Page 20 of Leather and Longing (Island Tales #3)

Chapter Sixteen

Paul groaned and stretched, his back popping.

His legs ached, mostly his quads, but that was due to negotiating the stairs umpteen times.

He’d worked steadily all morning, stopping for lunch, and then right back at it until four o’clock.

The former dining room was hidden from view, buried under a mountain of cardboard boxes.

He hadn’t needed to read the label ‘Books’ to know what the heaviest ones contained.

And Adam appeared to have a great many books.

Heaven knew where Paul was going to put them all.

Adam was going to need more bookcases, for a start.

Adam had kept out of his way while he’d trudged to and fro between the attic and the dining room.

That was fine by Paul. The fewer opportunities for conversation, the better.

God, Adam knew how to cut with that tongue of his.

He’d thought Adam’s parting comment the previous night hurtful enough, but as nothing compared to his performance that morning.

Paul had had to get out of there. He’d felt dizzy, his ribs squeezing his heart, his face on fire.

Fuck, that had hurt .

Paul had only wanted to know where he stood, for God’s sake. Okay, so he’d had an inkling of the way the conversation might have gone, but still… . It had taken every ounce of willpower to get him to walk back into that kitchen, let alone act as if everything was normal again.

Pain flared in his chest.

Don’t think about it. Just… don’t.

Paul had had enough. He wanted out, out of the house, away from Adam, to some place where he could fucking breathe….

“How much is there left?”

Adam was standing behind him in the doorway to the library.

Paul turned to face him. “Actually, that was the last box.” He paused, hesitant to voice his request. Fuck it piped up that voice in his head . Ask him. I’ve fucking earned it today. “Would it be okay if I went out for a while? I need some air, to unwind.”

“Of course.” Adam’s response was immediate. “You’ve done more than enough today. Do you want the rest of the day off?”

“No.” It wasn’t that Paul didn’t think his employer capable of feeding himself if he needed to, he just didn’t want to deal with any possible repercussions if anything went wrong.

“Grant me a couple of hours, yeah? I’ll be back to make dinner for us.

” And hopefully by then I’ll be feeling better than I do right now.

“That’s fine. Take your time.” Adam left him and walked toward the library. A few minutes later the sound of strings filled the air, peaceful and harmonious.

Paul let out a long sigh. Thank God. He left the dining room and went upstairs to grab a quick shower. A change of clothing and he was ready.

The click of the door told him Paul had gone. Adam turned off the music that had only served to distract his thoughts from their present course. Silence spilled into the house, wide and heavy, pressing against his ears.

He rose from the chair slowly, reaching for the cane propped against the side table. He took a deep breath, then another before tapping his way into the hall, his stomach in knots.

I should leave them alone. I should wait until Paul comes back.

But his feet carried him forward anyway as he swept the cane across the floor in steady arcs.

He stopped at the door to the dining room. The air smelled faintly of cardboard and dust—old paper, old leather.

My past, exhumed .

He edged forward, tapping cautiously. His cane struck something solid, and his shin clipped the corner of a box before he could adjust. He hissed out a curse and steadied himself.

“Brilliant,” he muttered. “Bloody brilliant.”

He crouched awkwardly, letting his fingers trail across the rough edges of tape, the flattened tops, the labels he couldn’t read anymore. The cardboard rasped against his skin, dry and unyielding.

He knew that smell. Books. God knew how many boxes of them, heavy as bricks, the weight of words he could no longer see.

Except there was more than books. He knew what else lay hidden: coils of rope that had once flowed like extensions of his hands, implements polished to gleam, leather softened by use.

The tools of a life that had depended on his eyes—the flush of a cheek, the warning flicker in a sub’s gaze, the arch of a body signalling when to apply more pressure or ease back.

He pressed his palm flat to the nearest box, his throat tightening.

How do you dominate when you can’t read the map of a body anymore? How do you keep someone safe when you can’t see the signs?

The questions spiralled, jagged and relentless. He bent his head, his shoulders shaking once before he forced the breath back in.

“Do I even want this?” he whispered. “Do I want to open them? Tear myself in two all over again?”

For a moment he wavered. It would be easier to let it go, to pretend that part of him had died with his sight. To shut the door on this room and never open it again.

But his hand curled into a fist against the cardboard.

No.

These weren’t just tools or trinkets. They were pieces of him. Every scene, every rope burn, every command had forged him into who he was.

Blind or not, that man was still breathing.

“Fuck it,” he said hoarsely, straightening. His thighs trembled from the effort, but he stood tall, gripping the cane in one hand and the box in the other.

Everything in those boxes mattered. And if he had to relearn it all by touch, by sound, by trial and error—then so be it.

He wasn’t ready to let his life be buried in cardboard. Not yet.

Paul climbed the steep driveway to Love Lane.

At that point he took a sharp left and paused at the top of the steps that led down to the Lighthouse.

The tide was coming in, and the waves rolled and crashed onto the rocks, edging closer to the sea wall.

He could see people in the surf: families with children, people in wetsuits on body boards.

Paul descended, listening to the glorious sound of that rolling expanse of water.

He knew where he was headed: it was too late to go to the Beach Shack café—that closed at four—but he could sit on the low wall and stare out over the English Channel, letting that wonderful soundtrack roll over and around him.

An hour or so to decompress, chill, and not think about Adam.

Yeah, right.

By the time he got down to the beach, people had already started to pack up their summer paraphernalia to begin the trek back to hotels and guest houses for their evening meals.

The coffee shop had closed, the girl who worked there in the process of taking down signs and storing them inside the wooden hut.

The old man who provided deckchairs was slowly folding them up and carrying them to their storage place.

Steephill Cove was closing for the day.

Paul sat on the low wall between the buildings and the sea wall with its black railings, staring out at the scene before him.

The algae-covered rocks that made up most of the beach were no longer visible, hidden below the incoming tide.

Waves already lapped at the base of the sea wall, occasionally hitting it with such force that they splashed up onto the promenade.

The spray hit Paul in the face and on his bare legs and arms, cooling his skin.

It was going to be another hot night by the feel of it.

“It’s a pity about all the sand, isn’t it?” Sam joined him on the wall and handed him a bottle of chilled water. He smiled. “Taylor spotted you out here and thought you might want some more hydration.” Sam chuckled. “He said especially if your hangover was anything like his.”

Paul opened the cold bottle and drank half its contents, the water icy and refreshing.

He shivered. “Thanks.” He looked out at the bay.

“People keep saying the sand will come back some day, only they have no clue when that might be.” The terrible Valentine’s Day storm of 2014 had left its mark on the horseshoe bay: the sea had ripped all the sand from the beach, taken it with cold, wet fingers, leaving nothing but the rocks that had lain hidden beneath its golden surface.

Along the road from Steephill, the road had collapsed, trapping the inhabitants of nine houses.

They’d been evacuated by the army, who’d turned up to carry what belongings they could.

Eleven years later, and there was still no news on when—or if—the road would be rebuilt.

The road had become two cul-de-sacs, connected by a cycle path.

“Taylor says he’s had so many tourists this year who’ve come back for the first time in years and wondered where all the sand went. It’s been great for the kids who like digging around in rock pools, but not so good for his business.”

Paul sighed. “Yeah, he said.” Thankfully Taylor wasn’t about to starve, not when his husband was a bestselling author of both thrillers and gay romance.

“Why didn’t you stay until the end of the party?” Sam asked him, sipping from his own bottle. “We ended up sitting around outside, looking up at the stars. It was such a beautifully clear night.”

“I gather you stayed the night?”

Sam nodded. “Taylor had already asked us, prior to the party.” His cheeks flushed.

Paul tilted his head. “Okay, what did you do? ’Cause you’re looking awfully guilty right now.”

The nervous laugh that followed his words only served to confirm Paul’s suspicions.

Sam’s face glowed. “I’d forgotten how horny Mark gets when he drinks.

Add to that a warm night where it was too hot to sleep wearing anything, and…

” He took a quick swig of water before continuing. “Let’s just say we were a bit… loud.”

“Loud?” Taylor’s snort came from behind them.

Paul took one look at Sam’s scarlet face and leaped to his friend’s rescue. “Leave him alone, you.” He nudged Sam with his elbow and leaned in to whisper, “Next time, gag Mark,” he said with a chuckle.

Taylor guffawed. “Oops.” He climbed up onto the wall and swung his legs over it, sitting next to Paul. “Good idea, wrong person, eh, Sam?”

Sam exploded into a cough and rose to his feet. “I think I’ll go see what Mark is doing.” He patted Paul on the arm. “See you soon, yeah?”

Paul nodded and watched him walk along the promenade to West View. He shook his head. “You can be an evil bitch sometimes, y’know.”

Taylor chuckled. “Sam’ll forgive me. He knows I love him to bits.” He bumped Paul’s hip with his own. “Anyway, never mind about Sam. What are you doing down here? Has Adam let you off the leash?” He bit his lip, his eyes gleaming. “Oh, sorry, bad choice of words.” He let out a giggle.

Paul sighed, in no mood to laugh at the situation, not when he could still hear Adam’s words, echoing inside his head.

Taylor stared at him, all the humour slipping from his face. “Okay, start talking.”

After another long drink of water, Paul studied the bottle in his hands.

“We fucked last night. Well, Adam fucked me, is nearer the truth. And when he was done, he got up and went to bed like I wasn’t even there.

” Another sigh. “And then stupid me had to go and say something this morning that made it ten times worse.”

“Shit.” Taylor leaned against him. “I’m not gonna make you feel worse by asking if it was at least good sex.”

Paul laughed at this typical Taylor remark. “Well, that’s good, ’cause it’s not as if I’d have told you anyway.” He felt Taylor’s soft chuckle through his arm.

“Do I take it the atmosphere is a bit strained up at Cliffside?”

He emptied the bottle and leaned back to drop it in the bin beside the wall. “To be honest? I’ve kept out of his way today. Once I get started on typing up his books, maybe his mood will improve.” Paul wasn’t going to hold his breath though.

“Look, don’t sit out here on your own,” Taylor said after a moment’s silence. “Come into the house and help me embarrass Sam some more.” He grinned. “It’ll be fun. Besides, I think you could use some company right now. There’s just me, David and those two. Whaddaya say?”

Paul considered the suggestion. Maybe Taylor had a point. Being on his own was only going to make him dwell on what was going on inside his head, and right then, that was the last thing he wanted.

He nodded. “You’re on. Except… No teasing Sam, okay?”

Taylor smiled. “Okay.” There was that wicked gleam in his eyes again. “Besides, it’s much more fun trying to get a rise out of David.” Laughing, he swivelled around and rose to his feet.

Paul followed him along the promenade and up the boat ramp. Poor David. After a moment’s reflection he changed his mind. Never mind poor David. He knew what he was letting himself in for when he married Taylor.

Paul had no sympathy.