by Jaime Samms
“S’okay, darlin’.”
Eased toward sleep by that reassuring hold, Len yawned and curled his legs closer to Vance. “You and Jacko,” he mumbled.
“Never mind Jacko. He was a long time ago. He’s got his own man, now. He don’t need me or you. He’s got what he needs.”
“He in love?”
Vance shrugged. “Never asked. He’s content, and so’s his boy. All that matters.”
“That’s what Kilmer said too. Being happy was the same as being in love. Good enough.”
Vance snorted softly.
“I don’t think they’re right. I think love is something apart from whatever Kilmer thinks is love. It’s different.”
“How?”
“Love’ll make you do things. Stupid things. Good things. Love makes miracles and disasters. And builds lives and ruins ’em.”
“There you go writin’ lyrics again,” Vance said, and Len could hear the gentle smile in his voice.
“Nah. I write the music. I found some new riffs this morning.”
“Did you write it down? Maybe I have words somewhere in here”—he tapped his chest with Len’s hand still clasped in his huge grip—“to suit.”
Len edged away from him and tried to turn on his back. “I can’t.”
“You need to practice—”
“I can’t.” He pulled free of Vance’s grip. “It isn’t something I can talk out, Vance. It isn’t curable. The music makes sense in my head, in my hands, but if I try to write it down, everything twists and turns and makes no sense. I can hear it. I can play it. I can’t write it. You want lyrics, you can listen to me play, but I can’t write it, and that’s one thing you cannot make me do for any sort of character-building crap reason.”
Vance rolled onto his side, bringing his hot body closer until Len felt the heat of his skin against his bare arm. He trembled and moved, thinking to pull it out of Vance’s way, but long fingers closed around his wrist again, and though he pulled until Vance had to hang on to him for real or let him go, there was no release.
“Ain’t never had a man in my bed tell me writin’ was a hard limit.”
Len caught his breath when Vance tightened his fingers to near painful. “Well.” His voice shook and he blinked up at the ceiling. “It is. It’s one thing that is never going to change about me, and making me do it only gets me to a place I can’t think right, can’t be civil. Can’t survive.”
Vance cupped his face, then floated his hand down his cheek to his jaw, and wrapped very lightly around his throat. “You’ve survived so much, and a pencil and paper are going to defeat you?”
Len swallowed, his Adam’s apple grinding against Vance’s palm, even though, logically, he knew Vance was barely touching him. But truth was truth. He arched his neck, lifting his chin and pressing his throat harder against Vance’s hold. He’d rather brave the memories of Ace’s vile touch than pick up a pencil and try to write anything at all, or be forced to read or write. Physical helplessness because another man was stronger and meaner was one thing. Feeling that sinking disgust at his inabilities, feeling stupid and useless, that was intolerable.
He swallowed again when Vance’s fingers flexed. A cold shiver ran down his skin under the contact, lifting gooseflesh along his chest, tightening his nipples, and bringing a soft moan to his throat. The vibration of the sound against Vance’s hand made him shiver again, and the chill seeped further, the lifting, pulsing of flesh crept lower, and he knew, in a place where he couldn’t lie, even to himself, the touch was a kind of dangerous heaven he couldn’t deny.
His cock twitched and hardened, coming to half-mast as he gazed up through the semidark at his lover.
Vance stared back at him, eyes dark and fascinated. “You’re terrified,” he whispered.
Len wanted to deny it, but this stripped him of subterfuge. All he had was the truth of his world as it was in that moment. He was frozen with terror and hot with need at the same time, and he wanted, more than he had ever wanted, for Vance to take him over completely and damn any sort of inhibition he thought he had. If Vance fucked him now, when he was helpless and vulnerable, there would be no going back. No more fearing the unknown.
Vance leaned over him and pressed his mouth to Len’s, caressing the side of his throat as he thrust his tongue deep. The kiss was brutal, but honest. Vance was desperate and as needy as Len. He’d take if Len offered. The truth, like everything else, was there in the kiss.
It cajoled Len to say yes, to beg, to accept he was Vance’s property and had no recourse. It demanded Len’s obedience and acceptance, and if Len said take, Vance would. Vance’s heavy body settled over Len, his cock hard against Len’s thigh. Only a few panels of thin cotton separated Vance’s claim from Len’s capitulation.
Len moaned, desperate to say the words, to give the permission that kiss, that hand on his throat, demanded.
And when Vance broke away, leaned back enough to look Len in the eye, the word of agreement was on Len’s lips.
The darkness in Vance’s eyes stopped it coming out. The twitch of Vance’s fingers against his soft skin jerked him out of the moment. The weight of Vance’s body shifted and the heaviness of his cock slipped between Len’s legs. Vance groaned, and his eyes went liquid with need. No. With fear. He stared at Len, and in that split second between yes and infinity, Len knew what his lover needed most in the universe.
Len met him halfway and shimmied his hands free to cup Vance’s face. “Not yet,” he whispered. “We’re not there yet.”
Vance closed his eyes and hung his head, letting his forehead touch Len’s chest. All Len could hear in that moment was the thudding of his own heart, the doubt, the ripping sounds of failure. Vance rested on top of Len, head on Len’s chest, hands slipping away from his body to pry under him and pull him close.
“I know,” Vance whispered back. “I know. It’s so hard.”
Len raked fingers through Vance’s hair and was surprised to feel his lover trembling with the strain of being still.
“Let me go down on you,” Len said, nudging at Vance’s head with his chin until Vance moved enough for him to reach skin and press lips to his forehead.
“It isn’t about that,” Vance said, and the resignation was back in his voice. He’d won the battle against his libido, and Len could feel that his cock was not as stiff as it had been. “It’s never about that.”
“Let it be about that tonight.” Len pulled at Vance’s hair, trying to get him to lift his face, trying to see into his eyes, but when Vance finally did shift, he denied Len by closing his lids with a sigh.
“Leave it, Len.”
Wiggling and squirming until he was free of his lover’s weight, Len turned onto his side, this time facing Vance, and touched his face. “I won’t.”
Opening his eyes, Vance offered a twisted smile. “Why?”
“Because you need this.”
“I don’t need sex. I need to look after you.”
“Then you need to let me do this, because part of who I am is your lover, and I want to show you I can be that for you.”
“I don’t require—”
Len stopped his protest with a kiss every bit as demanding and controlling as any Vance had ever used on him. Behind the wet heat of Vance’s mouth on his was trembling uncertainty, and Len knew he was right. He needed, very much, to take that uncertainty away. To show Vance they were equals. That he was strong. That he could be what the older man needed and wanted, in bed and out.
Unsurprisingly, Vance didn’t let him remain in control for long. He took over, took everything over, and pushed Len onto his back in a matter of seconds, pressing him down into the mattress and having his way with lip-to-lip contact until Len was weakly tapping a fist on his bicep, silently begging release.
Vance backed off and hovered over him, one hand clamped on each of Len’s biceps, glaring down on him.
“I’m in charge,” he growled.
Len nodded and moved with Vance as his lo
ver manhandled him off the bed and onto his knees on the floor. In one quick motion, Vance had his boxers off and his dick, more than half-hard again, in his hand. “You want to suck this?” he asked, the growl, the edge of his control, apparent. Len had seen that cliff before, seen himself rushing toward it, hand in hand with Trevor, and he’d always screeched to a halt at the very edge, unable to stop Trevor’s momentum. He’d watched his friend sail off that cliff, arms wide, sure he could fly, and he’d seen the crash and burned-out wreck Damian became at the bottom.
Standing at the very edge of Vance’s control, he gazed up at his Master and knew, this time, he wasn’t going to stop. He was the one who would jump, and Vance would make sure he landed safely. He’d build their wings on the way down if he had to, but he’d make sure they survived the flight or the fall, whatever came.
“You want it?” Vance asked, voice low, a sandpaper gruffness over the tender skin of Len’s unfurling wings of faith.
He didn’t protest when Vance took handfuls of his hair and guided his head to his raging cock, pushed himself into Len’s mouth, and let out a long, heavy sigh. Len didn’t fight the motion of Vance’s strokes, but let him move his head by the hair and fuck his mouth to his own rhythm. He did his best to make his mouth more than just a willing hole to thrust into. He used his tongue and his throat, and he sucked, and when Vance shuddered and came, he swallowed and licked and calmly stared up at Vance as the last few spurts of come landed on his cheek because Vance wanted it that way.
His scalp screamed from the pressure of his hair being pulled, and his knees ached from the hard floor. He remained still and silent, searching Vance’s face for reaction, for approval, for something to tell him where they were.
“Now you,” Vance said. His voice was still edged with disasters waiting to happen as he pulled Len up by the hair and practically threw him onto the bed. Len landed with a bounce and barely got his hands under him to brace himself when Vance was turning him over onto his stomach and hauling his hips up into the air.
Disaster was about to strike. He flinched and tried to crawl away, but Vance grabbed and held him, clamping his hands on his hips.
“Stay,” Vance ordered, and Len did, because the storm was about to break, and he was no longer in the eye. He stayed, he kept still, he waited, and Vance rewarded him with a sharp smack on his ass.
He yelped. It hadn’t been at all what he was expecting.
“That’s for disobeying me,” Vance said quietly.
Len frowned. Another smack landed, and he flinched, but it wasn’t all that painful, now he knew to expect it. It stung. It burned a bit. It made his skin crawl with excitement, and he found himself lifting his ass, anticipating.
“For trying to take control,” Vance said, and smacked him again, harder, but still not so aggressively Len wanted him to stop. Quite the opposite. He wanted that heat over his ass again, and he arched his back to prove it.
“For topping from the bottom,” Vance snarled, and this slap was painful. Len whimpered and curled his ass in.
“Nice try,” Vance said, grabbing him with an arm around his waist and straightening him out. “Now be still.”
Len dropped his head and panted out a small “Yes.”
“Pardon?” Vance smacked Len’s bottom again, hard, stinging, deliciously sharp.
“Yes, Sir.”
“Better.” Another spank, and Len practically crooned in pleasure. His dick was hard again, and he desperately wanted to touch himself, but Vance had created a rhythm, and the blows landed in a semiregular pattern. Often enough to make Len squirm and bite his lip and flinch, but far enough apart to almost let him catch his breath before the next one came.
He lost himself in the sound and heat and sting. He let the slaps come as Vance dictated, and though he tried hard to listen to what his lover said as he occasionally gave a reason for one slap or another, his mind drifted into white noise, and he liked it there. It was safe. It was quiet. Only Vance could touch him there, and he was okay with that. Everything else went away but the hand impacting his ass and the inferno of desire ignited in his belly by the aggressive touch.
He barely noticed when Vance’s fingers circled him, but he felt the unbearable heat of Vance’s body draping over him and the slide of slick cock near his hole. He didn’t have time to wonder or worry, though, because Vance’s fingers found a nipple, his hand slid over his cock, and Len was lost again in a brand-new set of sensations. His body took over, and it was all he could do to feel everything Vance was doing to him. A stroke, a pinch, a lick or a bite, it was all one. All good. All leading to the inevitable, and when he crested the wave of white noise into ecstasy, he knew he shouted something. He heard his voice, but didn’t recognize the words coming forth.
His back bowed, and he thought he was going to split in half, crack open, and then it was out, his orgasm tearing heat and ragged edges of pain and joy through him until he couldn’t breathe, couldn’t think, couldn’t be.
He collapsed, and Vance’s warmth was there at his back, strong arms encircling him, bare chest and hard dick pressed to his flesh, legs curving up to encompass him in a tight, full-body embrace.
Sighing, closing his eyes, investigating through skin every place and way his lover protected him from the universe of pain in his own head, Len finally remembered his name a heartbeat before he lost the world and fell asleep.
18
WAKING TO an empty bed wasn’t a surprise. Len was used to Vance rising before the sun, and so, obviously, before Len was willing to even think about getting up. He had managed to reconcile himself to the luxury of stretching across the cool sheets and breathing in his lover’s scent. If he hadn’t quite managed to ignore the spike of unease at waking alone, that wasn’t about Vance. That was about his inability to be brave.
He gazed at the blurred outlines of Vance’s smooshed pillow. He ran a hand over the smooth sheets of the vacated spot and smiled to himself. His ass hurt. The skin was tight, and the thought of pulling jeans on over the sensitive area made him shiver. He was tempted to go down to the kitchen as he was, to see if he could tempt Vance into another round of something involving Len on his knees and Vance’s hands all over him, but the sound of cheerful voices drifted up the stairs and through the partly open door.
The reminder that they were no longer alone in the house made him sigh, but it also prompted him to get out of bed. He dressed quickly, and his trepidation over covering his ass and legs in rough denim was borne out. He walked stiffly and hobbled a little as he descended to the kitchen.
Vance looked up as he entered, his gaze smoldering as he watched Len mince across the floor to the coffeemaker. Len smiled at him, and his answering expression was possessive and self-satisfied.
“Mornin’, darlin’,” he drawled.
Len’s grin widened. “Morning, Sir,” he said softly, and was rewarded with a low growl and the smolder brightening to a hot flame.
“Good morning, Mr. Stevens.” Len glanced from Vance to the woman standing in front of the stove. He’d seen her on Vance’s Skype window when his lover had talked to Maggie and her daughter over the Internet.
“Morning, Miss Margarita. Nice to finally meet you.” He knew his cheeks flushed as she cast a knowing glance at Vance and looked back to him.
“Good to meet you,” she replied, and patted his arm. “’Bout time he found someone to properly share this ramshackle old place with.”
Len looked over at his lover, the heat in his cheeks rising further.
Vance just winked at him over his coffee cup as he sipped. “Give the man a sandwich, Maggie, please, and Len, you can take that coffee to go. You got chores to do, darlin’.”
Len nodded, not allowing his heart to sink at the thought of going out to the barn today. He had thought maybe he was graduating from that particular punishment after last night, but apparently, he still had penance to do over the damn horse. And the book he’d thrown, he reminded himself. And the guitar.
&nbs
p; He scowled and pulled two travel mugs from the cupboard as Maggie prepared a toast-and-bacon sandwich for him.
“You eat this,” she told him as he took it from her. “And there will be proper food for you here once your chores are done.”
Len nodded. “Not scrambled eggs?”
She grinned and laughed when Vance made a sound of protest. “Not scrambled eggs. Off you go now.” She patted his arm in a motherly fashion, and he ambled slowly out the back door, feet stuffed into his boots, the cuffs of his jeans scrunched around the tops.
He munched on the sandwich and took his time crossing the yard as the sun peered desultorily over the peak of the barn. Across the yard, a low fence, barely waist high, was taking shape under the hole augers and drills of a couple of farmhands. Another of Vance’s new security measures since Len’s run-in with overly aggressive fangirls. Len stopped to watch a familiar large black Hummer pull into the lot next to the public barn. He shivered and hurried into the small barn, concealing himself from the public eye. He peeked out the tiny window in the tack room and saw the girls getting out, phones in hand, gazes fixed in his direction. They were ready for any glimpse of him or Vance, and he pulled back from the window, just in case. It wasn’t likely they could see inside, but he doubted that tiny fence being erected between the public and private sections of the yard would stop them if they wanted to get at him.
He licked his fingers of the last bits of bacon grease and leaned against the tack room wall. How the hell was he ever going to get back onstage if just the sight of three skinny teenage girls made his heart thud and his palms sweat? He was a fucking rock star, for Pete’s sake, and he couldn’t stomach the idea of facing even that many fans obviously eager for him to appear. They wanted a picture with him. Maybe an autograph. When had that stuff become scary?
He knew when, though. It had become terrifying the day he realized Damian—brave, bold Damian—wouldn’t be inhabiting his best friend’s psyche, standing at his side, wrapping that skinny arm around his waist, and reminding him with a touch or a wink exactly why they’d sought out the spotlight in the first place.