Page 40

“If you want to come, then you need to ask for permission.”

He nods, as I slowly rub him.

“That means no more doing whatever you were doing in the shower to make yourself blow your load.”

His eyes widen and I smile, pausing as I wait for him to agree.

“Okay,” he pants.

“Good boy,” I praise, then pull my hand from his cock, straighten and close his car door, chuckling to myself as I listen to his splutter of indignation.

“Come home with me,” I half order, half ask, the moment I’m situated behind the steering wheel.

“No,” he says, shaking his head like he needs the physical movement to reinforce his words.

“Come home with me, let me take care of you.”

“I can’t,” he whimpers.

Growling, I start the engine and peel out of the parking lot, reluctantly turning my car in the direction of the freeway and not the mountain. Tension fills the small space the farther away from Rockhead Point we get, and by the time we hit Bozeman and Henry starts to direct me toward his apartment, I’m practically vibrating with the need to take complete control and get him the hell out of here.

Leaving the bright lights of the city behind, he directs me toward an industrial suburb filled with warehouses and run-down buildings. The moment he points out his apartment, I feel like my teeth are going to crack from how hard I’m gritting them together.

“Show me your place,” I demand, parking on the street and killing the engine.

“I’m pretty tired,” he says, glancing at me warily.

“Boy, I’m not leaving until you prove that it’s safe for you to stay here.” There is zero room for argument in my tone, and he must realize it, because he nods.

He’s already halfway out of the car by the time I come around to his side, and he avoids taking my hand when I hold it out to him. Locking my car, I feel eyes on us as I follow Henry down the sidewalk.

A group of three men follow our path, watching us from the street corner, their gazes shrewd and assessing. I’ve lived allover the country in cities and towns, some safe, some not. But this area has an ever-present air of danger that makes me want to bundle Henry back into my car while I inform him in no uncertain terms that he’ll never be coming back here again.

Tamping down the urge, I follow him into the building, noting the minimal security and total lack of CCTV cameras. He’s silent as he enters a dimly lit stairwell and starts to head down.

It takes every bit of my self-control not to curse as I follow him into the basement. At the bottom of the stairs, there are two doors, one looks to be a storage room with a single lock and a peeling sticker that says “No Entry.” Henry steps up to the other door, pulls out a bunch of keys, and starts unlocking the row of locks one by one.

After he turns the key in the last lock, he twists the handle and pushes the door open, glancing behind at me with wary eyes. “It’s not much,” he says, his tone full of worry. Stepping inside, he flicks on a switch, and the tiny apartment floods with light.

Honestly, calling it an apartment is probably a stretch. The majority of the space is filled with a neatly made queen-sized mattress, lifted off the floor by a base made of pallet wood and cinder blocks. In one corner beneath a bar-covered half window is a tiny shower stall, a toilet, and a sink. On the wall beside the door is a single kitchen cabinet mounted on the wall with a countertop just big enough to hold an ancient-looking hotplate and a tattered-looking dorm refrigerator resting on the floor beneath.

Instead of carpet or hardwood, the floor is concrete, covered by an ugly blue area rug. There’s no closet, just a pile of clear plastic totes stacked against the wall that seem to hold clothes and things.

Considering the state of the place, it’s clear Henry has tried to make it homely, but honestly, it’s a dump. But I can see why hefeels the illusion of safety here. The window isn’t big enough to be used to gain entry, and just like he said, he doesn’t really have anything to steal if anyone were to bother breaking in.

My heart hurts, but I force my expression to stay neutral.

“I know how it looks, but it’s affordable, and it’s not like I need any more space,” Henry says quickly, clearly embarrassed.

“It’s nice,” I say, then cringe at how fake my words sound.

“No, it’s not.” He scoffs. “But it’s home, and I actually saw places that were way worse when I first moved here.”

“Come home with me,” I coax, pulling him into my arms.

“No,” he says, shaking his head.

“Please,” I coo, collaring his throat then kissing him and swallowing his quiet moans.