by Roe Horvat
When I came back, my brand-new security chief, Louise… something, was in the hallway. She nodded in greeting, eying me apprehensively. I must’ve looked how I felt.
“I want complete privacy. Nobody on the second floor.”
“Understood, Mr. Bourgeon.”
“Thank you.”
By the time I got in the shower, I was on the verge of tears again. The helplessness was the worst. I needed an outlet, anything to make me focus, to help me think without the desperate ache in my chest. What if I am wrong? What if he simply doesn’t love me?
In my bedroom, sniffling and swearing, I rummaged for my toys. I could barely see through the angry tears that spilled again. God, I hated crying. Hated it.
I took the biggest dildo I owned, dark blue with a suction base. On the bottom of the drawer lay the flogger. It was black with knots and silver beads on the few leather strands—made to inflict pain, not pleasure. The flexible handle was so long I could easily hit myself with it over my back. I hadn’t been in a good place when I bought it, and I hadn’t used it in years.
Now I snatched it up eagerly.
21
His pain
Vincent
Michael knew exactly how to drive me insane with want and regret. Friday night, my last evening at the hospital, a nurse came in with a package.
“Your boyfriend sent this to you.”
My boyfriend. Oh, Mikey.
“Thank you.”
The package was surprisingly heavy as the nurse placed it on my lap.
“Let me help you.” He unwrapped it for me, gathering the torn paper and pieces of tape.
It was Michael’s sketchbook.
“I’ll leave you to it.” Smiling, the man threw the lump of crumpled packaging paper into the wastebasket, left the room, and closed the door softly.
The first few pages were nature sketches. The view of the lake from the cabin window, a crooked pine that sat by the driveway, a small bird—a titmouse—on the pier… They were beautifully crafted, detailed. I remembered Michael’s expression when he sat and drew, his absentminded smile.
I turned another page and stared at myself. It was me on the pier, drying my hair with the towel. Sharp lines, dark shadows, the curve of my back... He’d poured his desire in the drawing. Another few sketches were of me running, glimpses of my body moving forward between trees and bushes. The next page was full of me again. My head bent over my iPad, my hands, my body sprawled on the sofa. Me, me, me. On another page, I was standing tall, looming, my eyes fierce—how Michael saw me when he knelt in front of me.
The next one was painful in its beauty. I was naked, my hands the most detailed of the picture, and I was holding a roughly sketched body in my lap. My fingers dug into the skin, and the head of my lover, drawn only in a thin outline, was thrown back in obvious pleasure. Michael drew us making love.
My hand shaking, I flipped another page. A portrait of myself sleeping on the hospital bed. My grumpy, wrinkled face seemed different through Michael’s eyes. Serene, peaceful, I looked as if I was smiling in a dream. The drawing was so detailed it must’ve taken him hours. His love saturated the paper, and now it shone at me.
I love you, Vincent.
A promise, a dream come true… a reminder, and a plea.
I closed the book and let it lie on my lap.
Nowak, you’re such an asshole.
Maybe it was naïve of me to think that a twenty-four-year-old artist, rich and beautiful, would stay for longer than a few months. The adult, rational part of my brain still refused to believe it.
Yet the way he saw me, the way he looked at me, the way he gave himself to me… Michael adored me. And I’d sent him away because I was afraid.
Of course, he’d been entirely right. The thought of letting myself fall for him, of having him and then losing him… it crippled my pain-muddled, medicated brain. I was afraid I wasn’t strong enough to handle him, to protect him and fulfill his needs. Not now, not when I didn’t know how long it would take for me to heal and if I would ever heal completely.
I’d told him he didn’t need me anymore, but what if I was wrong? He didn’t need Vincent Nowak, the security expert, to save him. Michael needed me, the flawed human, to see him and care for him. Nothing more and nothing less. It was my responsibility to keep him safe and happy, and instead, I’d pushed him away because I had a few doubts. Yeah, a coward.
At one o’clock at night, desperate and burning with guilt, I called him twice.
Of course, he didn’t answer.
The next day, I booked a taxi directly from the hospital. The car drove up the gravel path to the Bourgeon family residence in New Haven, the vibrations traveling through my bones excruciatingly painful. I winced and clenched my jaw. I had informed Michael’s new security chief about my visit, so the guards sent us through. The engine finally stilled, and I climbed out. My stomach heaved from the pain, but I had to put off taking another painkiller. I needed a clear head. I’d fucked up badly in a way that couldn’t really be blamed only on sleep deprivation and medication. So, I pushed through the ache and walked toward the wide double main door.
The house wasn’t as big as I’d expected, definitely smaller than Bart Bourgeon’s mansion, but the garden was vast, more like a park, fenced in and private, perfectly hidden from any public roads and far away from other residences.
The driver got my bag. Surrounded by my clothes, safely tucked in, Michael’s sketchbook lay inside it.
“Just put it by the door. Carefully.”
“Do you need me to wait?”
“No, I got it.”
“Okay. Good luck with the recovery.” He gestured to the sling and cast around my arm.
“Thanks. Good-bye.”
I rang the bell and waited, my knees trembling. Fuck, I needed to lie down. The short trip here from the hospital had exhausted me to my core.
A woman opened the door.
“Mr. Nowak?”
“Louise Silversmith? I’m glad he hired you.”
I offered her my right hand, and she shook it. Her grip, firm and warm, sent a stab of pain through my upper body. I didn’t let it show, but smiled at her instead. She was in her late forties, tall with a strong build, her large black eyes sharp. Her curly black hair was tied in a couple of tight braids, and she was dressed simply in jeans and a practical jacket. She exuded warmth and efficiency—I liked her immediately. Her impeccable reputation did her justice.
“Thank you for the recommendation, Mr. Nowak.”
“Vincent.”
“Thank you, Vincent.” She smiled. “What can I do for you?”
“I was released from the hospital today. I hoped I could speak to Michael. Is he at home?”
Louise frowned, obviously uncomfortable.
“Yes, but he doesn’t want to be disturbed,” she said slowly, worry in her tone. Shit. Michael upset and alone… I really was an idiot.
I raised my eyebrows at her and used the one completely unfair, but powerful argument I knew would work. “I got shot protecting him, Louise. Just let me sit down before I fall down, okay?”
Judging by the tiny smirk on her face, she saw through me but decided to go with it. “Of course. Come in.”
She led me to a living room, and before she could tell me to take a seat, I dropped into the sofa with another wince I couldn’t control. The room was well lit and luxurious. Large windows overlooked the park, gauzy curtains letting in enough sunlight for the space to be bright, but not overly warm. The eclectic furniture in creams and silver-gray spoke of old money. Paintings adorned the walls, large canvases full of bright colors, some old, some modern. Were any of them Michael’s own? Once again, I was reminded of the gap between us, but I wouldn’t focus on that. I turned back to Michael’s brand-new chief of security.
“Please, Louise. I really need to talk to him. It’s important. I wouldn’t come here directly from the hospital bed if it wasn’t.”
She assessed me with her clever
eyes for a while, then gave me a nod. “Okay. I’m going to personally let him know you’re here. If I send staff, he won’t come down.”
“Thank you. I appreciate it.”
She disappeared through the door on the other side of the spacious living room.
It took a few minutes, but he came. Steps sounded on the stairs, and then his slim form appeared in the doorway. He paused there. He wore a white T-shirt and gray sweats. His hair was messy, his cheeks pale. His red-rimmed eyes scanned me carefully, narrowing.
He was so beautiful. And sad.
“Mikey.” I sighed his name with relief.
“Why didn’t you go home, Vincent?” His voice was cold, as were his eyes. He was angry with me—rightfully so.
“I’m so sorry,” I murmured.
“For what?”
God, I wanted to kick myself. “For being an asshole. I came here to beg you to let me stay. To ask my boyfriend to take me back and take care of me.”
“Hire a private nurse,” he scoffed. “You got enough money from your last job.”
Fuck, he was going to make me pay for my stupidity, wasn’t he? Somehow, it only made me love him more.
“Thank you for the sketchbook, Mikey.”
He grunted.
“You were right, baby. I acted like a coward.”
Michael didn’t react to that, just continued glaring at me. Strain lined his mouth, and his knuckles turned white as he gripped the door frame. I’d hurt him so much. I’d grovel for weeks if needed. I wanted to go to him, but the pain and exhaustion in my limbs weighed me down like sandbags.
“I love you, Mikey.”
It was so wrong to tell him when he stood so far away from me. He stared at me and gritted his teeth, but a glimpse of hope flashed in his eyes. Then he frowned with renewed determination. The small spark gave me the strength to continue, even though I felt as if I got run over by a bus on my way here. Shit, I really needed to lie down.
“And I do know you love me,” I told him. “However hard it is for me to believe, I do know. I’m so sorry I hurt you.”
He hung his head, watching his feet. He was so far away. For fuck’s sake. I had no choice. I got up. Pain shot down my arm and into the center of my chest, and I bit the inside of my cheek.
“Mikey, I love you,” I repeated. The tension in my voice sounded weird in my ears.
He lifted his eyes, watching me cautiously as I shuffled toward him. He gave out a tired sigh. “If you can manage to crawl upstairs, I’ll put you in a bed before you crumble.”
I smiled, then winced.
He supported me up the stairs and showed me the bedroom. The bed was massive, and it warmed me that I could ask Michael to sleep next to me, even as I lay on my back with my shoulder and arm in a brace.
“Get undressed,” he ordered.
“Michael, come here.”
Warily, he stepped closer.
“You’re angry with me,” I stated the obvious.
“Of course, I am.” He scowled. “Now undress.”
“I was stupid, and I said horrible things. Will you forgive me?”
He clenched his jaw. “Not yet.”
I chuckled. “Will you help me at least?”
Wordlessly, he helped me take off my pants and the hoodie hanging over my shoulders. He touched me with infinite gentleness, careful despite his anger.
When I finally lay in bed, I couldn’t hold back the groan of pain. Michael covered my legs with a blanket, avoiding my gaze.
“Since you made it here, you can make it to the en suite by yourself. I’ll send someone with food later.” He was about to leave, but I wasn’t having it.
“Mikey, wait.”
“What now?”
He looked tired. So, so tired. Hanging on his anger as if it could help him through the day. I knew what he needed. What we both needed.
“Don’t take that tone with me, boy,” I said, my voice deep and commanding. “Come here. Now!”
He tensed with his back to me, a shudder running through his body. Then he turned and walked back to the bed. He paused by my side, face blank.
“You have a right to be angry, boy. I hurt you and disappointed you.”
He looked down, his mouth curling in a self-deprecating smile. There was more… What wasn’t he telling me?
“Look at me.”
He lifted his tortured gaze.
“Did you miss me?”
A long pause. “Yes, Daddy,” he finally whispered.
“Do you want me to touch you?”
Another whisper, even quieter than the first. “Yes.”
“Then come here. I want you by my side. Where you belong.”
I stretched out my healthy arm over the wide bed. He lay on his side, curling his body close to mine. He inhaled and sighed, his body slumping with the exhale. I wrapped my arm around his shoulders and tugged him closer, but he winced and shuddered again. I rubbed my hand down his back, trying to soothe, but he tensed even more.
What the hell?
“Sit up and take off your shirt.” God, I hoped my instinct was wrong.
He froze.
“Do what I say, boy!”
Slowly, carefully, he sat and took his white T-shirt off. His hands shook. In the light from the window, the thin red stripes and purple spots over his shoulder blades and lower back glowed like beacons.
“What did you do?”
He hung his head, facing away from me. Stunned, I traced a red welt with a fingertip from his shoulder blade to the center of his back. Michael trembled under my touch.
“What did you do, boy?”
“I violated myself and flogged my back,” he murmured.
“Why?” I gasped.
He shrugged. “I needed it to hurt.”
“Jesus, Mikey…” I didn’t know what to think, what to say.
“It was stupid of me. Will you punish me for it, Daddy?” he asked in a broken voice, his face still hidden.
“No. No, dammit.” I took a few calming breaths. I almost asked why he’d done that, but I realized the answer before I could word the question.
“It’s my fault. I did this to you.”
Michael shook his head.
“Please, come here, my boy.”
Hesitantly, he lay down, tucking his face into the crook of my shoulder. I weaved my fingers into his hair, avoiding the bruised skin on his upper back.
I was disgusted with myself. How could I have been so thoughtless? Michael had given himself to me, his body and soul. He’d laid his entire life by my feet, generous and trusting.
Instead of treasuring him, I’d sent him away.
“I’m so sorry, Mikey.” For the first time since I met him, my throat clogged with tears. “It’s my fault. I left you.”
“Vincent…” A sob.
“I wasn’t here to take care of you. It’s all my fault. I’m so sorry.” I kissed his forehead and inhaled, drawing in his scent. “I love you, Mikey.”
He strained to me and kissed me, tasting of salt and desperation.
“I don’t want you to forgive me today, baby,” I murmured against his lips. “I want to deserve your forgiveness. I’m going to keep you safe and happy.”
“I love you,” he whispered. I kissed him more, ignoring the pain in my left shoulder as I craned my neck to lick deeper into his mouth. He moaned with relief.
He kissed me like he’d been starving for me, and my chest ached in a way that had nothing to do with bullets and broken bones. Michael whimpered, his body writhing, his fingers clutching my shirt, and his hard dick rubbing on my hip.
“You need me, my boy?”
“I need you so much.” He pressed his nose to the base of my throat, breathing me in. “Please.”
“God, I wish I could make love to you.”
“Please, Daddy. I can’t… without you. Hurts. I need…”
“Kiss me and make yourself come.”
He quickly reached down into his sweats and pulled his cock ou
t. Sucking on my tongue, he stroked himself hard and fast, and I fisted his hair, holding him to me as I kissed him back. He came within a couple of minutes, gasping into my mouth.
“That’s it. You’re so beautiful when you come for me. Let me taste you.”
He offered me his hand, and I cleaned it while he watched with open adoration in his features. I kissed him again, long and thorough, until his body went limp against mine. He fell asleep, glued to my side.
I still needed that damned painkiller, but I wouldn’t wake him. I knew him well enough. He hadn’t slept last night. Michael would forgive me, probably sooner than I deserved because such was his generous heart. But I didn’t want to forgive myself for what I’d done to him.
I had to pull myself together. I couldn’t flounder and wallow in insecurities about our future. After everything he’d been through, Michael needed me to stand solid.
With my boy sleeping curled next to me, I made a decision. I’d build my life around his. For as long as he wanted me, I would be there for him.
22
Yes, it’s perfect
Michael
Vincent had said he didn’t want me to forgive him. So, I didn’t tell him I’d forgiven him the very night he came to stay with me. I couldn’t help myself. He’d licked my cum from my hand while he looked at me like I was something precious, and I lost my heart to him all over again. I reached for his groin, but he shook his head.
“Not now. Just stay here so I can feel you.”
I fell asleep almost immediately.
I slept with Vincent in the guestroom every night while my bedroom stayed empty. Never had I felt happiness so strong as when I woke up in the middle of the night, confused, and realized he was in bed with me, snoring softly or reading or just looking at me, whispering words of comfort.
“Another dream?” he asked quietly.
“No.” I blinked and refocused in the half-dark room. “Why are you awake? You should sleep more, Vincent, so you can recover.”