by Joey W. Hill
“Didn’t I tell you to put your ass in my bed? What are you still doing out of it?”
A flash of rueful amusement crossed Ange’s face, but he obediently turned toward the bed. Robert followed close, his hand on Ange’s lower back, caressing his ass, guiding him there.
They worked together to pull down the cover, blanket and sheet. As Ange got in, he shivered. Robert had a warming pad for the sheets. With all the windows in this room, it could get drafty in winter. Before he went into the bathroom, he should have thought to turn on the feature, warm the linens. He bent and clicked it on, but he had a more instant fix. Himself.
He slid in. “Come here.”
The boy-versus-man duality was there in how eagerly Ange responded, snuggling closer, putting his head down on Robert’s chest, even as the arms that circled Robert were strong. His semi-turgid cock pressed against Robert’s thigh as his other leg crossed over it.
Hell. Robert wanted to fuck him again. Ange wouldn’t refuse him. He’d let his Master have him as often as he wanted.
Robert curbed the desire, though. He was good with letting the wanting simmer. There was a pleasure in that. And Ange accepted it, his cock settling back down as he also sank deeper into Robert’s embrace, his body slackening.
It had been a long day for them both. Even so, Robert found it miraculous, the way Ange slid into sleep within a matter of minutes. In Robert’s arms.
Was there any greater gift in the whole damn world than that? His lover asleep in his embrace, curved into Robert’s body like they were made to be twined together like this, from now until the grave. Maybe even in the grave.
Ange’s hand was tucked under his cheek, folded, the eyes lowered so his lashes fanned his cheeks. Robert remembered how snowflakes had caught on them when he’d danced.
Robert stayed up a little longer, gazing out the window, his hands trailing up and down Ange’s back. The gunshot scars on his stomach didn’t go all the way through, which meant they’d likely been hollow points, fragmenting to prevent a dangerous exit beyond the target. The downside was they wreaked havoc inside the body, and they’d hit an area that could have made that damage lethal. The kid should be dead.
He didn’t like that thought one damn bit, and the way it speared through him must have reached Ange. His sub shifted, his brow creasing in sleep, an uncertain sound coming from his lips. Robert crooned to him soothingly, pushed the disturbing thoughts out of his head. Remembering how Ange had reacted to him touching those scars at the store, Robert had consciously avoided making anything more than incidental contact with them ever since.
When offered a miracle, people had a tendency not to let themselves get lost in the joy of it for too long. Pretty soon after, they started to worry when it would end. He was no less susceptible to that weakness than anyone else. However, he was a proactive and extremely capable man. He’d figure out what threats to head off, anticipate, diffuse. He already saw the flags, most of them having to do with what he didn’t know about Ange.
But those gunshot wounds, as well as his own shrapnel scars, proved there were things he couldn’t see coming. Or couldn’t in good conscience step out of the way to avoid, because of what he was protecting.
He made a vow to keep that in mind with Ange. Protecting his own self wasn’t an issue. Protecting Ange, helping him…loving him? That was everything.
Chapter Five
Robert woke about an hour past his normal time, greeted by the smell of coffee and the sound of a crash downstairs, like the clang of metal pots. It didn’t sound ominous, and since Ange wasn’t in the bed with him, the source was obvious. It did make him curious.
He slid out of bed, shrugged into his robe. The pajama bottoms at the foot of the bed were gone. He could hope Ange had grabbed one of Robert’s sweatshirts, but doubted it. While he’d bounce on his bed, Ange would have been hesitant to go through somewhere as private as Robert’s closet or dresser drawers without his explicit permission. Robert should have put another robe or sweatshirt on the end of the bed with the pants. He was out of practice for looking three or four steps ahead to cover all domestic bases for a sub in his care. He’d work on that.
Pulling a flannel shirt off a rack to take with him, he headed downstairs. He didn’t find Ange in the kitchen, but thank the gods, he found the coffee.
When Robert arrived at the store in the mornings, he was alert and ready to work. But he didn’t function as a human being until he had his first cup of coffee at home. Since Ange didn’t sound in any danger, he stayed in the kitchen long enough to pour himself a cup, add French Vanilla creamer and a sugar substitute. While he did that and took a bracing sip, he listened to the intriguing mix of thumps, clatters and mutterings coming up the stairwell.
Robert descended the creaking wood steps and peered into the open door of the garage. One half of it sheltered Robert’s classic 1985 M6 BMW. The rest of the space was over-crammed storage.
Seeing Ange’s hindquarters in the air as he bent over a box wasn’t a bad way to start the day. Since he was collecting a variety of items from the floor and putting them carefully back in the box, Robert deduced he’d been correct. Ange had likely tipped forward a box marked “non-fragile” on the upper shelves and brought half the overloaded contents down on his head.
There was nothing on those top shelves of specific significance. The contents had meaning more as a whole, in their continued presence in the garage, within touching distance. This particular box had been filled with pots, tools and garden supplies his mother had used at her Virginia home. Nothing fragile; just too loved to be left behind. Leaving things behind, or giving them away, was an acknowledgment the person would never use them again.
She’d nursed a thought she might do some pot gardens at Robert’s place. She hadn’t. There were so many little deaths on the way to the actual thing, he now understood the saying “one foot in the grave.” And hated it.
“What are you doing?”
Ange straightened and spun, guilt on his face. “I saw how you felt about the way the house looked last night, and it got me thinking. You decorated the store so beautifully, and I started looking around in here…”
While Robert digested the run of nervous words, he noticed the pajama bottoms barely hung onto Ange’s hips. As he’d suspected, Ange hadn’t grabbed a warmer shirt, but he’d donned the sleeveless tank from last night. It drew Robert’s interested eyes to the curves of his exposed biceps and shoulders. Since Ange was cold, his nipples pressed against the thin fabric.
Robert closed the distance between them, setting the coffee aside to reach out, grip the drawstring and loosen it. The pants fell even lower, down to Ange’s pubic area, exposing the intriguing triangle of muscle and hint of darker blond hair there.
The move effectively halted Ange’s flow of words, but if it hadn’t, Robert’s mouth would have. Robert brought him closer, hooking his arm around his neck and taking those lips with his own. While he did that, he dropped his coffee-warmed hand to cup Ange under the thin cloth, stroke the organ that sprang to instant, mouthwatering hardness under his touch. Ready for his command.
Ange made a quiet noise, and his hands were on Robert inside his open robe, on his bare waist and upper back. Robert raised his head after a good long satisfying kiss, and ran a fond hand through Ange’s thick hair. Realizing he still had the flannel shirt tossed over his shoulder, he pulled it off, draping it around Ange’s shoulders.
“Now put that on, settle down, and tell me what you’re up to. And pull those pants back up to your waist. Stop tempting me.”
With Ange’s lean waist, Robert knew the pants were a delightfully lost cause, but he enjoyed watching him make the attempt. With a Master’s satisfaction, he also marked how Ange had to fight through the haze of lust to find sleeves and then his words again. He left the shirt pleasantly open. “I was looking at the living room last night, and thinking we should bring some Christmas to it. A garage usually doesn’t have things in it that are so pri
vate, so I figured it would be okay to come in here and get some ideas.”
“Did you?”
Ange’s uncertain look bloomed into a tentative smile as he registered the teasing warmth in Robert’s voice. “Yeah. We could rearrange the furniture, clear out some space and set up a Christmas tree on that first level. There’s one down here, and we have those blue and green lights left over from decorating the store. They’d pick up the colors on the curtains, and there’s some other cool stuff in here we could turn into tie-backs, keep them open and let the light in.”
It was his parents’ tree, but Robert could already imagine it decorated in more of a Robert-Ange fashion, just as Ange had described.
“Oh, and this would really tie in the colors. Not just for Christmas.” Ange shimmied through the clutter to the far back corner, disappearing behind stacks of boxes he’d obviously shifted to access the area. Some thumping ensued as he retrieved what he wanted to show Robert, then those stacks of boxes were swaying, telegraphing Ange’s return. It reminded Robert of a gopher tunneling his way across the yard. The thought gave him a smile that greeted Ange’s expectant look as he emerged.
He was carrying a wooden carousel horse. Robert had picked it up from a roadside vintage store on one of his trips, and had forgotten he’d had it. On the horse’s saddle was a painting of a dragon and a knight having tea together, done in predominant colors of blue and green.
“Since this is beat up enough it’s not really collectible quality, we could screw a piece of glass to the top of the saddle. Get rid of the sectional, use this as a side table between your two wingbacks. Add some throw pillows that pick up the colors.”
Maybe someone else would find his actions presumptuous, but over the months since he’d hired him, Robert had given Ange his head on this kind of thing at the store. It had started as a desire to build his confidence, like taking him on errands. But Ange paid close attention. The store’s décor reflected Robert’s abiding interest in antique and vintage toys, and his preference for a classy upscale collector vibe, well-integrated with whimsy.
Ange’s suggestions and changes had always respected that, while his childlike nature and artistic flair had given it an appealing twist. The result was an atmosphere that integrated the past and the future, showing how what mattered most never really changed.
When he’d found Ange in the alley with the broken toy Robert had tossed, he’d explained he couldn’t sell a collectible that was broken or damaged. Ange had repaired it well, though, and one of his earliest suggestions had been to offer such toys for sale to those who couldn’t afford collectible prices. They might be willing to pay half price to have toys that in all other respects looked just as good as those the collectors wanted. And their kids could play with them, just as the original manufacturer had intended.
The first day they’d set up Ange’s “Recycled Piece of Yesterday” section, Robert had dedicated a portion of their window display to it. Not only had people come in to buy those pieces, overall traffic had increased. On that launch day, two separate young professional couples had made impulse buys of antique Victorian rocking horses and other pieces to decorate their babies’ nurseries.
“Oh.” Ange was continuing, spilling over with ideas. “I also found a frame and some corkboard, and put those together with some old pictures. I found them in a container on one of the lower shelves. I thought it would go great on the wall headed up the stairs, right there at the end of the banister before you turn into the kitchen.”
He went to another corner of the garage, where the frame was leaning face forward against a shelf. When he brought it over for Robert’s inspection, Robert set his coffee aside and took it in both hands.
Ange had found the memorabilia box that belonged to Robert’s father. He’d fished out the postcards from his dad’s travels, back when he’d been in the military and later, after Vietnam, when he was working for a computer company and traveling to meet clients. Ange had turned one of the postcards over and fixed it in the middle, a centerpiece for all the others. Robert read his father’s broad script, the message he’d written to his mother.
I never knew there was so much to see in the world.
Robert backed up to the steps, sat down, still holding the frame. After a long moment, he bent forward, placed it carefully against the set of metal shelves to his right so he could keep looking at it.
“It’s a great idea, Ange,” he said, his voice thick. “I like it a lot.”
Ange’s expression moved from careful observation into relief. Beneath it was an expectant, hopeful longing, left over from Robert touching him. He wanted to be touched some more. Wanted Robert to need things from him. Who was Robert to deny him?
Well, only in the ways that they both liked.
“Bring me my coffee,” he told him, and when Ange complied, he ran a hand up Ange’s thigh. He tugged at the pajama pants, pulling them down enough that he could enjoy running a thumb over Ange’s hipbone. Ange squirmed involuntarily as he hit the ticklish spot, but Robert liked watching him fight it, try to stay still for his Master.
“We have a lot to do today,” Robert said. Thinking about it conjured anticipation, a little uncertainty, but he wasn’t nervous. He was looking forward to the things he wanted to show Ange, parts of his daily, outside-the-store life he hadn’t shared with him except in hints of conversation.
And then there was Ange’s Christmas gift, which he planned to give to him tonight.
“So.” Robert took a sip of his coffee. “We’ll grab some breakfast and then I need to make a cake to take by a friend’s group home.” He lifted his gaze. “Maybe while we’re out we should hit the barber’s, cut that mop.”
Ange ducked away when Robert grabbed playfully at the thick blond strands. “You don’t mean that. You like my hair.”
Yeah, he did. He’d like to seize a handful of it and hold Ange still while he bit his neck, tasted him. Add to the two hickeys he’d given him last night, the faint reddish-blue bruising provocatively visible, above and below the collar.
He rose. Standing on the bottom step made him a head taller than Ange. Robert rested a hand on his shoulder. “After the group home, we’ll grab the store truck. Load up that sectional and a couple other pieces from the living room. Take all of it over to the Salvation Army. Somebody will like getting that for Christmas. That’ll give us room to put the tree in the living room, open up some space in there.”
He glanced up the stairway. “That should cover half of any workout I need today. Getting that sectional up there was a son of a bitch. The pieces were too wide for the lift.”
“So cake first. For energy.”
Robert shot his sub a mock stern look. “You and your sweet tooth. We’re making you a proper breakfast first.”
“I saw frosted Pop-Tarts in your pantry.”
“Christ.” But thinking of Ange rummaging through the pantry like a squirrel brought a smile back to Robert’s face.
He led the way back into the kitchen, directing Ange to pull out the eggs. As he did, Robert mentally sifted through the day’s to-dos. There should be time for all of it. He’d known when he woke up this morning that Ange’s Christmas gift was a time commitment of its own, commanding most of their evening.
He couldn’t wait to see how Ange reacted to it.
When he’d gone to the store last night, Robert had intended to drop broad hints about the gift, get Ange excited and thinking about it. Ange liked the gift giving and receiving process. He’d really gotten into picking out gifts for their regular customers. Small things, but with special meaning, like the German ornament of a dog in a purse for Mrs. Fitzgerald. Or the miniature hand-painted train that ran on a track, so small it could sit on Mr. Dixon’s desk. The eighty-year-old was still on the board of the company he’d started. He showed up regularly to his permanent office there.
Many of those customers, who considered themselves Ange’s friend as much as Robert’s, had dropped off similarly chosen small gifts.
Ange had treated each one as if he’d been given gold, frankincense and myrrh by the three wise men.
As such, when Robert had started thinking about the best Christmas gift for Ange, the answer had been pretty obvious. Maybe Robert’s subconscious had known even then he was going to take their relationship to a different level. The gift, while bigger than a small ornament or toy train, had been chosen with the same eye to its special significance to the recipient.
He wanted to start teasing him about it now, get him excited over it the way Robert was, but he would put some thought into how best to drop the hints. In his opinion, that was as important as the care taken to wrap a physical gift.
While Robert considered that, he whipped them up some quick scrambled eggs and bacon, made sure Ange ate a proper amount, then they got to work on the cake.
Ange’s talent for seasonings and cooking didn’t extend to baking. He showed surprisingly little knowledge of that process. However, like everything else, he absorbed everything Robert told him, retrieving ingredients and helping to mix them. The soul warming smells of sugar, vanilla and butter for the old-fashioned layer cake soon filled the kitchen.
Robert was an okay cook, but this was a recipe of his father’s he’d done enough to excel at it. When he let Ange taste the batter off the mixers, Robert cherished the sparkle in his eyes. It was like he’d never tasted cake batter. It made Robert want to taste him, an urge strong enough he knew he wasn’t going to deny himself, no matter what was on their schedule.
There was time for indulgence.