Page 12 of These Hallowed Bones (Bloody Desires #3)

My cum arced onto the canvas where the bone ash still glistened wet, the two substances mixing in abstract patterns.

Through the haze of aftershocks, I watched it happen with a kind of awe.

We'd made something new, something that shouldn't exist. My shame and my pleasure and the remains of the dead had all transformed into art.

Life and death combined on the surface, creating something new, something that belonged to both of us.

My knees gave out completely. Only Ezra's arm around my waist kept me upright as aftershocks wracked my body. I dropped the brush, unable to hold it any longer.

"I've got you," Ezra murmured, turning me in his arms and guiding me to the nearby chair. "I've got you, sweet boy."

I collapsed into the seat, boneless and overwhelmed. Tears leaked from the corners of my eyes, not from sadness but from the sheer intensity of finally, finally being touched, being seen, being accepted for exactly what I was.

Ezra knelt and reached for a cloth. "Let me take care of you," he murmured, his touch infinitely gentle on my oversensitive skin. I hissed at the contact, still too raw, and he soothed me with soft sounds. "I know, sweet boy. I know. Just let me clean you up."

He wiped down my jeans where I'd made a mess, then carefully tucked me away, his movements reverent rather than clinical. Only then did he turn his attention to my face, his clean hand gentle as he wiped tears from my cheeks.

"You did so well," he said softly. "If you need to cry, let it happen. You're safe here."

"I'm sorry," I whispered, suddenly noticing the mingled substances on the canvas. "I ruined your painting. The bone ash—"

"You ruined nothing," Ezra said firmly, following my gaze. "Look at what you've created. The way the materials merged, the patterns they formed. You made something beautiful, Micah. Something good."

The words sank deep, displacing years of shame. Beautiful. Good. Not the broken thing I'd been taught I was, but someone capable of creating beauty even in my most vulnerable moments.

Ezra rose gracefully from his knees, extending a hand to help me stand. My legs were still shaky, but his grip steadied me. "How do you feel?" he asked, studying my face with those penetrating gray eyes.

"I don't know," I admitted. "Different. Like something inside me has shifted."

"That's the beginning of becoming," he said, leading me back to the sitting area. "The first crack in the shell you've been trapped inside." He poured two glasses of water from a pitcher on the side table, handing me one. "Drink. You need to rehydrate."

I obeyed automatically, the cool water soothing my raw throat. Everything felt raw, like I’d shed a layer of skin I hadn’t yet regrown.

"Your car should be ready by now," Ezra said, settling into the chair across from me. "I had my mechanic collect it this morning. A simple electrical issue, as I suspected."

The reminder of the outside world felt jarring. Part of me wanted to stay here forever, suspended in this space where my darkness was not just accepted but celebrated.

"Thank you," I said, then hesitated. "For the car. For... everything."

His lips curved in a subtle smile. "The question is whether you'd like to continue. What happened today was only the beginning of what I could teach you. About art. About yourself. About the connections between pleasure and creation. But it has to be your choice, Micah. You have to want this."

Want seemed too small a word for the hunger gnawing at my insides.

In the space of a few hours, Ezra had shown me more acceptance than I'd experienced in twenty-four years of life.

The thought of returning to my careful, confined existence felt like contemplating a return to prison after a taste of freedom.

"I want to learn," I said, meeting his eyes. "I want to understand what you see when you look at me. What I could become."

"Then come back tomorrow night," he said. "Eight o'clock. We'll continue your education."

Disappointment crashed through me. "Tomorrow? Why not tonight?"

Ezra chuckled, a warm sound that made my stomach flutter. "I need time to prepare, sweet boy. The lessons I have planned for you require certain... arrangements."

As he stood, my eyes dropped involuntarily to the front of his pants, where his cock still strained against the fabric. He'd given me such pleasure, such release, but he remained unsatisfied. The realization made my mouth go dry.

"Should I... Do you want me to help you, Daddy?" The words tumbled out before I could stop them. "I could—"

"Next time," he said gently but firmly, though his eyes darkened at my offer. "Tonight was about you learning to receive. We'll explore other lessons when you return."

The promise made heat pool in my belly despite my recent release. Next time. There would be a next time, and I would get to touch him, taste him, give him the same pleasure he'd given me.

He paused, his expression growing serious. "But understand, Micah, this path isn't comfortable. It requires confronting parts of yourself you've been taught to fear. It means letting go of the safety of shame."

"Shame isn't safety," I said, the words surprising me with their certainty. "It's just familiar."

Pride flickered across his features. "Already learning." He stood, moving to a desk where he wrote something on a card. "My private number. In case you have questions. Or doubts. Or if you simply need to hear that what you're feeling is normal."

I took the card, our fingers brushing in the exchange. Even that simple contact sent sparks shooting through me.

As he walked me to the door, I glanced back at the canvas. "What will you do with it? The painting?"

"Keep it," he said without hesitation. "Our first collaboration deserves preservation. Perhaps one day you'll understand why this moment matters as much as any technical lesson I could teach you."

Standing at the threshold, I felt caught between two worlds. The one I'd known, built on denial and careful performance, and this new one Ezra offered, where my darkest impulses might find not just expression but celebration.

"Tomorrow," I said, as much a promise as a question.

"Tomorrow," he confirmed. "Drive safely, sweet boy. You're carrying precious cargo now."

It wasn't until I was in my car, pulling away from his house, that I understood what he meant. I wasn't just carrying myself anymore. I was carrying the knowledge of what I could become, the memory of his hands on my skin, the first fragile hope that I might not be irredeemably broken after all.

My phone buzzed with a text as I reached the main road. Ezra's number appeared on the screen: "You did beautifully today. I'm proud of you."

Five words that rearranged something fundamental inside me. I pulled over, not trusting myself to drive while tears blurred my vision. But these weren't tears of shame or fear. For the first time in my life, I was crying from the simple relief of being seen, accepted, wanted exactly as I was.