Firm Hand

by Nora Phoenix

  Cornell’s shoulder reacted wonderfully to the massage, the tissue already becoming more supple under his administrations. Good. That meant he responded well to massage, which he could’ve predicted, considering how quickly he always reacted to even the simplest touch. Rhys rested his hands on Cornell’s body.

  “How does that feel?” he checked.

  “Good,” came the somewhat drowsy answer. “It hurt at first but it got much better.”

  Rhys’s heart swelled. “What do you say about a little relaxing massage as a reward? You know, me kneading a bit of tension out of your body?”

  He held his breath. Had he gone too far?

  “Erm, yes, please? Your hands feel amazing,” Cornell said, his voice still dreamy.

  Rhys smiled as he poured more oil on the man’s back, then rubbed it in with slow, deep moves. He doubted Cornell was even fully aware of what he was saying. It had sounded like he’d been half asleep, his body relaxed and his mind someplace else. Well, Rhys could help there and make him relax and fall asleep completely.

  “I’ve got you,” he said, keeping his voice soft, his hands finding knots and massaging them until they became fluid and warm. It was routine for him, usually, but this time, he couldn’t look away from the body he was working on. What was it about Cornell that drew him in? He wasn’t even sure, and he’d had years to think about it by now.

  He wasn’t overly muscled; on the contrary. He had a lean runner’s build, thanks to the marathons he used to run before a torn ACL in his left knee made him stop. Toned, definitely, but not like a six pack. It was more about an innate grace he had, a magnetic energy that pulled Rhys in. Every time he was in the same room as Cornell, the man would draw him in, like a helpless bee to a flower.

  His mind wandered until a small movement under his hands caught his attention. Cornell’s hips shifted. Maybe he was becoming a bit uncomfortable? He’d been on the table for a while now. Rhys wanted to shrug it off, but then Cornell did it again, a subtle move with his hips. Then again, and Rhys’s breath caught as he realized the truth. Cornell was seeking friction. He was rubbing his cock against the table with slow but deliberate movements. Was he doing it in his sleep?

  “Cornell?” he asked softly.

  The answer was a soft moan and increased hip movement. Cornell was asleep, the massage apparently turning him on and making him react unconsciously. Oh god, what should he do now? Cornell would be so embarrassed when he woke up. Should he wake him?

  His touch changed, his fingers no longer kneading but stroking now. Caressing. Touching that hurting body that he wanted to explore in so much more detail. Cornell stirred again, a sigh releasing from his lips as he leaned into Rhys’s touch, wordlessly begging for more.

  Rhys had no doubt that if they kept this up, Cornell would have the classic happy ending to his massage. But he couldn’t keep going, could he? Should he? His mind was at war with itself, wavering between the desire to make Cornell experience sexual release and the more practical thought that it would change things between them forever. And if Cornell woke up and discovered Rhys had known, had encouraged him, there would be major embarrassment. What was the right course of action here?

  In the end, not making a decision turned out to be a decision in itself, as Cornell started moving carefully but in an undeniable rhythm, rubbing his cock against the massage table. Rhys almost held his breath, scared Cornell would wake up. But the man’s body stayed relaxed, his breathing speeding up only slightly under Rhys’s continued ministrations.

  He was tempted, oh so tempted, to go lower, to caress those globes that were only covered by a thin layer of cotton from his underwear. They would feel so good, but even more importantly, he would make Cornell feel so good. God, one hand, one finger even, and he could make him fly. But he couldn’t, not without his permission. So he kept massaging his neck, his back, teasing the lines of his underwear until he was practically squirming on the table.

  He battled with himself, knowing what Cornell needed to fly over the edge. All he had to do was tell him to come, but he couldn’t. What he was doing was already crossing a line, one he maybe shouldn’t be crossing, but he wanted Cornell to have his orgasm. The man deserved that release.

  But that’s as far as he could go, and so he kept his mouth shut, waiting until Cornell’s body would override his deeply ingrained need to have permission to some. It took another minute or two, but then the man’s body sped up, clearly chasing his release.

  Cornell’s moan was anything but soft as his body jerked with his orgasm, and Rhys rushed out of the room before the man would wake up and realize what had happened. He walked straight into his own room, where he locked himself in the bathroom and used his hands that were still slick from the massage oil to jerk himself off furiously. His release left him panting and shaking, slapping his oily hand against the tiles to hold himself up.

  A smile curved his lips, transforming into a big grin. Holy fuck, that had been hot as hell. And they were only getting started.

  6

  Cornell jolted awake, seconds before orgasming. His whole body was tight, his muscles fully contracted in anticipation of what was coming—pun intended. In his confused state, he tried to hold back, attempted to veer off the ledge, because he wasn't sure he had permission to come, but it was too late. His body jerked, his eyes pinching shut as his release overtook him.

  He'd dreamed, he realized as he came down from his high, still panting. A highly erotic dream where Rhys had been massaging him again, only this time, it had been a different type of massage. His talented hands had roamed all over Cornell's body, making it sing. And for as long as that glorious dream had lasted, he'd felt whole, not in pain, and it had been everything.

  What the hell was going on with him that he had spontaneously orgasmed not once, but twice? Yesterday, there had been that whole incident in the massage room. Apparently, he'd fallen asleep during Rhys's massage, and that, too, had developed into a dream. And when he'd woken up, he'd come in his underwear, something that hadn't happened since he'd been in college. He had been absolutely mortified, and only the fact that Rhys had not been present had saved him from feeling utterly and completely embarrassed and humiliated.

  And now this? Another sexual dream with an orgasm as a result? What was his subconscious trying to tell him? He'd dated a guy once who had believed dreams could explain everything about what was bothering your subconscious. He'd even gone as far as claiming they could predict the future. To humor him, Cornell had played along, even trying to deliberately create lucid dreams, as the guy had called it. He'd never been much good at it, but the relationship had fizzled out before the guy’s obsession with dreams had become a point of frustration.

  But Cornell had done some reading on dreams, because his curiosity was piqued, and he did know they tended to latch on to signals your subconscious picked up. Not always accurate, but one had to wonder where his erotic dream about Rhys had originated from. Was it a sign that Cornell was sexually frustrated, that he had needed a physical release and his body and mind had found a way to realize that? Or was there something else going on?

  After all, he had imagined for there to be some kind of sexual tension between him and Rhys, which was ridiculous, of course. The kid was over twenty years his junior, and there was no fucking way. Men like him weren't attracted to men like Cornell. They could be, if they thought Cornell was the silver daddy type of guy, but even twinks rarely made that mistake anymore. His body language was too demure for that, too submissive, as it should be.

  Rhys didn’t know all that, not being in the scene, but even if you took that out of the equation, there was no way a guy like him would be sexually attracted to Cornell. He was too old, too broken, too damaged. No, Rhys felt sorry for him, and that was all it was. And Cornell's subconscious might have a blast imagining that to be something more, but it wasn't. At least he got a good orgasm out of it. Or two, if you counted yesterday's.

  He was about to slide the covers
back when there was a knock on the door. That could only be Rhys, of course, and there was no way he would show him the undeniable wet spot in his underwear. So he slid back under the covers before calling out to Rhys he could come in.

  He came in carrying a breakfast tray, but one peek at the contents revealed it wasn't the usual yogurt and fruit.

  "No yogurt today?" Cornell asked, a little disappointed.

  "Nope. Oatmeal today, the super healthy kind."

  "Yay," Cornell said, piling on the sarcasm.

  Rhys merely smiled, not taking the bait. Hmm, he'd have to be more direct, perhaps. "I really liked the yogurt," Cornell said, hopeful.

  "I know," was the calm answer.

  Still not getting anywhere. Even more direct, then. "I’m not a huge fan of oatmeal," he tried.

  This time, it earned him a chuckle. "Did you think I didn't pick up on your previous three attempts to get you yogurt?"

  Busted. He let out a sigh. "I’d hoped you were being slow on the uptake, yes, rather than mean for taking away my yogurt."

  "Have ever known me to be slow on the uptake?"

  Rhys’s tone was light, but there was an edge to it, as if he was warning Cornell not to push much further. Well, that was reasonable, he supposed. Rhys did deserve gratitude and respect for taking Cornell in. Plus, the massage the day before had made a difference—a big one. He was sore now where Rhys's strong hands had dug into his flesh, but the tension in his back and especially his shoulder was so much better already. No way was Cornell losing that privilege, though perhaps that was a funny word to use in this context. It wasn't like it was a privilege extended by a Dom to a sub, a privilege that could be taken away if the sub misbehaved or displeased the Dom.

  Rhys had carried that edge to his tone, though, that warning signal that he was not amused and on his way to displeased. And maybe it was because it was so ingrained in Cornell, but he didn't like the idea of Rhys being displeased or irritated with him. Twenty-plus years of being a submissive were hard to ignore.

  "Cornell, where did you go?" Rhys asked, still with that zing of sharpness.

  "I’m sorry, S—Rhys. Got lost in thought. I’ll eat the oatmeal and stop complaining."

  Oh, he'd come so close again to calling Rhys Sir. He could only hope he'd covered it up fast enough.

  Rhys's smile was back. "Good," he said, and it took Cornell a second to realize boy wasn't to be expected to follow good. Why did that leave him feeling somewhat bereft?

  "Are you getting up?" Rhys asked. "No eating in bed."

  Crap. What could he do now? "I need to use the bathroom first," he said quickly.

  "So?" Rhys asked, his brow furrowing in confusion.

  Cornell ground his teeth. "Can I have some privacy, please?"

  Rhys's eyes narrowed. "What's going on with you? You're being weird."

  “Why is me wanting to have a shred of privacy weird?'' Cornell snapped, unable to hold it in.

  "Then there's this," Rhys said, his tone icy. "You snapping at me for no reason. What's going on? Did something happen?"

  Yeah, I had a spectacular orgasm while dreaming about you touching me, Cornell thought. That's what's wrong. Plus the fact that I can't get out of bed because you'll spot the evidence. But of course, he didn't say any of that, not even when Rhys's eyes narrowed further and frustration rolled off him in waves. It took effort, Cornell realized, to not crumble under that glacier-like look, to not give in when everything in him wanted to.

  "There's nothing wrong," he said, making sure his voice was calm despite his inner turmoil. "And I do apologize for my snappy tone."

  Rhys's expression warmed. "You do know you can talk to me, right? If something is bothering you?"

  Cornell tried a careful smile to test the waters. "If we started talking about everything that bothered me, we'd need a few weeks."

  Rhys slowly shook his head. "Don't make light of it. I could say I know what you're going through, but I really don't. I do know that you must be worried about stuff and sad and hurting and a whole lot more."

  “You forgot angry," Cornell said, strangely comforted by Rhys's words. "Pissed off. And grieving, which is an emotion that's hard to describe, I've discovered."

  Rhys's hand came down on his good shoulder. "Yeah, grieving is ten emotions wrapped into one. But no matter what you feel, you can talk to me."

  God, he had such a big, kind heart, Cornell thought. How sweet was that, this urge to take away Cornell's pain. He couldn't, of course, but no one could. Cornell had talked to the grief counselor in the rehabilitation center. She'd had some good and practical tips, but it hadn't taken away the pain or ever lessened it. It was always there, the pain, both the emotional and the physical. Nothing and no one could take that away, but Rhys was so sweet for even trying.

  "You're gonna be my shrink in addition to being my cook, cleaner, physical therapist, and nurse's aide?"

  He'd meant it as a joke, partially anyway, but something sparked in Rhys's eyes. "I’ll be whatever you need," he said, and the funny thing was that it didn't sound like a joke at all.

  * * *

  What had that been all about? Rhys had decided to give Cornell the privacy he apparently needed—for whatever reason—and walked back into the kitchen. What had gotten into Cornell? That snappy tone, the attitude, it puzzled Rhys.

  Had something happened he was unaware of? That seemed almost impossible, considering how much time they spent together. It wasn't like Cornell could hide much from him. And yet that had been what it felt like: Cornell hiding something from him. And boy, Rhys did not like that at all.

  Why didn't Cornell trust him enough to tell him what was going on? Was he still embarrassed about his body, his injuries? Building trust takes time, he heard Ford tell him in his mind. You're going too fast, he always told Rhys. He'd learned tons from the Dom who had trained him, who was still mentoring him, but Ford hadn't been able to impart patience in Rhys. Yet. But it looked like he would need it with Cornell.

  On impulse, Rhys called him, knowing the man was always up early anyway. Ford didn't believe in sleeping in.

  "Rhys," Ford answered the phone. "What vexes thee, my young grasshopper?"

  That was something else Rhys loved about the Dom: he knew when to skip the pleasantries and focus on the good stuff. "What do you do when a sub is hiding something from you?" he asked.

  "Like what? "Ford asked.

  "Like they ask for privacy without telling you why they need it."

  "Privacy how? Like, for a phone call? To do something? To jack off?"

  To jack off. Rhys's brain fired on all cylinders all of a sudden. Why hadn't he thought of that? It had to be something sexual, something Cornell didn't want Rhys to know. Had he been playing with himself when Rhys had knocked? That was an option, though he would've been taking a big risk at that time of day, considering Rhys had brought breakfast at the same time the last couple of days.

  “Rhys, you still with me?" Ford asked.

  "Yeah, sorry. I figured it out just now."

  "Figured what out, what he's hiding?"

  "Yeah. Something you said helped me connect the dots."

  Ford hummed. "Good. Now tell me about him, because the last time we spoke, you didn't have a sub. In fact, last time we saw each other, you got drunk off your ass and waxed poetic about some older guy you had the hots for."

  Oops. He should've known better than to spill his beans to Ford when they’d hung out a few weeks back. The guy had a memory like an elephant and the tenacity of a bulldog. In his defense, Rhys had been overwhelmed with grief and frustrated with how little he could do for Cornell, who was clearly struggling with everything in the rehabilitation center. So he’d gotten drunk—off his ass was still a charitable description, most likely, since he’d had the mother of all hangovers the next morning—and had dumped on Ford, who’d always been a good listener.

  "Well, he's not my sub exactly," Rhys said, feeling his cheeks heat up even though Ford couldn't see him.<
br />
  "Either he is, or he isn't," Ford said. "This is not an area where you want ambiguity."

  "He's a sub," Rhys said. "An experienced one. He's just not my sub... yet."

  "Rhys, I'm starting to get worried here. You're gonna need to give me more context, kid."

  He couldn't blame him for that last word, not when he was acting like one. "He's the guy I told you about, the older sub. He got hurt in the same accident that killed my dad and is staying with me to recover."

  Ford whistled between his teeth. "Sneaky. And you're hoping the close proximity will help him see what an amazing Dom you are."

  Rhys winced. He could lie, but experience had taught him that wasn't smart with Ford. "I haven't told him I'm a Dom," he said, bracing for the storm he knew was coming.

  What the fuck had he been thinking, calling Ford? This was what happened when he did things on impulse: they never ended well. Wasn't that something Ford had tried to teach him as well?

  "Rhys," Ford said, and Rhys shrunk at the authoritative tone. "I take it you're not abusing his trust and violating his boundaries?"

  Rhys thought of the massage’s happy ending. "No?" he said, but it came out a question. "I don't think I am," he corrected. "But I'm aware he responds well to commands from me, even subtle ones, and to touch. I can calm him with a simple touch, center him."

  "Part of me is proud that you read him so well, but a much bigger part is concerned about his consent. If he doesn't know you're a Dom and he's been a sub for a long time, he may be subconsciously responding to you. That leaves him vulnerable for abuse by you or to the feeling of being used or abused. I know you'd never abuse him, Rhys, but this is a gray area you're navigating in."

  Rhys felt his mentor's reprimand in his soul. "I know. It's... I don't know how to tell him. What if he laughs me out of the room because I'm too young?"

  "You like him," Ford said. "You want him to take you seriously."

  "Yeah," Rhys said softly. "I really do."