CHAPTER THIRTEEN

ASH WASN’T ENTIRELY SURE HE knew what just happened.

Only that his knees were weak, his cock was sore, and everything in him wanted to drop down to his knees and rub himself against Brand until Brand dragged him up and pinned him against the wall and did it all over again.

He watched the man sidelong as the elevator glided upward, but Brand had once again resumed his formal, proper posture, shoulders squared, hands folded.

But when the elevator stopped and the doors slid open, Ash hung back until Brand reached out to hold the automatic door.

And Ash caught a hint of a satisfied smile, as he ducked under Brand’s arm and into the reception area.

Ms. Vernon was already at her post, and when she flashed a smile and trilled “Good morning, Ashton,” Ash made a strangled sound, blushing up to his ears, and strained a smile of his own.

“Uh. Hi. Good morning.”

“And Mr. Forsythe,” she said, earning a brief, respectful nod before she turned her gaze back to Ash. “Are you all right? You look feverish.”

“Fine!” Ash said, hurrying quickly toward the office door. “Cold out, you know? And so it’s hot in here and I get all—um—I’m fine!”

She stared after him. He scurried across the floor, reaching for the door.

Then froze just short of the handle, gulping and glancing over his shoulder for Brand.

Brand caught up smoothly, pulling the double doors to the office open with a small and secret smirk.

“You are learning, young Master,” he whispered.

“Asshole,” Ash hissed back, darting one last nervous glance toward Ms. Vernon before skittering inside.

He couldn’t breathe, not until the doors closed. He exhaled heavily, pressing a hand to his chest over his rabbiting heart, then turned on Brand, just staring at him.

“Oh my God,” he rasped out. “You’re a dirty old man.”

Utterly nonplussed, Brand shrugged, retrieving his white kid gloves and tugging them back on again. “You didn’t use the safe word.”

Ash ducked his head. “…I…I didn’t want to.” Clearing his throat, he pulled away, crossing to his desk. They were at work and they were supposed to work, damn it. But he couldn’t help asking, “So I misbehave, and you punish me with sex?”

Brand cocked his head, considering with an arched brow. “That does describe it rather succinctly.”

Ash let out a startled laugh. “That doesn’t exactly motivate me to behave.”

“You make it sound as if I do not enjoy punishing you.”

“That’s hardly punishment.”

“There’s punishment…” Brand’s eyes gleamed darkly. He adjusted his glasses. “…and then there’s punishment.”

Ash only snorted, started to pull his chair out—then stopped when Brand closed the distance between them in long strides and did it for him. Right. His stomach fluttered. Willing helplessness was strange…but not unpleasant.

But when he went to sit down—he encountered not plush leather, but a hard, firm body in tailored wool. He jumped…and ended up falling right into Brand’s lap.

One powerful arm snared around his waist, when he tried to lean away—dragging him back, enfolding him in the heat of Brand’s tightly toned body. Ash flushed hotly.

Then sucked in a sharp, aching gasp as he felt the hardness pressing up against his ass.

“…Brand!” He squirmed in the man’s grip, darting a nervous glance over his shoulder, then at the door. “What if Ms. Vernon walks in?”

“She will not.” Hot breaths washed against Ash’s neck as Brand nuzzled into him. Possessive hands spanned his stomach, then slid down, over his thighs. “You cannot work like this?”

Biting his lip, Ash shifted gingerly, shivering as that hard heat slid against him. “…you’re…you’re kind of distracting…”

“Am I?”

Roughly, Brand’s hands hooked underneath his thighs—then spread them wide, jerking taut until his inner thighs strained, opening him until his legs fell to either side of Brand’s with Brand’s own knees keeping his legs apart. He bit back a cry that might draw Ms. Vernon’s attention—but had to stifle his whimpers by pressing the edge of his palm to his mouth when Brand slowly began to spread his own legs, thickly muscled thighs tense and forcing Ash to spread wider and wider. He arched back against Brand, hips lifting, his body aching with a pulsing emptiness and heat pulling in straining lines at the base of his cock.

“And now?” Brand whispered, stroking one confident, firm hand down Ash’s trembling inner thigh, his cock a hard, insistent pressure against Ash’s ass and the small of his back. “Am I distracting now?”

“Brand…oh my God, I…I…” Ash writhed, but he was thoroughly trapped, spread vulnerable and helpless and feeling so exposed and tiny and weak, sitting in this massive man’s lap and utterly at his mercy. Ash clutched at the arms of the chair, struggling to get himself under control, fighting back whimpers. “Y-you…you asshole…”

Brand’s grip on him tightened, digging in just enough for the promise of sweet, bruising pain. “If you think I will not bend you over this desk for your impertinence, young Master, you are sorely mistaken.”

“Don’t you dare,” Ash hissed, when what he really meant was please. When Brand was so hard against him he couldn’t think of anything else, and he wanted it—wanted to find out what it would feel like when Brand let go of that shield he kept over his need to control Ash; wanted to find out what Brand would do to punish him if he was so brazen as to demand.

Brand nipped at his jaw, pain blooming. “Are you commanding me, young Master?”

The promise of menace in Brand’s voice sent tremors rolling through Ash. He didn’t understand why it thrilled him so deeply to feel that spark of fear, but it made him feel almost naked, stripped down to nothing in Brand’s eyes. He closed his eyes, trying to calm his shaking, but those hard, gripping hands did nothing to calm the quaking in the pit of his stomach, the tightness clutching through him, the heat suffusing his already-sore cock.

“I’m…” He licked his lips nervously. “I’m…I’m begging you. Don’t.”

Don’t stop.

“I believe,” Brand murmured, “I told you that I am the one in control here.”

Ash knew it was coming. That didn’t stop him from gasping as Brand pushed him forward with a hand pressed hard against his back, knocking him off balance until he fell against the desk, barely catching himself with his hands braced against the driftwood. He caught the clatter as Brand swept both their laptops out of the way—only for that hard hand to clamp to the back of his neck, shoving him down fully until his cheek pressed against the wood, rough and cool against his skin. His entire body prickled, exhilaration and terror and need and delicious anticipation and just that perfect breath of humiliation at being bent over like this, pinned and on display.

And half-naked from the waist down, as Brand deftly slipped the tongue of his belt buckle and dragged his slacks and boxer-briefs firmly around his thighs.

“Don’t—” he gasped—only to strangle off as one firm hand came down sharply on his ass, a sudden stinging explosion of pain. He jerked his hips forward, moaning as that pain reverberated right to the base of his cock, pleasure shocking through from root to tip. The swelling sensation in his shaft hurt, after he’d just come not so long ago, sensitive and pulsing between his thighs.

Brand’s fingers stroked against the back of his neck. “I would not say that word again, young Master,” he practically purred. Ash braced himself for another slap, squeezing his eyes shut.

Only to force his knuckles hard against his mouth to bite back a scream as Brand’s naked, lube-slicked fingers suddenly drove into him.

Two at once, the lube doing almost nothing to stop the spearing, hot sensation flashing through him as if he’d been stabbed. He sank his teeth into the back of his hand, whimpering, sobbing against his fingers, struggling not to let Ms. Vernon hear him as he writhed and bucked his hips, played like a helpless little marionette on those demanding, thrusting fingers. Oh God---oh God, he was going to come right now like this—

Except Brand stopped.

He stopped, leaving Ash writhing against the desk, chest heaving, tears beading on his lashes in pure frustration and denial. Yet Brand didn’t make him wait for long; the faint rustle of fabric, and then he felt that thick, dripping cock-head against him, that shaft as cruel as Brand himself, hardness sliding against the cleft of his ass and smearing both lube and hot-smelling pre-come against his skin. Ash whimpered, small in the back of his throat, tensing for pain. Tensing for that scouring sensation he’d known once and craved again, that fullness that only Brand could give him. He caught his breath, squeezing his eyes tighter shut, as those teasing strokes stopped, the tip of Brand’s cock pressing between his flesh and kissing against his sore entrance.

Then screamed against the back of his hand, biting down until he tasted blood, as thickness forced into him, spreading him wide.

He was too small for this. Too small for Brand, but that was what made it delicious and perfect and right…that Brand could make him feel all wrong and all right and so deeply violated and sheltered and protected at the same time. There was a sick, dark intimacy in how young and fragile he felt beneath Brand’s heavy bulk, unable to resist those hands that kept him so firmly pinned, one against his nape, the other against his hip, holding him still and giving him no choice but to suffer in sweet agony as that long, heated shaft slid slowly, slowly deeper. He felt like it was licking him from inside, hot against his inner walls, and he lifted his hips toward that burning cock and begged with his entire frail body to be broken.

Only to choke on a sharp cry as Brand’s hand came down once more, and struck sharply enough across Ash’s ass to burn.

His hips jerked forward, his body tightening—and a mewl startled from his throat as that sudden clutch made him squeeze against Brand’s cock, imprinting his shape from inside. Ash gasped out a sobbing breath as Brand did it again, hand coming down in a punishing slap…but this time countered by a short, sharp thrust, cock moving inside Ash demandingly. Ash could barely muffle his cries against his fist, his other hand snapping up to grasp the edge of the desk, holding on for dear life, for something to anchor him when Brand was going to destroy him like this. Again and again—that vicious hand, that cruel cock, abusing him in tandem rhythm until he was dizzy and screaming again and again against his hand, biting over and over and spreading his thighs until his disarrayed clothing bit into his flesh. Every thrust slammed him into the desk; every deep surge of Brand’s cock pushed at him from inside until he could feel it, ridged against his belly where he pressed against the desk; every punishing crash of that hand against his ass made his cock jerk until he was dripping, painfully hard, nearly sobbing for release but his sensitive flesh refusing to let him come again so soon.

Yet he nearly fell over the edge, as Brand suddenly stiffened against him, ground deep, working inside him…and then a soft catch of breath, a sudden rush of wet warmth, a slick and spilling feeling pouring into Ash and making him feel perfectly dirty and sullied inside. He whimpered against his knuckles, struggling to catch his breath as Brand spent himself. There was a moment of silence, the feeling of something almost like a second heartbeat inside him, rushed breaths…and then Brand’s fingers slipped around the edge of his hip, teased against his cock, slid down to cradle his sac in one broad and weathered palm.

“Are we not finished yet, young Master?” Brand mocked, his mouth hot and wet against Ash’s ear, his voice an insidious thing slinking inside him. Ash could only answer with a hoarse, gasping keen as Brand toyed with him—rolling and cradling his sac until sensitive flesh drew up tight, fingertips grazing the undersize of his cock, playing him as if tugging his strings to make him obey Brand’s every command. And what Brand’s touch commanded was Ash’s pleasure, his wholehearted undoing.

He barely lasted another minute—a minute of twisting, of helpless writhing, of quivering inner thighs and tight heat in the pit of his stomach—before that hot sharp sensation cut through him like a whip breaking skin, lashing him violently, leaving him shuddering in helpless convulsions against the desk as he wet Brand’s fingers.

Then nearly collapsed to the floor, his legs sagging out from beneath him as Brand let him go and parted their bodies.

He let himself be handled dazedly as Brand set both their clothing to rights—then gathered Ash up, lifting him to sit sideways across Brand’s lap, cradled and sheltered warm and safe in his arms as he came down from that. Too fucking intense. And fuck, he hurt inside so bad, as if he’d been completely hollowed out and left empty…but he wouldn’t change it for anything.

Nor would he change these quiet moments, when Brand extracted a tissue from the desk drawer and produced a bottle of witch hazel from his bottomless pockets and, watching Ash with fond warmth clear in that green gaze, began cleaning his bitten hand gently, tending to him with utmost care.

“Feel better now?” Brand murmured.

“Mm.” With a tired sigh, Ash shifted to lean against Brand, resting his head to his shoulder and closing his eyes. Like this he could feel the chuckle that reverberated through Brand, sardonic yet affectionate.

“Do not think I don’t know you entirely baited me into doing that.”

Ash peeked one eye open, biting back a smile. “Did you mind?”

Brand’s gaze softened, and he kissed Ash’s temple. “No.”

With a pleased sound, Ash tucked himself up and snuggled against Brand, holding himself dutifully still while Brand finished cleaning his hand, then taped a Band-Aid over the stinging spot where he’d bitten himself.

“I liked that,” Ash admitted. “I wish I could stay like that all the time. Like this all the time.”

“Alas, real life must be attended to.” Brand’s arms settled around Ash, warm and comforting. “But we may indulge more tonight, at the manor.”

“I’d like that.” Ash sighed. “I have to work now, don’t I?”

“You do.”

“Nnngh don’t make me.”

“You know that only entices me to make you.” Brand’s arms tightened around him, a tacit reminder of what that strength could do. “Be good, young Master. I’ll make it worth your while.”

Ash peeked at him again, and this time couldn’t restrain his smile. “Yeah?”

“Yes.”

Biting his lip, Ash murmured, “…stay?”

“Of course.”

And it was as simple as that. Even if they would have to work soon…Brand stayed, letting Ash be small and comfortable and tired and safe in his lap. Ash nearly drifted off, letting himself languish in the pleasant feeling of dozing against Brand, a faint scent he didn’t quite recognize drifting between them, a scent he thought might be…

He opened one eye. “Brand?”

Brand let out a lazy rumble. “Hm?”

“…how do you always have lube?”

A faint smirk curved Brand’s lips. “I have pockets, young Master.”

“Yeah, but…” Ash laughed. “Don’t say it. A proper valet is always prepared.”

With a low chuckle, Brand caught Ash’s chin in his fingertips. “Indeed,” he murmured, and drew Ash up to kiss him.

UNFORTUNATELY, THEY HAD TO PART before noon—when Ms. Vernon ducked in to confirm a question about next week’s schedule, and Brand had to very quickly dislodge his young Master, replace him in his chair, and reclaim his own seat.

He did, of course, have to preserve his young Master’s reputation.

When they were no longer so entangled, it was easier to focus on work—and Brand fixed his focus on sorting through out-of-date accounting records rather than on Ash. Yet he couldn’t help watching him from the corner of his eye; he didn’t even think Ashton realized how well he was settling into his role. His hands were more capable on the keyboard, rattling through emails and stock projections, checking things without needing to be told, gaze sharp as he took in information, asking more informed questions instead of sounding so lost. When the phone rang he actually answered it himself instead of using Brand as a buffer—and in this, Brand stood back and let his young Master have the reins.

And kept his quiet smile of pride to himself, lest he get his bloody damned head bitten off.

By the time afternoon sank in, though, Ash had slowed—drifting off more often, taking longer to notice he’d been spoken to and respond, pulling out of a lost daze and glancing at Brand as if just remembering he was there, before losing himself staring out the window again. Brand tried to keep his own focus, but with that silent, pained need tugging on him he could no more resist than the moth could resist the flame.

“Young Master.” He leaned against the arm of his chair, reaching across to cover Ash’s pale hands, resting lifeless on the keyboard. “You are thinking about your father, are you not?”

As shook himself, eyes clearing, and glanced at Brand with a wan smile. “Is it that obvious?”

“It is one of a small few options that could cause that expression.”

“It doesn’t matter.” Ash sighed, sagging back in his chair, rubbing at his temples. “Just wait, right? And hope. And grasp on to whatever little bits of happiness I can in between.” A smile tried to cross his lips, but faded before it had a chance to bloom, his mouth a bitter line. “Did you know most people with bone cancer don’t last longer than four years once it metastasizes? And he…” He thunked his head back against the back of the chair. “He’s been hiding it from me for three.”

Another thunk, head impacting against the leather—and then again and again, until Brand couldn’t take it anymore and he reached across to gather Ash against him. Ash tumbled out of his chair, falling into Brand, clutching at him with a hitching breath and burying his face in his throat.

“I want to be mad at him,” Ash whispered. “I want to be so mad at him, because if I’d known I wouldn’t have…wouldn’t have…”

“Wouldn’t have what?” Brand prompted gently, stroking over Ash’s back.

“Wasted so much,” Ash breathed, trembling with the edges of tears. “Wasted so much time…on things that don’t even matter.”

BRAND HELD ASHTON UNTIL HIS tremors quieted. Until they were calm and quiet against each other, and the need to comfort simply became comfortable. The sky was gray outside, the rain a thing of small tiny mirrors making refractions all down the glass office walls, and its whispered sound was a soothing thing, cocooning them in gentle quiet.

And Brand was content to stay like this, so long as he had his young Master safe in his arms. He couldn’t protect him from what was to come, or shield him from the pain it would cause.

But he could at least give him shelter and solace, if nothing else.

Yet his troubled thoughts lingered with him, as he breathed in Ash’s quiet scent that made him think of rainfall on city streets, as if the day itself was shivering with Ash’s silent grief, his essence permeated throughout the city and its towering concrete palaces. A decision weighed heavy inside him, waiting to be made if only he would look at it head on.

And he refused to be a coward about this.

He drew back to look down at Ash, curling his knuckles against his young Master’s cheek. “I would ask something of you, young Master.”

Ash looked up at him. Still so trusting, so innocent, looking at Brand with such utter faith. He didn’t understand how a young man could grow to adulthood and still be so sweet in his own way, but Brand hoped…

He hoped he never broke that.

“Sure,” Ash murmured. “Anything.”

“My contract does allow for a set number of personal days, does it not?”

Ash’s brows knitted quizzically. “I mean…yeah, everybody gets days off.”

Brand smiled dryly. “Do you think you would fall apart in my absence tomorrow?”

“I’ll find a way to manage,” Ash retorted with an echo of his usual merry sarcasm, wan and tired. “Where are you going?”

“To attend to a personal matter,” Brand deflected, and pressed his lips to Ash’s brow. “I should return by noon, if you have need of me. But for now…” He stood, drawing Ash with him, diverting any questions with distractions. “…for today only, perhaps we could leave the office early. I’ll make you a proper dinner instead of something cobbled together after midnight.”

“Sure,” Ash said, the unspoken question in his eyes.

But Brand only turned away, beginning to pack up his young Master’s things, grateful when Ashton didn’t ask.

Because Brand didn’t know if he could answer, right now.

Not yet.

ASH HAD LIED. HE HADN’T meant to, but Ash had most definitely lied.

Because he was falling apart in the office without Brand, and cursing himself with every new thing he fucked up.

It had only been a few hours. Brand had woken him, dressed him, fed him, and dropped him off at the office with a promise to be back by noon. Ash had shut himself in his office at the Tower to handle some paperwork, review a few contracts, sort out an issue with a supplier in Norway.

And promptly made a half-dozen mistakes within the first half hour.

He could do this. He was figuring his shit out and he didn’t even need Brand to explain these things anymore, but he’d gotten so used to Brand being his heated, overwhelming shadow that his absence left a void that seemed to suck all of Ash’s attention and capacity into it.

And he was just about ready to throw in the towel and give up until he could get his fucking attention span under control—before he sank the company with a goddamned lawsuit over the use of the Harrington Steel trademark on third-party-crafted products in foreign countries—when a polite rap came at the door. His heart jumped, then sank an instant later. Brand wouldn’t knock.

Ms. Vernon would, however, and she leaned in with a polite smile. “Ashton? Your friend Mr. Newcomb is here to see y—”

“No need for the fanfare, luvvie, I’ll show myself in,” Vic interrupted with an easygoing laugh, then slipped around Ms. Vernon into the office.

Vic was as dapper as the last time he and Ash had met up for lunch before Ash’s life had fallen apart—tall and rangy in a neat white shirt and deep red waistcoat and black slacks, his dark brown hair slicked back; even if he and Ash were the same age, he had that air of presence about him that Ash envied, that came from growing up knowing how to handle things Ash was only just beginning to take in hand. Vic looked like someone ready to step in and take over his father’s company, far more than Ash ever could.

But he’d get there one day, he thought.

And he felt far more capable now than he ever had before.

Though all he felt right now, was mortified as Vic waved Ms. Vernon off with an affable grin and crossed the office with his lazy swagger to drop a folded stack of newsprint on Ash’s desk. Ash frowned, unfolding the tabloid—only to flush fire-hot all the way down to his collarbones as he saw the headline splashed in giant letters.

 

Harrington Heir Has Harrowing Night – But Who’s His Handsome Hottie?

 

The photo taking up the entire front page of the gossip rag showed an intersection at night, the Mercedes, street lights shining down on its crumpled front end and smoke rising through the beams of golden illumination.

And Brand, on his knees, pulling Ash from the car with an expression of pure, raw terror and grief and hope on his face, transforming that handsome, stony visage into a minefield of chaotic emotions.

“Oh, God,” Ash groaned, covering his mouth with both hands. Oh fuck, that wasn’t good.

So why was he all lit up inside, fizzing like a corked bottle of champagne?

“Something you neglected to tell me?” Vic needled. “When were you going to call and tell your best friend you’d been in a near-fatal accident?”

“It wasn’t that bad!” Ash protested. “I just got tossed around a little. The bruises are fading already.”

“And you’re just like your old man.” Vic snorted, flinging himself with devil-may-care grace down into the chair Brand usually occupied. “You’d never have told me if not for that tabloid sheet.”

Ash winced. “I’ve worried people enough, don’t you think?”

“Seem to worry Brand quite a bit,” Vic said pointedly.

Cringing, Ash ducked his head. Oh fuck, if he could tell anyone he could tell Vic, but he didn’t even know what there was to tell and—

“Oh my fucking bloody God, Ash,” Vic said, sucking in a breath, staring at him. “You’re fucking him.”

Ash’s head whipped up. “What? No! I mean yes, but no, but—how did you know?!”

“It’s all over your face, you fucking lovelorn sod! And he’s no better, moping over you all over the front page news!” Vic let out a half-incredulous, half-horrified laugh. “Bloody hell, I wasn’t serious about him being your type!”

“I didn’t think he was either!” Ash flung back, then shrugged uncomfortably, looking away. Fuck, his head was going to explode, so much blood was rushing to his face. “And then things just…happened.”

“You do know how to get into some trouble.” Vic laughed again, then shook his head. “So it’s just…sex? Or are you all lovey-dovey, or…?”

“Or. Or is good.” Or was easier than trying to explain…any of this. Or the chaotic, conflicted feelings he had around Brand. “I…look, it’s new and complicated and I don’t get it myself. It’s sex, but it’s something else.”

“I’ll not pry. I’ve already heard enough about your sex life to tide me over for a lifetime,” Vic retorted dryly. “Bit long in the tooth, isn’t he?”

“He’s not old,” Ash shot back fiercely. “He’s just…Brand.”

Vic whistled, holding both hands up. “Sally withdrawn. I’m not going to war with you over your valet.”

“Nngh.” Ash fidgeted. “It’s not weird?”

“Oh it’s plenty bloody weird, but if it makes you happy, who cares?” Vic arched a pointed brow. “Does it make you happy?”

“I think so.” Biting at the inside of his lip, Ash leaned forward, folding his arms on the edge of the desk. “Everything’s just too much lately. With Dad, with figuring out how to run a company, with my mother suddenly being back in the country…everything’s just up in the air.” He shrugged. “Brand…nails things down. And makes all the noise quiet. It’s just not so hard to cope with things when he’s around. I don’t feel like I’m in freefall anymore. It’s like he caught me right before I hit the ground.”

“That’s not such a bad way to feel around someone then, innit?” Vic said with unaccustomed gentleness. “How are things with your Da, then?”

“I…” Ash stared down at his folded arms, throat tight. “Not good. He’s out of hospice but it’s just…relocation. He’s weak and not getting any better, and there’s nothing to be done for it.”

He was startled by Vic’s hand on his shoulder, squeezing gently. They’d been friends since a food fight in the cafeteria at their boarding school had pitted them against a group of older boys at the tender age of ten, but they’d always been the kind of friends who showed affection through sarcasm and shoving. Yet Vic was reaching out to him, offering that warmth, that solidarity…and it nearly broke him.

Especially when Vic murmured, “Hey. You’re gonna make it through this. I know it doesn’t feel that way right now, but you will.”

Ash tried to smile, but it came out watery, choked. “Thanks, Vic. I…I just…thanks.”

Anything Vic might have said was cut off as the door opened, and Brand quietly let himself in—only to pause, arching a brow as he saw Vic in his chair.

“Young Master Newcomb,” he said, bowing a touch stiffly. “It’s been some time.”

“Good to see you, Brand.” Vic levered smoothly to his feet, clapping Ash’s shoulder. “I was just visiting with our darling little Ashton here, finding out how he’s getting on with you.” His smile was bland, but there was a touch of subtle mischief there. “I’ll get out of your hair.”

Brand fixed Vic with a pointed, dry look that said he wasn’t fooling anyone, but kept his mouth shut. Ash sighed, dragging a hand over his face.

Sometimes, his life felt like a circus.

“I’ll catch you soon, Vic,” he called, as Vic swaggered for the door. “We’ll do lunch next week.”

“You are completely booked with investor lunches next week, young Master,” Brand interrupted.

“Fuck. Next month?”

“That may be possible.”

Vic laughed. “Just call me when you get a free minute.” He paused at the door, though, shoulder to shoulder with Brand, his smile fading, leaving him sober, studying Brand thoughtfully. “Take care of him,” he murmured.

“It would never cross my mind to do otherwise,” Brand responded.

And with a nod, Vic slipped out, leaving them alone.

Brand closed the door, cocking his head. “That was interesting.”

“Vic wanted to yell at me for not telling him about the accident.” Ash groaned, sank down in his seat, and weakly flicked his fingers at the newspaper. “We made the tabloids.”

Brand crossed to the desk—and that was when Ash noticed something off. A stiffness to his gait, listing to one side. Worry curled its fingers around his heart.

“Brand…?” he asked. “You’re limping.”

“It’s nothing,” Brand murmured. “I slept poorly on my back. It will straighten out shortly.” But he avoided Ash’s eyes, as he settled in his chair and picked up the newspaper. “Now let’s figure out how to do damage control about this.”

ASH HAD TO BUILD UP more stamina.

He used to stay awake for over forty-eight hours for weekend-long parties. Now he couldn’t even last until he made it home, passing out in the car every day while Brand drove. He was barely aware of Brand lifting him out of the SUV and carrying him inside; he only snuggled into him, and was out cold again within moments.

It was more mental and emotional than physical exhaustion, he knew. The stress and pressure every day, trying to take on so many large decisions that could break everything to pieces—compounded by drama after drama, exploding over him.

But he’d like to have a life, he thought, that didn’t involve spending every waking hour at the office and passing out before he even had a moment to cling to Brand for more than a single tired kiss. At least he usually woke to the comfort of Brand’s body curled around him, a heavy bulwark of muscle that seemed to shelter him from even the worst of his dreams.

Which was probably why the absence in the bed woke him, when he rolled over to burrow into Brand and Brand just…wasn’t there.

He blinked blearily, rubbing at his eyes and glancing at the clock. Oh. It was barely after ten PM; Brand was probably…doing Brand things. Tailoring more of Ash’s suits. Terrorizing the chef. Plotting more ways to make Ash regret actually brushing his own teeth instead of waiting for Brand to do it for him.

…actually, Brand probably would.

Still a fucking demon.

Snorting to himself, Ash stretched and yawned his way out of bed, scratching at his hair. He was hungry; he kept passing out without dinner. Maybe he could catch Brand in the kitchen and help him make something. Spend some actual time with him that wasn’t about work. He just…had this low and whispered need to know Brand, as more than just the packaged entirety of his kinks and a few little tidbits of his history.

He wanted to know the daily things that made him tick, and find out how it felt to just be in Brand’s presence, in ordinary and normal ways many people took for granted.

The kitchen was probably the best place to start looking. He padded through the night-dimmed hallways, biting back another yawn…and almost missing the sound of voices coming from the living room, drowned under his own sleepy breaths. He frowned, pausing in the hall. That was his Dad’s voice, and…Brand’s? Curious, he switched paths and ducked toward the living room, leaning around the open arched door.

His father was bundled into a corner of the long, low white leather couch, tucked warmly in several afghans; his mother curled against his side, one hand on his arm as she looked between him and Brand gravely. Brand rested on one knee before him as if swearing fealty, but his expression was strained, solemn. All of them were, speaking as though at a funeral.

Ash frowned, drifting a step forward. Was something wrong? “Dad?” he asked. “Bra—Forsythe…? What’s going on?”

Three heads came up toward him simultaneously. His mother smiled faintly; his father looked briefly guilty. Only Brand’s expression remained the same, as he rose to his feet and offered a quick bow toward Ash. Even if Brand’s eyes warmed subtly, it did nothing to ease the worry curdling in Ash’s gut.

“It seems you’ve hired a very stalwart and dedicated valet, son,” his father said, offering a wan smile.

Ash frowned. “Brand? What did you do?”

“It turns out I am a match,” Brand said.

“…what?” It took a moment to sink in, what he meant.

Brand’s bone marrow was a match for his father’s.

Ash stared. His heart felt like it was ripping, torn between relief, dismay, worry, fear, hope. “I…y-you…that’s where you went today? To get tested?”

“Yes,” Brand said simply. “Considering your father’s condition and the potential for further metastasis, Dr. Singh managed to expedite the lab results and called a short time ago. I am to begin donation procedures tomorrow, while your father begins high-intensity chemotherapy to prepare him for bone marrow replacement.”

“Oh,” Ash said numbly. “Oh.”

Brand had…he’d…he was going to hurt himself, just so Ash’s father would have a better chance to live…

“Why?” he whispered. “Why would you do that? You…you don’t even know my Dad…”

“I know you,” Brand replied softly—and there was no hiding the naked emotion in his voice, in the way he looked at Ash.

No. No, this…this felt wrong, it felt all wrong, and Ash wanted to be happy but he just…he just…

“Do what you want to do,” he bit off, then turned on his heel and flung himself from the room—ignoring Brand’s voice, rising after him, twin to his mother’s call of,

“Ash!”

BRAND STOOD HELPLESSLY IN THE living room of the Harrington estate and watched, for the second time, as Ash ran away from him.

“I,” he said, “am very confused as to what just happened.”

Amiko let out a low laugh, while Calvin Harrington just snorted. “Boy’s as contrary as I am, that’s what just happened,” Harrington said.

Brand frowned. “Does he not want you to find a transplant donor?”

“Oh, Mr. Forsythe.” Amiko sighed with a touch of amusement. “I’m sure he does, but it gets rather complicated when that donor is you, don’t you think?”

Brand glanced at Calvin Harrington uncertainly. He wasn’t sure how much the man knew of what Amiko Arakawa seemed to have gleaned of Brand’s relationship with their son, and he was hesitant to speak—until the elder Master Harrington made an amused, almost derisive sound.

“Don’t look at me like that. I’m not oblivious. You think any man’s going to offer to put himself in that kind of pain for me if he’s not in love with my son?”

“I’m not—” Brand protested, then stopped and made himself say more honestly, “I don’t know what I am.”

“Confused isn’t a bad way to be.” Harrington glanced at Amiko, gaze softening. “Hell, our confusions gave us Ash.”

“And years of trouble.” Amiko returned his gaze fondly, patting his arm, before offering Brand a smile. “Why are you still here, dear?”

“Perhaps because I am once again not certain if pursuing the young Master is wise.”

“Well you’re never going to find out why he’s so upset with you if you don’t, are you?” Amiko clucked her tongue. “Don’t be silly.”

Brand had never been called silly in his life. It was rather a new thing, but then so was standing here feeling as helpless as a boy half his age while he tried to sort out the conflicting mess of his feelings toward a boy half his age.

Somehow, Ashton Harrington had managed to turn his life halfway inside out and upside down while Brand was busy getting Ashton’s life back together.

He sighed, pushing his glasses up and rubbing his fingers against his eyelids. “I will make haste to do so, then,” he said, then bowed his head to Ash’s parents. “Thank you.”

“No,” Calvin Harrington said. “Don’t you ever thank me for anything again. I owe you more gratitude than I can say, for giving me a chance.”

Brand…Brand had no idea what to say to that. He wasn’t accustomed to being on the receiving end of such heartfelt sincerity.

And so he said nothing, and only turned from the room and set off in search of his confusing, frustrating, extremely indecipherable young lover.

HE FOUND ASH IN THE master suite, almost completely buried and invisible in the massive bed, if not for the silent jerk of his shoulders giving him away. He was crying, Brand realized as he stepped tentatively into the room—face buried in the pillows he clutched close and crying in silent, shaking gasps that wrenched at Brand’s heart.

He closed the door gingerly behind him, then crossed to settle on the edge of the bed. He wasn’t certain if his touch would be welcome, but after a moment he reached over and rested his hand lightly to Ash’s back.

“Young Master,” he murmured. “I didn’t mean to upset you. I’m not certain how I did.”

Ash pushed himself up, flinging a wet-eyed glare at Brand, his face flushed with crying, eyes and nose pink and swollen. “You went behind my back,” he shot back. “You couldn’t even tell me what you were going to do; you went behind my back! And now you’re…you’re sacrificing yourself when it might not even work…”

“But it might work, as well.” Brand met that red-rimmed gaze in confusion; wasn’t some chance better than none? “I’m sorry I did not tell you beforehand. I didn’t want to raise your hopes, only to crush them if I hadn’t been a match.”

“But why are you doing this?” Ash demanded. “It’s…it’s like you’re fucking furniture and you don’t even care if you get shoved around to suit everyone else’s needs!”

Brand shook his head. “Don’t you understand that I need to? I am not furniture. I made a conscious choice. This…this is what I need. For you, not for him. If I can’t…” Brand fought the urge to swear, struggling to articulate himself. These were things he had held inside him like close-kept secrets for so long he’d forgotten the words for them, like ancient stories lost to time. “If I can’t be for you, then I’m not…I am not anything, young Master.”

“Yes, you are!” Ash flared with such vehemence that he caught Brand off guard, striking his heart with an impact as sharp as a blow. “How can you not see that?”

While Brand stared at Ash, Ash pushed himself up to his knees, fumbling in pajamas several sizes too large for him and looking like nothing more than an upset little boy caught up in the fury and fire of such unchecked, raw, pure emotion. His lips trembled, as he glared up at Brand with his heart in his eyes and on his lips.

“You are the biggest asshole I’ve ever met,” Ash bit off. “But if not for you I’d have fallen apart and ruined everything in less than a day. And not just because you keep sacrificing yourself and putting me first. Because underneath that fucking asshole exterior you’re kind, you’re smart, you’re selfless, you’re gentle, you’re good. Fuck, you’re even fucking funny sometimes.” With a miserable little sound that trailed into a hiccup, Ash sniffled and scrubbed at his nose. “You’re someone to look up to. Someone I want to be proud of me for the things I’ve done. That kept me moving more than anything you did to put my needs ahead of your own.”

Brand felt as though he had swallowed his heart and lodged it in his throat. He could only look at Ashton—at this fierce, beautiful young man overflowing with so much emotion, and giving that emotion to him. Telling him he was worth that emotion, whether he chose to give up pieces of himself to Ashton or not. He tried to remember if anyone else had ever said such things to him.

And it ached inside, that he couldn’t recall a single instance.

“I…young Master, I…” He bowed his head—then leaned in, unable to resist his young Master’s magnetism, resting his brow to Ashton’s. “…Ash.”

Ash brought his hands up to curl against Brand’s throat, leaning into him hard. “I don’t want to lose my dad,” he whispered. “But I don’t want you to hurt yourself just to feel like you’re worth something to me, either.”

“What if I simply want to do it?” Brand asked—and after a moment of self-doubt, he enfolded Ash in his arms, pulling him in close. Where he belonged. “It…simply feels right. It feels like the right thing to do and since I am able, my conscience will allow little else. I can suffer some small few days of pain to give Mr. Harrington a longer lease on life.”

Lashes trembling, wide eyes searched Brand’s face. “If you’re really sure that’s what you want,” Ash said, voice choking. “Only if you’re really sure.”

“I am.”

Ash’s lovely face crumpled, his eyes welling with fresh tears. “Brand,” he breathed almost reverently—then drew him in and kissed him.

Brand almost didn’t feel worthy of the reverence with which Ashton kissed him—and yet he would never deny that affection, that warmth, that unshielded emotion that he cherished so deeply. He sank into Ash, taking that lovely mouth and making it his until Ash yielded for him in that perfect way that made his lips so soft, that made him so open, this waiting vessel begging to take Brand inside him.

And Brand answered that unspoken plea—delving past his lips, tasting his sweetness, drugging himself on those delicate, gasping reactions when Ash trembled for him like an ingénue every time, shivered himself into fragile ecstasy as he surrendered himself over to Brand. Brand burned with the pleasure of his young Master’s submission, ached with how small he felt beneath Brand’s touch, that slender body nearly vanishing into the grasp of Brand’s enfolding hands. When Ash kissed him this way, clutched at him this way, Brand wanted nothing more than to make his claim complete.

To mark Ashton in a way that would make him Brand’s forever, forbidden and secret yet undeniably there.

And so he parted himself from those sweet lips, even when they sought his again, so needy, so damp, begging in little kittenish mewls that set his blood aflame. He pressed his fingers to plush lips, caressing them, as he kissed a trail made of the luscious taste of skin and boyish sweat and the heat of desire, following its path down Ash’s jaw, his neck. His lovely boy rewarded him with a willingly bared throat, his pulse moving so hard against his skin—and fluttering against Brand’s mouth. He sucked the first sheen of perspiration from Ash’s skin, laved fragile flesh with licking tastes, drew that soft pulse into his mouth.

Then bit down, taking in the flavor of flesh until the flavor of flesh became the flavor of a bruise, of a mark, of complete and utter possession.

In their first meeting Ash had tried to hide a mark on his throat. A mark left by a dalliance, a meaningless fling, a nothing. Brand would leave his mark so that no other would eclipse it again, searing himself into his young Master’s flesh. Ash clutched at him, fingers grasping up weak, helpless handfuls of Brand’s sleeves, his very powerlessness only inflaming Brand more. As much as the way his young Master arched against him with his body shaking and his cock pressing hard between them; as much as the high, pleading, almost frightened cries of confused, vulnerable arousal that did terrible things to Brand. As much as the way those parted lips gasped out helpless sounds….

…but never once chose to say the word that would make that fear real, that would end this, that would tell Brand to stop.

No matter how he writhed, how he struggled, Ash held fast to him. No matter how deep Brand bit, how harsh his hands were as he stroked at his young Master’s flesh, tore his clothing open, left bruising, claiming marks of his fingers against ribs and hips and slim sweet thighs, Ash never stopped him.

He only pressed himself willingly into Brand, panting those delectable cries into his ear on wet breaths, as locked in this moment of desire as Brand himself.

Only when he came just short of tasting blood did he let go of that darkly bruised mark on Ash’s throat, standing out livid and promising against that pale skin, that racing and fluttering pulse. Almost hypnotized, Brand traced his fingers against that mark…then tumbled Ash back, spilling him to the bed in a tangle of disarrayed clothing and tangled, sweat-dampened hair.

Ash laid against the sheets, looking up at him with wet-sheened, wide eyes, their blue the darkness of the sea at night, swallowing Brand deep. How could his young Master look up at him with such trusting, needful eyes, and not understand how Brand would give anything for him? How could Ash lay beneath him so helplessly, so yieldingly, trusting that Brand would hurt him only as much as they both craved, and yet not see how Brand could devote himself to his service, to his needs, to his every trembling breath?

He pressed his fingertips to Ash’s lips again—and shuddered as that wet pink tongue darted out, tasting him. He trailed wet streaks down that lovely golden skin, making him glisten—then followed them with his mouth. One suckling, savoring kiss at a time, he tasted Ash: the peak of his chin, the hollow of his throat, the dip between his pectorals. The rise of his nipples, the arch of his ribs, the smooth sleek slope of his stomach, sucking in on a soft and pleasured gasp. The crest of his hip, as Brand drew his pajama pants down and threw them aside. The delicate and fragile crease where his thigh blended into his hip. The soft flesh just inside his knee.

The salt and musk taste of his cock, as Brand ran his tongue over its full length, then drew it into his mouth.

Ash’s fingers were soft and feverish in his hair, clutching, as his young Master moved beneath him—legs grasping at Brand’s shoulders, toes arching and curling, head tossing back and forth with little protesting mewls as Brand tasted every inch of him, felt the throb of his heartbeat resting on his tongue, drank every bitter-salt drop spilling from the tip of his cock. He teased those places he had learned could make his young Master scream, and relished the choked sounds as Ash struggled not to be heard by the entire house. Deeper he took Ash, deeper, until the round warm tip of his cock hit the back of Brand’s throat and he swallowed without thinking and Ash threw his head back and cried out Brand’s name, filling the room with his gasping, throaty voice. Brand felt that swelling, that pulse against his lips, that said this would be over too soon—and pulled back, stopping just short of giving his Master mercy.

Ash collapsed against the bed, looking up at him with soft, pleading keens, reaching for him with slender hands. Brand caught both those hands, kissing either palm, lingering…then transferred them both to one of his own, capturing them in his fingers, pushing them up over Ash’s head and pinning them to the bed. Ash looked a debauched and lovely mess, like this—his pajama shirt open and falling around him, his pants thrown away to leave him naked, his cock resting hard against his belly and dripping in clear, glistening streams, his hair a tangle and his eyes dilated and his nipples roused and hard and as pink as his flushed cheeks, his lips.

Brand had to close his eyes lest he do something he would regret, his cock surging painfully against his slacks. He couldn’t wait. Not this time, not now, not when Ash was twisting and whimpering and sliding his inner thighs against Brand’s hips. Brand spared only half a moment to find the bottle of lube inside his coat, to free himself from his slacks, to coat himself in a glistening layer of slickness that made his skin feel too tight, too hot.

Then he hooked his free hand under his young Master’s knee, lifting him up, spreading him, baring him. With sweet eagerness, Ash spread his thighs further, biting that beautifully lush lower lip. When Brand rolled his hips forward to press against that deliciously tight flesh, Ash’s lashes fluttered downward, his head tossing back on a gasp. A gasp that trailed into a cry, as Brand gave his strength into sinking into him; a cry echoed by a growl, a shudder, a panting exhalation Brand couldn’t hold back as he poured himself into his young Master’s body.

He was so tight—and so soft inside, and Brand realized that softness, that plushness wrapping around him and swallowing him deep like a sucking mouth was the swollen soreness of his young Master’s abused body, still tender inside from being taken before. Tension ripped through him, wild raw need demanding he take—but if he would control his young Master, he would control himself, and he drew in shallow, measured breaths as he made himself move slow. If only to torment himself; if only to torment his young Master, when each inch of heat and gripping tightness that joined them made Ash cry out in those soft, distressed sounds that were everything wrong and everything right about this.

He crushed down harder on Ash’s wrists, just to feel those delicate bones beneath his palm; he dug his fingers into the yielding flesh of his thigh for the pleasure of that lean sinew giving under his touch. The entire time he could never take his gaze from the tortured bliss on that pretty face, the way Ash gave himself so wholeheartedly, pain and fear knitting his brow and yet pleasure and desire flushing his cheeks and parting his lips until he was the perfect juxtaposition of the willing victim, the captured innocent.

Marked by that brand on his throat, as possessed as Brand could make him.

As Brand sank in fully, as he buried himself in that body that was far too small to take him, Ash let out a low, pleading whine and tugged at his wrists; his eyes opened to glazed, wet-sheened slits, looking up at Brand in soft entreaty. Brand could deny him nothing. He released Ash’s wrists. Soft fingers curled against his back, slipped into his hair. Ash drew him up to kiss him, as Brand enveloped him in his arms.

And together they moved, locked in a tangle of sparks made flesh and sweat-slicked skin and mating, melding mouths meeting in caressing tongues and bruise-tasting lips and the wet hot fire of joining bodies.

Brand couldn’t stop touching him, the damp silk of Ash’s skin under his palms, the way sleek sinew writhed and flexed each time Brand drew himself free only to sink deep again and again, chasing friction, chasing wildness, chasing the intimacy of seeking so far inside his young Master they might never be separated again. Ash was beautiful…and Brand worshipped him with his mouth, with his hands, with every inch of his body.

And when he lingered, toying his fingers over Ash’s cock…he felt like a man at prayer, as he devoured the way Ash sank into pleasure. The way his entire body moved with their rhythm, completely lost. The way his lips parted, sighing Brand’s name.

The way he went tight, so tight, as he gave in, fell apart, collapsed as Brand teased him to pieces.

The tight convulsions of his body were too much. That softness gripping around Brand, massaging and stroking his cock. His back arched. Fire bolted down his spine, and his blood became dark embers, his breaths cinders and ash.

And his young Master’s name was on his lips, whispered again and again and again, as he gave in service once more…and spilled his every desire into his young Master’s flesh.

THEY RESTED TOGETHER IN DROWSY silence, after Brand had tended to the marks of use and abuse on Ashton’s body, after he’d soothed the pain he’d left his young lover in. Something hovered in the air between them, something that made a third presence in the room, soft-spoken and whispering in things unsaid, things that need never be spoken.

And Brand was content.

He had just started to drift off, Ash tucked against his body with one hand across his chest, their bodies cooling together, when Ash let out a sigh.

“Thank you,” he murmured.

Brand opened his eyes, stirring drowsily to look down at him. “For what, young Master?”

Ash pressed a kiss to his shoulder. “For being everything you are.”

Brand smiled, drawing him closer and sinking down the headboard. “I’ve told you there is never any need, Ashton.”

“I know.”

And that was that, letting the silence reclaim them once more.

Yet as the night sank deeper, as Brand relaxed into the feeling of Ash’s fingers playing over his skin, Ash lifted his head, looking toward the window.

“It’s snowing,” he whispered.

Brand glanced up, watching as faint soft drifts of white fell down against the deep blue of night, wisping like feathers, like an ash cloud, like a drift of small and quiet dreams. Like whispers, little words tumbling down, sighing those things that still stood between them, delicate and soft.

“So it is,” he murmured, and pulled his young Master into a kiss.