Page 64

Chapter Eight

The following morning Lincoln woke up alone. The place beside him in his—no their bed—was empty. The house was quiet… too quiet.

It wasn’t the comfortable kind—the silence that settled after a long day, when their bodies fit together on the couch, Henry’s fingers idly stroking his wrist as they read, talked and existed in a cloud of contentment.

This silence was sharp and hollow.

He threw back the covers and rose. His body ached but in a good way. What was missing was the contentment, as a gnawing unease took over.

He went into the bathroom for his morning rituals, finding the mirror steamed over from a recent shower. Was Henry in the kitchen?

Throwing on a bathrobe, Lincoln went to search for his Master, but the rooms were empty.

Lincoln stood in the kitchen, one hand resting against the counter, the other curled around a short note.

Got called in to work. Didn’t want to wake you. Couldn’t wait.

Love. H.

That was it.

No I’m sorry, no I’ll make it up to you . Just a handful of words that punched straight through his ribs, right into his unguarded heart.

After the intimate night they’d shared, Lincoln had hoped for more. This felt like a cold shower after finally having everything he’d been aching for.

It was the weekend. A rare Saturday with no plans, no obligations. He had imagined coffee in bed, maybe breakfast on the patio.

Maybe even some lazy, tangled-up sex.

Instead, he got a cold counter, an empty room, and a note that might as well have been a receipt.

Fuck!

Lincoln breathed in through his nose. And blew the air out through his mouth. Repeated it several times in the way Henry had taught him. It had always steadied him when the world was too much, and submission was his anchor.

But what happened when the tether slipped, and nothing held him steady?

The refrigerator hummed behind him. The clock on the wall ticked.

With steady intervals, water dripped from the faucet.

The sounds were steady, mundane and unbothered.

They could have been a comfort, but they seemed to mock him.

After last night, his nerve endings felt raw and his world untethered Somewhere outside, a car door slammed, and footsteps crunched against gravel as their neighbor came home.

Home.

His eyes stung. Home wasn’t a house. Not for him at least. Henry was home, but he wasn’t here.

He should go upstairs. Change into clothes.

But he didn’t move.

Didn’t turn off the kitchen light.

He opened his hand, and the crumbled paper fell to the floor. He should pick it up.

He couldn’t.

Instead, his fingers traced the edge of the counter. He followed the restless movement with his eyes and remembered how Henry had stroked his skin and held him last night. His touch hadn’t been like this restless movement that betrayed the storm beneath Lincoln’s skin.

Last night, Lincoln’s world had been all right for a while, only to come crashing down this morning. Was this sub-drop or was there something else going on?

He pushed himself off the counter and started pacing the length of the kitchen.

It wasn’t just this.

It was the slow, creeping distance. The nights Henry came home late, so exhausted and distracted he wasn’t interested in anything.

And all the time, Lincoln had blamed himself. But what if their love was lost entirely?

The last months flashed before his mind’s eye like a montage of missed moments and fleeting contact. Of conversations not had and intimacy lost.

Their mornings when words barely brushed against each other, and nightly conversation that had slipped through their fingers before either could hold on.

He wasn’t asking for whips, restraints or orders. He just craved a hand on his back and a whispered, “I’ve got you, cuddle-bug.”

Last night had been different. Like they were trying to fix what was broken. They had talked. They’d made love. They had connected. And he thought they were fixing things. But talking and fucking didn’t mean fixing. Didn’t mean feeling wanted, let alone needed .

This morning’s note said it all.

He was nothing but a roommate—an inconvenient one.

Lincoln swallowed. His throat felt tight and raw. His pulse was a dull throb behind his temples.

He’d seen this before, experienced it with his first partner, a long time ago. He knew what it looked like when someone pulled away, piece by piece, until all that remained were echoes of what used to be.

He just never thought it would happen to them.

They’d been solid for decades.

Last night, he thought he would soon be moving into their bedroom again, this morning was a wakeup call. Nothing had changed.

Lincoln went back upstairs. His limbs felt heavy, and his mind was dragging. Upstairs, he hesitated before going into the master suite—Master’s Suite. Ha!

He grimaced at his lame joke.

He picked up shed clothes and made the bed.

His eyes burned and he swept the back of his hand over his wet cheeks. He didn’t want to cry. Damn it.

Arms full of laundry, he left the room. The door behind him fell closed with a determined snick.