Ewan I’m very grateful for it.”

Not that he thought Ewan would care, except to keep score. Ewan had no need for Jack’s gratitude, after all. But it made Channon smile, and that was worth a lot to Jack, in itself.

“Are you tired?” Jack squeezed him gently. “Did you get enough sleep?”

“I’m good. I wasn’t up in the night to eat pancakes,” he teased.

Jack pinched him lightly in rebuke, but it was, he thought, a warranted tease. “I wondered if you’d like to play.”

Channon frowned and opened his mouth. But then he stopped, seeming to consider it, and nodded. “I trust you.”

Not to overdo it, he meant. Channon’s trust was, however, a precious thing, and Jack felt blessed to have it.

“Then I’ll make sure I give you every reason to keep on trusting me,” he said, running his hand up Channon’s arm to tweak his chin. “Go wash up. Meet me in the playroom.”

“Yes, Sir,” Channon said, smiling.

A gift of books and trust. What a simple, wholesome delight.

One that Jack planned to debauch completely. Well. It was only fair, after all.

❧

The moment the collar snicked shut around Channon’s throat, he felt better, this great relief washing over him. He didn’t have to make any decisions, didn’t have to think, just had to do as he was told.

He didn’t have to worry about Jack, because Jack was taking care of himself. And he didn’t have to worry about himself, because Jack was taking care of him too. Just the way he was supposed to.

“Hands and knees, Channon.”

Channon did it, planting his hands on the floor in front of Jack’s armchair and settling his weight. Jack smoothed a hand through Channon’s hair, and then there was the weight of Jack’s ankle across his shoulders, followed by the other as Jack made himself comfortable.

To be a footstool—that was Channon’s job right now. Just to be, and to be still, and to serve Jack.

He heard the splash of liquid poured into a cup. The scent of tea billowed. Black tea, the one with fruit and spices. No milk. The scrape of a cup against a table, something picked up, handled, a page turned.

Jack’s breathing, slow and even.

Channon sank down into it, into this place where Jack was safe and he was safe, and Channon was bare to his skin, on his hands and knees before the man who was like a god to him. His Sir. Still not completely well again but enough himself to have Channon in his place. No matter what happened—no matter if Jack never fully recovered, no matter how the years might change things, how time might try to take Jack from him—Channon knew Jack would still be his Sir. As long as he wants me.

Because it wasn’t his physical strength, his ability to hold Channon down, or tie him up, or the strike of the cane. It was Jack and being Jack’s. Everything else was extra, but the core of it had always been the feeling of belonging to him, being wanted by him. Used by him, yes, for whatever he wanted.

Jack would take care of him. He would take care of Jack. It was that simple.

The cup settled on the back of his neck, still warm. Channon held as still as he could. This was obedience and submission. There was no shame in being furniture for his Sir, only the duty not to twitch or shudder and spill the cup.

(And if he did, no doubt Jack had some punishment in mind, to take away his guilt.)

He held still. Jack lifted the cup, drank from it, and set it down again. Another turn of a page, as Jack read his book and Channon listened, and loved him.

Eventually there was no more cup. Jack’s feet returned to the floor, and a hand dropped heavy on Channon’s head. “Sit up. Good boy.”

Channon sat back, lifting his eyes to his Sir. Jack was handsome, always, but now, in the dim glow of lamplight, he looked diabolical. He’d stopped shaving, except to shape his beard, and now it was thick and black. Channon liked it, wanted it on him, the scratch of it on his skin. He wanted to nuzzle into it and be safe. But he stayed where he was, because he was a good boy.

“How do you feel?”

“Good, Sir.”

“Obedient?”

“Yes, Sir.”

“Then I have some instructions for you.” Jack leaned back in his chair, watching Channon intently. “First, tell me. Are your nipples tender?”

Channon didn’t think so. “I don’t know, Sir.”

“Touch them for me.”

Channon did, and the first touch wasn’t much, but when he pinched them, he sucked in a breath—more tender than he’d expected. “Yes, Sir.”

“Good. Play with them. Pull them and pinch them. That’s right,” he sighed, leaning on one elbow to watch. Channon did as he was told, plucking at his nipples until they throbbed, pink and full. “Now, take these.”

He knew before Jack held them out, and he bit his lip instead of groaning. Clamps. Nipple clamps, a pair of them, clover clamps to pinch him tight. Jack smiled. Channon took the clamps, knowing what was coming but too well behaved to begin without an order.

“Put them on. Pinch your nipple first, draw it out. That’s right. Now fit the clamp to it and—slowly—let it settle.”

Channon did as he was told, feeling the clamp bite into his flesh, the slow tension as it closed. At first it felt tolerable, but the hinge tightened, and he thought, It’s going to cut the fucking thing off, like always.

It didn’t. It never did. But as he breathed through the pain he felt it ratchet up a little higher, always worse than he remembered.

Bearable. Almost unbearable. Like so many things Jack did to him, so many things he craved.

“Good boy,” Jack said, smiling like Channon had given him a gift. “Now the other one.”

It was both more and less awful to fix the second clamp. On the one hand, it hurt just as much, and now he had two points of pain on his chest, digging into him like blunt teeth. On the other, at least he didn’t feel lopsided. He breathed in, and out, and made himself settle on his heels, waiting for another order.

“That’s good, Channon. You look like it hurts.”

“Yes, Sir.”

“Tell me about it.”

“It’s…hot. And humiliating.”

“Why humiliating?”

“Because you made me do it to myself, and it’s like proof of what I’ll do for you.”

“That’s good. You’re getting hard.”

Channon squirmed, knowing Jack wasn’t wrong but refusing to look down at himself. “Yes, Sir.”

“Is it the clamps? Do they arouse you? Do you,” and his voice turned devious, “secretly like them?”

“It’s because you’re looking, Sir,” Channon said, not sure if he did secretly like the clamps. They were a torture, but they were also…bearable. “It’s because I’m kneeling for you.”

“Good,” Jack said. “Come here.”

Channon shuffled forward on his knees. He expected Jack to reach out and touch the clamps, to tug on the chain to make Channon squeal, but he didn’t. “Hands out,” he said, and Channon held them cupped like he was scooping up water to drink. Jack squeezed a dollop of lube into Channon’s palms. A lot of lube, Channon thought. More than a lot. “Lie down on your back for me.”

Channon did, the rug soft and warm under his shoulders, and he spread his legs for Jack, his knees pulled up. He felt exposed and open, more exposed and open when Jack told him to lift his hips and wedged a firm pillow under his ass. Propped up, on display. He knew what Jack wanted but he waited to be told.

“Finger yourself. I want to see you spread yourself open for me.”

The angle was always more awkward when he did this to himself, but he was used to it now. His fingers slipped in easily, soaked in lube. One finger made him sigh to himself—it was never enough, but it felt good to have something inside him, even if it was his own finger. He thought about Jack’s hands, about the first time Jack had fingered him, and the last time, and how easily he could take Jack’s fingers now, how Jack’s cock slid into him without resistance, how much he wanted that.

“Your dick’s like a rock, sweetheart. What are you thinking about?”

“You, Sir,” Channon said, knowing Jack wouldn’t be satisfied with just that. “You fucking me. What it would be like if you fucked me right now.”

“Mmmm, you’re going to have to wait for that. Tell me something else you’d like.”

“Sir?”

“Tell me a fantasy you’ve had. Something from your journal.”

Channon swallowed, thinking. Something from his journal, but something Jack might not have read already. “I’ve been thinking about the time I called you ‘Master’.”

“Ah.” Jack settled in his chair. “Go on.”

“I’ve been thinking about what it would be like, if I couldn’t make any choices at all,” Channon said, admitting this carefully. “If I was nothing. Just a service for you. Something you could use but didn’t have to, you know, be nice to.”

“How would I use you?”

“Just…just use my mouth. Just walk up and, and fuck my mouth, without saying a word.” Channon shifted, working two fingers inside himself, making room for more. “I’d be on my knees, waiting, and you’d walk over and undo your pants and grab me by the hair and hold me in place to get my mouth fucked.” He shuddered, his hips rocking up. How easy it would be if Jack just took from him like that. “You’d come in my mouth and walk away, and I’d wait right where I was until you needed me again.”

“Needed?”

“Wanted, Sir.”

“Until I wanted to use you again,” Jack corrected, and Channon felt a rush of shameful desire.

“Yes, Sir.”

“What else would I do?”

Channon teased a third finger against his rim. He didn’t know how many Jack wanted him to take but Jack hadn’t told him to stop, so he figured he should keep going. Three was always a significantly greater stretch than two. He had to breathe out slow as he eased in, taking his time. Jack didn’t seem to mind, waiting patiently for a response.

“You’d use my ass, too. I’d have to be ready for you, all the time, and when you wanted to use me, you’d just push me over something and slide in. And I’d take it from you, and you’d do it how you wanted and not care about me, or if I got off on it at all, and then, then you’d come in me and pull out, and I’d just slide to my knees again and wait for the next time you wanted to use me.”

Jack hummed, a low rumble of approval. “I like that, sweetheart. I really like that. Should I let you come when I fuck you?”

“It doesn’t matter what I think,” Channon said, caught up in the fantasy. “Sir, if you want, I won’t. Or if I do you can punish me for it. It’s not about me.”

“What if I want to spank you? What if I don’t even care if you deserve it, but I just want to warm my palm on your ass?”

Channon groaned, jacking his hips up and drilling his fingers in deep, while his nipples ached and ached. “Sir, it d-doesn’t matter. If you want it you can do whatever you want to me. That’s what I’m for.”

“I’d tie you up under my desk,” Jack said, his voice warm and throaty. “Leash you like a dog. Put my cock in your mouth and leave it there while I worked. Fuck your mouth a little and then just leave it there, come in you and feel you swallow me down, and then keep my dick in you, so you knew your place. On your knees at my feet.”

It made Channon’s whole body want to clench up. He made himself relax, spread his legs wider for Jack to see. When he looked, he saw that Jack was watching him, the place where his fingers disappeared inside himself, the stretch of his hole around his knuckles. It made him moan, his muscles fluttering. Jack, Jack, Sir, please.

Four fingers? Did Jack want that? Channon tried it; the angle was all wrong, but he tried anyway and was rewarded by Jack’s soft chuckle.

“Sweetheart, do you need more than that?”

“Yes, Sir,” Channon whimpered. “Please.”

Fuck me, he thought, but that wasn’t what they were doing, no, and Jack had so much self-restraint, Channon could hardly bear it. Still—Please, Sir, please fuck me, please use me.

“Okay, that’s enough. Come up on your knees.”

It took an effort, and when he came up, he felt giddy, slick and open where he’d slicked himself open for Jack. His hands were messy—Jack offered him a wet wipe.

Then he smiled, reaching out to brush his fingers over Channon’s mouth. “I want to see you fuck yourself,” he said, and Channon felt it ripple through him, the heat of embarrassment and arousal that came with everything Jack demanded of him. “With this.”

It was one of the glass dildos, a long curve of translucent spheres, smaller widening to larger. Jack had used it on him before, but Channon hadn’t done it to himself. Now he took it, held it still as Jack slicked it with lube, and settled himself on his back again. The tip was round and cool but not cold, and it pushed in easily once he had the angle right. The second sphere eased past his rim in a smooth slide, rigid and unyielding and entirely unlike a cock. It felt clinical, artificial. Then he pushed in the third sphere, and his hips jerked up of themselves as the first slid over his prostate.

He felt rather than heard himself moan. It gathered in his chest, spilling up his throat and over his tongue. He rocked the dildo inside him, pressing down on it to angle it up and, oh fuck, it rubbed him just right. His cock jumped, quivering. He glanced down through slivered lids, past his aching nipples, and saw liquid gathered in his slit, glistening there like a bead of glass.

“That’s right, sweetheart. Fuck yourself for me.”

It was so easy to obey him sometimes, and this time Channon did as he was told. The dildo had warmed inside him, warm as flesh, but rigid, slick, delving into him and rubbing along his insides. He clenched down on it, shuddering, and fucked himself with slow, firm strokes. This could be Jack, could be Jack’s hand on the dildo, his cock—no, not his cock, not when it was shiny smooth and rock hard. But it could be Jack with his hand on the dildo, certainly, pushing the glass into him and humming as he did so.

“That’s good. Good, Channon. How does it feel?”

“I wish it was you, Sir.”

“Mmm, but how does it feel?”

“Hard. Deep. Feels like, like it’s opening me up for you.”

Jack hummed. “Is it? Opening you up? Do you feel open, sweetheart? Could you take more?”

“Yes, Sir,” Channon said, his heart in his throat because it sounded like Jack meant to give him more, and then Jack’s hand was on his, easing the dildo out of him, wrapping it in a towel. Channon protested, unsatisfied, but Jack only chuckled.

“Take this, sweetheart. You can take this now. Just try.”

Channon’s fingers closed on rubber. So fucking much of it, though, and he looked down, his heart shuddering, because…fuck, it was. The big one. He could see it in his hands, the thick blackness of it, and then Jack had pushed the slick tip of it up to Channon’s hole, and he felt like he might faint.

They were doing this. Finally. He didn’t know if he should be excited or terrified.

It wasn’t just the length of the dildo—though that was intimidating enough—or even the generous girth of it, but the effect Channon was afraid it might have on him. He wasn’t allowed to come without permission, he knew that, but with something this big in him? What if he couldn’t help it? What if he just came, and Jack was upset with him, and he had to be punished? Jack wasn’t supposed to do anything that strenuous, what—

“It’s okay, Channon,” Jack said, as if he could read Channon’s doubts on his face. “Just see how much you can take. You don’t have to take the whole thing.”

“What if I can’t?” Channon asked.

“You don’t have to,” Jack repeated, but Channon shook his head.

“What if I come, Sir?”

Jack smiled. It was too fond a smile to make sense of in this context, but Channon felt it warm him anyway. “That’s okay. Try to hold out if you can, but if you come just from fucking yourself with this thing, I won’t be disappointed at all.”

He settled back, comfortable in his armchair, and gestured at Channon in a ‘go on’ sort of way.

So Channon went on. The head of the monster dildo was intimidating enough, though Channon had seen bigger online. He didn’t want to think about that right now—what was nudging up into him right now was big enough. He could take it, he was pretty sure, so he pressed in, a little, a little, letting his head fall back and his eyes fall shut, thinking soft thoughts, submissive thoughts.

Jack wants this. He wants to watch. He’s watching now. He wants to see me come on this thing, so I have to take as much as I can. For my Sir.

And, he had to admit, because the thought of it excited him.

Not just the size of the thing but the act of it, of putting himself on display with his legs spread sluttily open, of pushing something into his body while his boyfriend watched. The head of the dildo popped into him—he gasped at the sudden fullness, sweat breaking out on his brow, and then groaned as the next half inch slid more easily inside.

And it was easy. He took it slow, rocking it in gently, but his body accepted it, made space for it, his knees drawing up, thighs splayed open, hips coming up to take more. It felt like it pushed him out of his own body, up to a place where all he could feel was the soft-firmness of the rubber cock as he took it in, how the veiny ridges of it rippled over his rim and into him. The head of it, slipping over his prostate, deeper, deeper, and with each little thrust and wiggle he could feel it building something at the base of his cock. His balls had drawn up tight, his body taut with the pleasurable pressure of this.

“Tug the clamps for me,” Jack said, and Channon arched, groaning, because he had to, he had to. He tugged the chain that linked them, whining in his throat as the dull pain flared hot and sharp, but it wasn’t enough. “Harder,” Jack said, and Channon did it again, giving them a vicious yank that forced a cry from his throat.

The pain was a distraction from the sheer, blinding pleasure of the dildo pushing into him. He knew that, knew Jack wanted him to take more of it, knew what Jack was going to demand next.

“Take them off, Channon.”

There, he’d known, and he didn’t want to suffer the excruciating pain of it. But he’d been ordered so he grit his teeth, holding the dildo in place with one hand and using the other to open the first clamp. Pain bloomed in him like a firework, a sharp spike following by a scintillating expansion that had him sucking in a breath against it. It hurt. He always forgot how much, even though he knew.

And now the second. He took that off, whimpering, and when Jack told him to rub his chest, he did it, sobbing through his teeth. Goddammit, Jack was a bastard, a cruel, beautiful bastard, and Channon felt so tight right now he could burst.

“Go on,” Jack said.

The pain paled beside the exquisite pleasure of being filled. It made him feel like a glass poured up to the rim, a little more and he’d spill over in a great, glorious mess, one more push and—oh God—it came over him so suddenly he couldn’t have stopped it if he’d tried, a warning throb and then, ah! His whole body clenched up tight, racked by waves of pure, unmatched pleasure.

It always felt good, but this time it felt glorious, like Jack had given him this, like Jack had done it to him. Jack, he thought, his throat choked up, gasping for breath as his limbs seized and his brain went to snow. Everything else meant nothing, just Jack, and the release Jack had driven him to.

It lasted forever, and not long enough, and when Channon washed up on the shore of it, he was sticky and useless, naked on the floor and stuffed full, his legs spread wide and wanton. When he blinked his eyes open, blearily, he could see Jack watching him with a sharp, vicious smile.

“Good boy,” Jack said, and Channon shook with how good it felt to hear that now, when he felt so, well, slutty.

Jack told him to ease the dildo out and put it aside, and then coaxed Channon up into his lap.

“I’m messy,” Channon slurred.

“I know, sweetheart. Here, I’ll put a towel on my knees, if it makes you feel better.”

It did. He did. Channon curled up in his arms, with Jack’s kisses scattered over his face and soft words in his ear.

“I think I have a size kink,” Channon sighed.

Jack chuckled, rich and low. “You think?”

“Is it bad?”

“I wouldn’t have bought that dildo to fuck you with if it was bad,” Jack said, sweeping Channon’s hair out of his eyes. Channon decided to take Jack’s word for it, burrowing into his shoulder.

“Are you okay?” Channon asked.

“I’m extremely fucking horny,” Jack said, “and I think we both need something to eat and a nap on the sofa. But other than that, I’m good.”

Channon murmured agreement, too exhausted for more than that. He wanted to ask if it was okay that Jack hadn’t come, hadn’t spanked him or done any of the things he normally liked. But Jack sounded content, and Channon wasn’t going to argue with him about that. Not now he knew his Sir would be honest with him. Not now he didn’t have to worry about what Jack wasn’t telling him.

It felt infinitely better, like Jack trusted him with his secrets. That was something Channon wasn’t about to betray, not ever. Jack’s trust meant more to him than the world.

❧

Later, on the sofa, Channon pushed his face up under Jack’s jaw and mumbled, “Sir?”

“Yeah, sweetheart?”

“I know we just…and it’s greedy, but…”

“What is it?”

“Can we really do that? How we talked about?” He bit his lip, eyes closed while the fantasy played out behind his eyes.

Jack made a pleased sound, and when he spoke Channon could hear the smile in his voice. “That thing where I keep you like a sex slave? Yeah, we can do that.”

“And…the other thing. The one you said would take planning.”

Jack chuckled and kissed his hair. “We can do that too.”

“Good,” Channon said, snuggling down into Jack’s chest. “I’d like that.”

“I like that you’d like that.”

“I like that you like it too, Sir,” Channon said, because he did. That was what all this was about, wasn’t it? Whatever they liked, and how much they both got off on the other one liking things. Like an echo chamber, each layer of pleasure doubled because it was shared between them, one way or another.

“When I’m better, okay? Something to look forward to,” Jack said, and Channon sighed, happy instead of resigned. When Jack was better—Please get better, I believe in you—they could do all kinds of things.

“I can wait,” Channon said, because for now they had this, and this was more than enough for him.

Did you like this book?

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Dear Reader,

This was a strange episode, I know. Not a lot of action, not a lot of kink. But I hope the relationship dynamics work for you, because it's been so important to me for Channon and Jack to reach this point. I've been planning it for ages. Just like I've been planning what Jack is now planning for Channon next episode ;)

(Oh, and in case you missed it in the last episode, Marco is fine. Jack will most certainly have asked Cynthia to send a fruit basket and make sure he's taken care of. No worries.)

I'd like to thank Jennifer for all her help editing this episode, and for informing me that Americans do not refer to their friends as 'good value' (at least, not in the way I meant). Any remaining errors are my fault entirely. And I hope you caught the Monty Python reference, for serious nerds only ;)

If you liked this episode, it would be great if you could leave a review. They help me out immensely. Don't forget you can email me (therobinmoray@gmail.com) or follow me on twitter @robinmoray, tumblr, facebook, and at my website.

See you next time,

❤ Robin

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About the Author

Robin Moray started writing at the age of twelve. Those stories tended to have a lot of elves in them, and woodland rangers who were secretly exiled princes. Robin spent years in academia, studying literature and history, and then embarked on a career in the private sector, playing with spreadsheets and day-dreaming of adventures with wolves and witches and magical pacts. Robin's first book, Bonded to the Alpha, was written in two months but benefited from nearly twenty years of practice. Since then Robin has been devoted to writing fantasy, horror, science fiction, and romance, in all kinds of combinations.

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❤

Thanks for reading!

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