Hagen turned on his coffee machine to make another espresso, the third cup he only allowed himself on the weekends. While he waited for it to be ready, the sharp aroma already reaching his nose and making his mouth water, he flipped through the mail he'd just picked up from his mailbox. He had to call his snow removal guy, he reminded himself. The man had done a shoddy job with the last snowstorm, coming in later than agreed and only removing snow from part of his driveway rather than the whole thing, which Hagen paid him for.

He set aside two bills, but then his eye caught an envelope with a familiar logo. The return address was a simple PO Box in Los Angeles, but he would know that logo anywhere. Two handcuffs and a crop, but designed in such a subtle way you had to know what it was to recognize it. It was the logo of The Basement, the BDSM club he'd belonged to for years before he'd moved to the East Coast. He was still an honorary member and tried to visit whenever he was back in California. But why were they mailing him?

He opened the envelope with a letter opener, then took out a glossy invitation. His mouth curled up in a smile as he read it. It was their twenty-fifth anniversary, and to celebrate, The Basement was organizing a charity event on Valentine’s Day. How special was that?

He glanced through the list of events, his smile broadening as he saw what was on the program. Various demonstrations were scheduled, from shibari to flogging and even some CBT—there was something for everyone. Personally, he wasn't a fan of cock and ball torture, but he'd known quite a few subs who got off on it. Literally. Well, after their Dom allowed them to.

Hmm, they also offered a charity auction, auctioning off both Doms and subs, with the proceeds benefitting an LGBT charity. He would've loved to contribute to that. Not by auctioning himself off, as his skills were too limited for most subs. A flash of sadness clouded his face. Maybe that's why his two boys had left him, because he was not only boring, but too careful, too limited. He'd tried broadening his horizons, had experimented with various forms of pain administration and bondage, even humiliation play, but it just wasn't for him. In the end, he guessed he hadn't offered his boys enough to stay.

On second thought, it was better he wouldn't be able to attend. It would be kind of sad and embarrassing to return without a new boy by his side. How could he explain to them he'd never even tried it again after leaving L.A.? He didn't even belong to a club here, hadn't thought it wise. They were more conservative here, he'd argued with himself. Plus, the thought of having to prove himself all over again…he was too old for that.

In L.A., they knew him. The Basement had been his second home, and he'd felt confident there. Sure, that confidence had gotten a good knock-down after Jake had left him, but he'd still dared to show his face. But now, three years later? He couldn't imagine walking back in alone. No, it was better he couldn't go. He'd send them a check to support the charity, and that was it.

Hagen finished his coffee, rinsing the cup before putting it in the dishwasher. He'd promised himself he'd explore that used bookstore he'd spotted in the next town over, and there was no time like the present. He'd driven past it countless times on his way back from the college, but he'd never stopped by. Lynn had said it was a lot bigger than it looked from the front, and that they had a great selection of history books. Not that he needed more books, mind you, but he'd just added a new bookcase to his already vast collection, and it looked a little empty.

The roads were all cleared of snow by now, three days after the last storm, leaving only the landscape as a white reminder. There was more snow to come, undoubtedly, seeing as how it was only early January. Last year, the snow hadn't fully melted until the end of April, and if he'd known that before accepting his job, he would've never moved here.

Then he grimaced. Who was he kidding? He would've taken any job to leave L.A., and he damn well knew it. The fact that he happened to get full tenure at a prestigious college known for its high-ranking history program had only sweetened the deal.

Admittedly, the small towns around the college were gorgeous, often with a historic center that dated back a few centuries. He loved the many eighteenth- and early nineteenth-century houses that people kept with pride, immaculately painted porches with the Stars and Stripes flying high and proud. History hung in the air here, much more than in L.A., and of course, Boston was paradise for him. If it wasn’t for the winters, he’d be happy here. Probably.

A few cars occupied the parking lot in front of the bookstore, but Hagen easily found a spot. He had to put his weight against the pale-yellow door to open it, and when he did, an old-fashioned bell jingled, announcing his entrance. He quickly closed the door behind him, not wanting to let the cold in. The smell of books hit him, and he breathed it in. There was nothing like it, was there, that combination of paper, dust, maybe even a little mold, and ink. No matter if they were old or new, Hagen loved the way books smelled. He’d even bought himself a scented candle that promised to smell like books, but it didn't come anywhere close to the real thing.

"Welcome to Book Alcove," a voice said, and Hagen had to look around to trace its origin. There, he’d found him, an older gentleman looking at him over the rim of his reading glasses as he scribbled something in a book with a pencil. "Let me know if we can help you find anything."

"Thank you," Hagen said, appreciating the hands-off attitude. There were few things he hated more than pushy salespeople, especially in a bookstore. Didn't those people realize that the more they left him alone, the more books he would buy?

He did a quick inventory of the store, his heart speeding up when he saw Lynn had been right. It did extend way farther into the back than he had expected. It was also well-organized, the store divided into main sections for fiction and nonfiction, and then organized by topic. The history section was easy to spot, indicated by a large sign.

He glanced at the subsections, smiling happily when he saw how well thought out the topics were. The fact that they had a separate section for Second World War history made his day. It only took minutes before he was lost in his own world, browsing through book after book. He found a first edition of a book on Colditz, the German POW camp for foreign military officers. He was fascinated by its rich history of escape attempts, one ballsier than the next. Quite a few officers had died while trying to escape, but it hadn’t scared them off or prevented them from trying.

He set it aside, as well as a history of the Dutch resistance and a book on how the English had used subterfuge in the war to play the Germans and fool them. By the time he'd gathered six books, the muscles in his left arm were protesting from the effort of holding them, so he figured he'd better start a pile at the front.

He walked to the front of the store, where someone was ringing up a customer. When the store clerk spoke, Hagen recognized the voice, and a quick look confirmed his suspicion. It was Baxter Lafelle, his sleepy student. Hagen frowned, not expecting to find him working in a bookstore. He was almost too pretty for it, and Hagen immediately criticized himself for that incredibly gay and somewhat shallow remark. Baxter was pretty, though, even if he still looked pale and a bit unkempt.

Hagen liked his hair, dark brown waves that were always messy, like someone had just pulled it while fucking him. That, of course, was a completely inappropriate thing to think about a student, but Hagen couldn't help it. Back in the day, he'd loved to hold his boys’ hair while fucking their asses or mouths, always making sure they looked well-used afterward. It was kind of a pride thing, to make sure everyone could see they were claimed.

Baxter's chocolate-brown eyes widened when he recognized Hagen, and he stuttered while finishing with the other customer. Hagen waited till the man was walking away before speaking.

"Mr. Lafelle," he said. "Or should I call you Baxter here?" he asked, pointing at Baxter's name tag.

Baxter looked a tad flustered as he answered. "Baxter is fine. Or, whatever you want. Sir."

Oh, that last word got Hagen's attention. It fell so beautifully off his lips, as if it was the most natural thing in the world. What a shame the kid was only trying to be polite rather than deliberately appealing to Hagen's deeper instincts.

"Baxter it is," he said, admonishing himself to keep his thoughts PG. It had to be the invitation from The Basement that had triggered his Dom to come back to life all of a sudden, he decided. Well, he'd have to go back to sleep, because Hagen was done with that part of his life.

"Can I help you, sir?" Baxter asked.

"Yes. Yes, you can. I'm still browsing and would like to start a pile here, if that's okay?"

Baxter's mouth twitched, and his eyes sparkled with something, but other than that, he kept his face blank. "Absolutely, sir. Contrary to what some people may think, as a bookstore we do actually like to sell books. Browse as much as you want."

Oh, he was a cheeky little bugger, wasn't he? Still, Hagen couldn't deny he had a point. "I’m relieved to hear that," he said dryly.

Baxter reached for his books. "We have little cubicles here to my right where you can store books you find while you’re still shopping. I'll put your name on one, so you can add books at any time. You can buy whichever you want today, and we’ll hold the rest for you for as long as two weeks before we re-shelve them."

Hagen watched as Baxter stacked his books in a little cubicle and wrote his name and the date on a paper, which he stuck in a name holder. It was a simple but effective system, Hagen thought. And aimed at getting customers to shop as long as they wanted to. Smart.

"Is there anything else I can help you with? Sir?"

Hagen could think of some things, but none that were even remotely appropriate for the situation. "I was wondering where you kept biographies. Are they all put together in a biography section or lumped in with the various subsections?"

"Most of them are in our biography section, but some accidentally get shelved with the subsections. Not all of my coworkers are equally detail-oriented when it comes to shelving," Baxter said, and Hagen couldn't explain why he found that last remark so incredibly sexy, but he did.

"You wouldn't happen to know if you have any non-standard World War II biographies in your collection, would you?" Hagen asked, knowing how useless his question was even while asking it.

Most used bookstores had a database of books nowadays, which was a blessing as much as a curse. It meant they could search for any specific book you were looking for, but browsing had gotten a hell of a lot more complicated, as they couldn't give you an idea of what they had. As soon as stores started scanning books rather than manually adding them or simply paying attention when shelving them, the art of knowing what kind of books they had had gotten lost.

But much to his surprise, Baxter nodded, his face lighting up. "We have quite a few, sir. I know we have a first-hand account of an American private who fought from the beaches of Normandy all the way to Berlin. That's not one I've seen pop up before. And we also have a unique book in our antique room, the personal account of a Canadian soldier who helped liberate the Netherlands. It's got his own personal pictures and everything."

Hagen couldn't hide his shock at Baxter's suggestions, both because they sounded like the exact type of books he was looking for, but even more because Baxter had known what was standard and what wasn’t.

"How did you know those books would appeal to me?" he asked.

Baxter fidgeted with his hands, squirming under Hagen's look, so he softened his eyes. "It wasn't criticism," he said. "I was genuinely surprised at how well you assessed my interests."

Baxter looked up again to meet his eyes. "Oh, okay. Well, I love history, obviously, since I’m taking your class, and so I always try to keep track of what we have in the store in those sections. A lot of what we have is pretty standard stuff that I’ve seen many times over the years, but these seemed unique to me. And since you’re specialized in military history, it wasn't hard to figure out those would appeal to you."

Hagen was shocked. It sounded logical and reasonable, and yet it somehow felt intimate, as if Baxter knew him, which was ridiculous. "How long have you worked here?"

Baxter frowned as he appeared to be thinking. "I think for five years now? I only work on Saturdays, though, and the occasional evening shift."

That was a lot longer than Hagen had expected, and it somehow annoyed him, that Baxter managed to surprise him yet again. It was a long time for a guy his age to be working at the same place, especially considering it was a part-time job that couldn't pay much.

"Would you like me to show you where you can find those books?" Baxter asked, insecurity lacing his voice.

Hagen realized he must've been staring at him and not with the friendliest expression. That was not the proper way to thank him for what was extraordinary service nowadays. "Thank you, Baxter. I'd appreciate that."

Some of the tension on Baxter's face disappeared, and he quickly nodded before leading the way to the back of the store. Hagen couldn't resist a peek at his body, especially that firm, round ass that was so tightly packed into those faded jeans. He'd need new ones soon, Hagen thought, the fabric so thin at places it threatened to rip. But boy, had he chosen them well, perfectly sculpted around his legs and that very attractive bubble butt.

Then he scolded himself for allowing his thoughts to go there. What the hell was wrong with him? Baxter was a student, even if he was a legal adult by many years. He was still sixteen years Hagen's junior, and a student. He should repeat that last part to himself a few times, just to make it clear to his brain. Or his body. Or whatever the hell inside him caused this weird fascination with Baxter Lafelle.

With a move that showed years of experience, Baxter unfolded a stepping stool with one hand, then climbed on top of it to reach for a book on the top shelf. He bent over to offer it to Hagen.

"This is that biography of the American private, sir," he said.

Hagen took the book from him, their hands brushing against each other. Baxter jerked back, the motion so sudden it made the stool wobble. Hagen's hand shot out to grab him by his wrist.

"Careful now," he said. "I don't want you to fall."

He wasn't sure why his voice had deepened the way it had, and even less sure why his hand was still coiled around Baxter's wrist, but he didn't want to let go just yet. Baxter licked his lips, a gesture that made Hagen's cock perk up, and then lowered his eyes.

"Thank you, sir."

Oh god. What the hell was going on? Hagen scolded himself as he let go of Baxter. That stupid invitation from The Basement had messed with his head. He'd been fine for over three years, so why did he now have this strange urge to take Baxter home and bring him to his knees? It made zero sense.

Student, he reminded himself once again. Stu-dent.