Page 70

-Malcolm-

WE TAKEour time cleaning each other. I rub the suds in slow lazy circles over his back and chest, washing away the sweat and dried cum. There are dark marks on his hips, five on each side in the shape of my fingers where I gripped him too hard, and I rub them gently.

We kiss, and in my post-sex glow, I wonder why I was ever afraid of this? Kissing? It’s perfect. The way our wet lips slip against each other, the catch of a tooth, hard against the softness. The way his tongue swipes over mine, licking into me. The feel of his breath mingling with my own before I breathe it in. It feels almost as good as fucking him into the floor.

This feels so close. I know I just fucked him five ways from Sunday, but this feels far more intimate.

And I never would have let myself experience this if North hadn’t come barreling into my life, demanding things I thought I couldn’t give him, and opening me up in ways I’ve always been closed. And I’m so fucking glad he did.

I wonder what would have happened if I hadn’t acted like a total psycho and jerked off on the football field that night. If he hadn’t seen me and taken that video. Would we still have ended up together? Or would he still be just an untouchable fantasy that I furiously masturbate to? Back then, the thought of him being in my world was so impossible, and yet here he is. Here we are.

After the shower, we wrap up in our matching white robes.

I hold his out for him and as he slips his arms in he says, “You really just found these in one of the closets? They look brand new.”

I shrug. Hopefully he’ll never find the receipts I threw in the trash. Me buying matching fluffy bathrobes for us? I’d never live it down. Thank fuck I didn’t get them monogrammed. I’d never have been able to play that off as a coincidence.

Judging from the look North is giving me, he probably doesn’t believe me anyway, but he strokes the soft fabric appreciatively.

“Lucky you found them, then. They’re the perfect fit too.”

I clear my throat. “Yeah.”

I head downstairs while he lounges on the bed, and make one mug of decaf coffee and one hot chocolate with extra whipped cream and marshmallows. He’s burned off more than enough calories tonight to earn it. That’s what I tell myself, as I add a grating of dark chocolate on top.

On the way back upstairs, I pass the session room with the door hanging open, and smile to myself as I replay the events that just took place there. One for the memory books.

It’s a mess in there, clothes and restraints strewn across the floor. I’ll clear it up tomorrow. Right now, there’s a hot-as-fuck young man upstairs waiting for his cocoa.

Back in my room, I hand the mug over to North, propped up on my pillows.

“Mmm, damn,” North says, taking a sip and flopping his head back. A line of whipped cream sits above his top lip, like a mustache. “Have I told you I love you yet?”

I grunt, lean over, and lick the cream from his plump lip. “You might have mentioned it once or twice.”

He laughs and uses the opportunity to give me a swift kiss, before he tilts his head away to look me full in the face, his blue eyes sparkling. “Then another can’t hurt. I fucking love you, Mal.”

It gets me every fucking time. I sit back in the pillows next to him as the stupid sappy emotion rises up my throat out of nowhere and makes my eyes sting.

I look into my coffee, clear my throat, and mutter, “Shut up.”

He’s too powerful. And judging by his wicked grin, he knows it. I glance up at him.

“Don’t look so smug,” I say.

He sits back and kicks his legs out, revealing a long stretch of his toned thigh, dusted with sandy hair, and takes another sip. “Why not? I’ve got a lot to be smug about.”

I have a lot to be smug about. And he’s sitting right next to me. And there’s something I want to say to him. He deserves to hear it, and hell, I deserve to get to say it too.

He sips his hot chocolate, completely oblivious, while I work up the courage to say the words.

“North,” I say, and clear my throat again.

“Mmhmm?” he grunts as he gulps his chocolate.

I watch his throat bob as he swallows. “I . . . uh . . .” I clear my throat again, and pick some fluff from the bathrobe. He seems to catch on that something is up and looks over at me. Why does it suddenly feel so hot in here? “I—”

There’s a crash from downstairs, followed by the noise of something tipping over and smashing to the ground. I sit bolt upright. North jerks at the same time, spilling hot chocolate down the front of his bathrobe.

“What was that?”

North frowns at me. I stand up, put my drink down, and walk to the bedroom door. Is someone down there?

“Did you lock the front door?” I ask.

“I think so.”

North climbs off the bed and then goes and grabs the baseball bat that I keep leaning up against my bookshelf. He hefts it in his hand, weighing it, and nods.

If someone thinks they can break in here and steal my shit, they’re in for a fucking shock. They just made the biggest mistake of their life.

I storm down the stairs, my robe flying around me, with North on my heels. In the hallway, the front door is hanging open, and there’s a dent in the wall where the handle hit it and a chip missing from the paint. Did they kick the fucking door in?

“Fuck,” North says.

There’s another bang behind us and I run toward it, heart pounding with fury. This intruder picked the wrong fucking house. I round into the session room, North bringing up the rear with the bat—

I freeze.

It’s not an intruder.

It’s . . . my father.

My father is standing in the middle of the session room.

My father is staring around at the toys still strewn around the room from the epic fuck North and I just had. At the specially modified furniture. At the straps and hooks and ropes.

My father, with a look on his face that makes the rage evaporate from my body. That makes me want to curl into a protective ball. That makes me want to duck and run and find somewhere small and safe to hide.

It’s the face that I’ve feared my entire life, only ten times worse.

His eyes meet mine and everything stops.

“What the fuck is this?”