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Chapter Thirteen

Henry lay in the glow of sunlight through the opening between the curtains of their bedroom window.

His body was curled around Lincoln’s back, and he rejoiced in the familiar weight of him finally—finally—back in their shared bed and in his arms. He couldn’t even remember the last time they had slept like this, tangled together, no walls between them.

His fingers moved idly over Lincoln’s skin, tracing the sharp lines of his thigh, the dip behind his knee, the curve of his hip. He had lost weight—too much—but Henry still found him just as devastatingly beautiful.

He let his touch wander, slow and deliberate, as his thoughts unraveled.

God, I love this man.

"I love you, you know." It was a statement, a fact, undeniable in its truth, but Henry didn’t miss how Lincoln stiffened ever so slightly.

Before getting Long-Covid, that reaction wouldn’t have been there. Lincoln would have absorbed the words without question, without hesitation. But now?

Does he doubt my love for him? Really?

Henry’s fingers moved idly over Lincoln’s skin, tracing slow, lazy circles along the inside of his thigh.

Lincoln had always run warm, but tonight, there was a slight chill to him, his body still catching up to the weight he’d lost. Henry pressed closer, letting his own heat seep into him, trying to bridge the space that had lingered between them for too damn long.

"I love your brilliant brain,” he murmured, his voice low, steady. “How sharp your mind is. Love listening to you take apart an argument and rebuild it into something airtight."

He felt Lincoln’s breath stutter, but he didn’t stop.

"I love how you always have a plan, a backup plan, and a strategy, but never steamroll people to get your way." He traced the muscles from knee to hip and down again. His touch was more deliberate now, more to arouse than to sooth. “I love the way you fight for what’s right. How you don’t just care about winning—you care about justice.”

Lincoln let out a slow exhale, tension bleeding from his body, but Henry wasn’t done.

"I love your strength," he continued, his fingers grazing the soft skin behind Lincoln’s knee, making him twitch. “Not just the kind that gets you through a grueling trial, but the kind that gets you out of bed when your body refuses to cooperate. The kind that keeps going even when it hurts. Even when no one’s watching.”

He pressed a kiss to Lincoln’s shoulder and let his lips linger.

“I love your perseverance. The way you’ve fought through every damn thing this world has thrown at you and still come out the other side.” His hand skimmed up, circling over Lincoln’s hip, slow, possessive. “And I love your submission.”

Lincoln let out a shuddering breath.

Henry smiled against his skin and let his lips ghost over his nape. "You think it makes you weak?" His fingers tightened, not enough to hurt, but enough to make Lincoln gasp. “It doesn’t. It makes you stronger than anyone I know.”

He paused, letting that sink in.

Lincoln had always been proud—of his work, his mind, his control. But it was here, in Henry’s arms, in their dynamic, that Lincoln had given him something even greater: his trust.

That wasn’t weakness.

That was power.

“I love you.”

Henry exhaled against his skin, pressing his forehead between Lincoln’s shoulder blades. “I love the way you balance work and private time. I love how you make me relax when I don’t even realize I need to. I love your gorgeous ass.”

That pulled a rough chuckle from Lincoln, breathless and hoarse.

Henry grinned, palming Lincoln’s hip, digging his fingers into the flesh. Lincoln’s moan was immediate, his body arching, a reaction Henry knew like his own heartbeat.

“I love your creamy white skin,” Henry murmured, voice dark with heat. “And how well you mark for me.”

His grip tightened, his fingers pressing deeper into Lincoln’s hip.

Lincoln shuddered. “Henry…”

It wasn’t a protest.

But…

“What do you call me?”

“Daddy. I call you Daddy.”

“That’s right.” Henry curled around him, pressing a kiss just below his ear before grazing the earlobe with his tongue.

Henry slid his hand under the waistband of Lincoln’s boxer briefs, and wiggled the fabric over the hipbone, tugging Obligingly, Lincoln lifted his lower half and helped sliding the underwear out of Henry’s way.

“Are we green?”

“Absolutely, Daddy.” Lincoln’s voice broke. “I’ve missed this.”

“Me too.” Henry moved his hand to Lincoln’s front, pleased to find him fully erect.

He engulfed the head of his dick and gathered some precum, to aid the slide down.

Gripping tightly, he brought his fist down until he reached Lincoln’s groin and was almost on his way back to the tip, when he halted.

“What is this?” He let go of Lincoln’s cock and stroked the skin around the base. Where his hand should have met smooth skin, he encountered stubble.

“I’m sorry, Daddy.”

“Sorry for what?”

Lincoln curled in on himself. “I stopped shaving every other day. I thought you didn’t care, and I just didn’t bother anymore.” His voice dropped at the end of the sentence.

Henry’s stomach clenched and for a moment he forgot to breath. “You thought me indifferent?” He closed his eyes and swallowed hard.

“No, no.” Lincoln turned and place a tentative hand on his shoulder. “Not indifferent, never that. Just. Well. Just, not interested in me like… well, sexually, you know.”

“Damn it, babyboy. We should have talked more.”

“Yes, we should have. I’m sorry, Daddy.”

“Me too, cuddle-bug. I should have been clearer about my intentions. I love you,” he whispered again.

And this time, Lincoln didn’t hesitate. “I love you too.”

“Now let’s take care of your grooming.”

Trying not to feel bad about his mistake, Lincoln attempted to get out of bed but was thwarted by a strong arm.

“Where do you think you are going?”

“To the bathroom, Daddy, to shave.”

“Oh no, cuddle-bug, I’m going to groom you, and it won’t be by shaving you.”

Lincoln’s eyebrows touched his hairline.

“Stay still.” Lincoln barely had time to blink before the covers were yanked back, cool air rushing over his skin in stark contrast to the warmth Henry had been radiating beside him.

“I need good light for this,” Henry said, striding across the room, throwing open the curtains.

Sunlight flooded in, bright and unrelenting. Lincoln squinted, turning his head against the glare.

“Sadist,” he muttered.

Henry chuckled, low and indulgent. “You love it.”

Lincoln huffed but didn’t argue.

He heard the rustle of towels being laid out, the soft clink of jars and bottles.

His skin prickled with anticipation, heat pooling low in his belly.

Henry had always enjoyed grooming him, taking meticulous care to keep him in the way he preferred—trimmed, polished, perfect. But this? This wasn’t just shaving.

Lincoln’s pulse kicked up.

The scent of wax filled the air, a warm, faintly honeyed aroma.

He swallowed. “You’re waxing me, aren’t you?”

Henry glanced over his shoulder, eyes glinting with amusement. “You love pain.”

Lincoln’s brows shot up. “I enjoy the right kind of pain, Daddy.”

“Oh, cuddle-bug, I think you’ll find this… enlightening.”

The snap of Velcro cut through the room, followed by the soft clink of metal as Henry gathered restraints.

Lincoln arched a brow. “What makes you think I’d want to run?”

Henry smirked. “Oh, I don’t think you’ll want to run from me.” He approached the bed, eyes gleaming with intent. “But this might make you want to wiggle, and I don’t like a moving target.”

Lincoln barely had time to respond before Henry’s hands were on him, firm and efficient, guiding him into position.

A broad strap wrapped around his waist, snug but not uncomfortable.

Then cuffs—thick, padded leather—secured just above his knees.

Henry pulled his legs up, spreading them outward before clipping them to the waist strap, leaving Lincoln completely open.

He let out a breathless laugh. “I feel like a frog in a high school biology class.”

Henry grinned. “You’re a work of art, not a dissection project.”

Warmth ghosted over Lincoln’s skin as Henry smoothed a towel beneath him. The faint hum of the wax warmer reached his ears, and then?—

Heat.

A slow, spreading warmth, soothing at first, almost lulling. But Lincoln knew better. He knew what came next.

The soft pressure of Henry’s fingers followed, spreading the wax in deliberate strokes, painting his skin with heat. Lincoln exhaled through his nose, relishing the way Henry touched him—careful, methodical, unhurried.

The first paper strip pressed down. Henry smoothed it into place with firm, knowing hands.

Lincoln’s heart gave a hard thump.

Henry’s fingers lingered, rubbing gently over his hip, his inner thigh. His voice was quiet, teasing. “Ready?”

Lincoln swallowed. Why was he dragging this out?

“Yes, Daddy.”

A sharp rip.

Pain lanced through him, bright and electric. Lincoln sucked in a breath, muscles clenching—except he couldn’t clench. The restraints held him perfectly still, forced him to stay open, vulnerable.

Then Henry’s palm pushed down, with firm pressure, soothing the sting.

Lincoln exhaled, head tipping back, a rush of sensation flooding his system.

More wax. More paper. More pain.

His body absorbed it, translated it into something else, something that bypassed thought entirely. His mind drifted, carried away on the ebb and flow of heat and sting, pleasure laced with discomfort, until the world narrowed to nothing but Henry’s touch, Henry’s voice, Henry’s control.

He floated.

Weightless.

Untethered.

Henry’s hands were the only thing keeping him from drifting too far.