Page 51 of Tribute Act

We walked back to the flat in silence. As soon as we got in, I went straight to the kitchen and fetched us a couple of beers. When I walked into the living room, Mack was just standing there, staring at the floor. He hadn’t even taken off his beat-up leather jacket.

I set the beers down, tugged his jacket off his unresisting arms, and steered him to the couch before handing him a bottle.

“Thanks,” he muttered.

I sat beside him. “Are you okay?”

He sighed heavily. “Yeah, course.” Lifted the bottle and took a deep drink. Stared into space.

“What’s wrong?” It felt like a stupid question. I wasn’t surprised he was upset, but I did wonder what in particular had him like this.

Eventually he looked at me. “You never told me you were one of the owners of Dilly’s.”

I blinked at him. “Is that what’s bothering you?”

“Why didn’t you mention it? Why did you let me think my dad still owned it all?”

“Why does it matter?” I countered, frowning.

He leaned forward, elbows on his knees, dangling the beer bottle between his legs from loose fingers. All I could see was the back of his head, the defensive slope of his shoulders.

“I felt pretty stupid when I heard. I thought we—” He broke off, blew out some air. “Ah, fuck it. It doesn’t matter.”

My stomach sank. It did matter, whatever it was. I shifted, perching on the edge of the sofa so I could see him. In profile, he looked tired, and I wanted to reach out to him. But I couldn’t, because we didn’t ever touch, not unless we were having sex. It was against the unspoken rules we’d somehow established.

“I’m sorry,” I said. Made myself be honest. “I suppose I didn’t mention it because I was uncomfortable about it. He’s your dad and this started off as his business. Now I own half of it and . . .” I trailed off.

“And I don’t own any of it?” He glared at me. “You think that would matter to me?”

“Not the money,” I said. “But I thought it might, you know, hurt your feelings. Because of the family thing.” I sighed. “I’m sorry. I should’ve told you.”

His glare faded. “I see.” He rubbed the back of his neck. “Okay, I get it. That makes sense. I should’ve realised it would be something like that. With it being you.”

I burned to know what he meant by that, but didn’t want to push too hard. He seemed to be in a fragile place, and I was scared of tipping him over, so instead I just watched him, my stomach in knots.

“Nathan,” he said after a while, still looking at his beer.

“Yeah?”

“Can we go to bed?”

I had to swallow against the lump in my throat to answer him. “Yeah.”

He wanted me to fuck him.

He tried to make it into a fast, hard, anonymous quickie, just like he’d done that very first time. But just like that first time, I wasn’t having it. I slowed everything down, made him lie on his back when he wanted to be on his hands and knees, kissed him all over, stretched and licked him till he was a puddle of throbbing want.

“God,” he rasped at last. “Will you please fuck me, Nathan? I need you.”

“I need you.”

Those words.

I knew he only meant he needed me physically, but those words made my chest ache in the best way. I kissed him with every ounce of feeling that was in me, and when he kissed me back—not in that tongue-fucking way he’d got comfortable with, but tenderly—it felt like we must both, surely, be sharing that feeling.

I need you.

He was very ready for me when I finally sank my shaft inside him, his body drawing me in. I moaned into his mouth as he pulsed around me, and he wrapped his long legs about my hips, tilting his pelvis to give me the best possible angle. I rocked into him with exploratory nudges, till he gave a gasping sob that told me I’d hit what I was looking for. And then I set about nudging that spot again, and again.