It was dark when Jamie woke, the unfamiliar room cloaked in that cold, gloomy greyness that shrouded the end of each day in wintertime. Panic fleetingly seized his chest, before the heavy arm around his waist grounded him, a reminder that his days of waking up broken and bleeding on piss-stained mattresses were behind him.

Not that Marc’s bed was anything like the grubby squats Jamie dreamed of when his imagination took him on a bullshit trip down memory lane. The sheets were fresh and clean, and the pillows smelled of new cotton. With Marc’s arm clamped around him, Jamie was like a pig in shit. The only downside was the knowledge that Marc never used his bed because he was so goddamn lonely—an emotion Jamie understood all too well.

Wincing, Jamie shifted onto his back, and clutched Marc’s arm close, like he’d drown without it. His shoulder throbbed and his ribs ached, but the pain was a dull roar compared to the previous day when it had hurt so bad he’d hardly been able stand. Jamie pictured himself tumbling from the ladder and cringed as an errant wave of hopelessness crashed over him. Fucking idiot. Maybe fighting the junk was a waste of time. At least when he was trashed he didn’t spend hours scrubbing symmetrical patterns into a shelf that had been spotless for days.

Like he’d heard the devil dancing through Jamie’s brain, Marc took a sharp breath and opened his eyes, instantly alert, like he’d never been asleep at all. “What’s the matter?”

“Nothing.”

“Right.”

Jamie couldn’t bear Marc’s empathy just yet. He threw the duvet back and moved as fast as his sore ribs would allow, throwing his leg over Marc’s waist and straddling him, pressing their foreheads together with enough force to make his ears ache. “You worry too much.”

“Not on purpose.” If Jamie sitting on top of him perturbed Marc, it didn’t show. “I have my own vices.”

“Yeah? Like what? Apart from fretting like an old woman.”

Marc shifted. The movement was infinitesimal, and as Jamie’s cock rose in response to Marc’s hard length digging into his back, no words were needed. Their lips met as easily as breathing, and every ounce of lingering pain in Jamie’s body faded like a setting sun. He braced himself on Marc’s strong chest, tangling his fingers in the dark hair that dusted the rounded muscle, grinding down as their sweet kiss deepened to become something Jamie couldn’t control.

It was Marc’s turn to move like a snake. He grabbed Jamie and flipped them over, carefully, before covering him with his body, weighing him down with such consuming pressure that Jamie wanted to weep. They kissed again, but not like before. No longer soft, comforting, and kind, every contact was feverish and frantic, and Jamie couldn’t tell where he ended and Marc began, whose gasps were whose, and if the desperate groans piercing the air had fallen from his own lips.

Later, Jamie wouldn’t be able to pinpoint when they’d both wound up naked again, his only lasting recollection the mind-blowing sensation of Marc’s cock rubbing against his, the long-forgotten friction wiping his mind of everything but how it felt to truly touch another man—a man he wanted to touch, and a man he wanted—needed—to put hands on him. Because fuck he needed Marc’s hands on him. His heated palms and gently gripping fingers. His scuffed skin and blunt nails. Jamie craved it all so hard he whimpered like a dying dog when Marc eventually pulled away. “Please . . . Marc, I—”

“Shh.” Marc leaned across him and opened a drawer in the bedside table. A bottle of lube landed on Jamie’s chest, and then Marc lay down beside him, and pulled Jamie on top of him once more. “Take it,” he said.

“Take what?”

Marc guided Jamie’s hand to where their cocks rubbed together, dragging breath from Jamie’s throat in stuttered gasps. “Whatever you need. Go on . . . don’t be shy.”

Jamie hadn’t been shy about sex since he was thirteen, but Zac aside, he couldn’t remember a time when a man had lain before him and given himself to Jamie to do with as he pleased. With johns, even pleasuring himself had been triggered by a loaded command.

Perhaps sensing that Jamie needed a push, Marc took his own hands out of the equation and folded them behind his head. Jamie gazed down at him, heart thumping. He wanted Marc more than he’d ever wanted anyone—anything—but the fear of what would come after paralysed him. Marc wouldn’t use him and throw him away, but how long would it be before he realised that fucking and dusting shelves was all Jamie was good for? That once they were both sated and covered in come, Jamie had nothing left to give?

“Jamie.”

There was no demand in how Marc said Jamie’s name, but it travelled through Jamie in ways he couldn’t describe, drawing his gaze back to Marc’s face, reclaiming it from the vacant fog it had drifted to. Jamie sucked in a painful breath and fell headfirst into Marc’s bottomless stare. In it, he found warmth and trust—he found faith—and his hand moved to the bottle of lube of its own accord.

“Yeah,” Marc said lowly, his voice hardly more than a growl. “Take what you want. You’re safe with me, Jamie.”

That, Jamie had never doubted. Even on the plane, trapped in his own ridiculous fears thousands of feet above the Atlantic, Jamie’s heart had found solace in Marc’s healing hands. And now it was his turn to show Marc all they could be, with sure swift strokes and squeezing fingers. He rubbed lube into his palm and then gripped their cocks. The answering jolt of pleasure was instant, and he threw his head back, thrusting his hips forward, absorbing Marc’s gravelly moan.

His hand was barely big enough to hold them both, and the lube made his fingers slippery, but what he lacked in grip he made up for with a devilish twisting rhythm that made his own eyes roll, and Marc arch his spine from the bed. Jamie longed to take Marc in his mouth, but a selfish need to see Marc’s face as he came was too strong. And Marc didn’t keep him waiting. His dick was bigger than Jamie’s—thicker, longer—and it pulsed in Jamie’s hand, sending hot spurts of come over his fingers a split second before Marc choked out a warning.

Jamie watched Marc jerk and twitch, his skin flushed and shiny, the tendons in his neck straining so tight they would surely snap. Marc’s gasping groans sent shockwaves through Jamie, and the sight of his own dick still sliding in and out of the sticky mess sent him tumbling over the edge. He came with a yell, shooting hard, his hips thrusting brutally until his dick couldn’t take any more.

He fell onto Marc’s chest, his lungs screaming for air, and clung to Marc like he could tie him down to the world and keep them both together, here, like this. Marc’s arms closed, vicelike, around Jamie and crushed him in the kind of embrace Jamie had only dreamed of before. He wove his fingers into Jamie’s sweat-dampened hair and whispered nonsense in Jamie’s ear until Jamie came back to the present.

“It’s okay. I’ve got you. It’s okay.”

It wasn’t a sentiment that Jamie particularly needed to hear—at least, he thought he hadn’t, until the weight of Marc’s murmured words seeped into him and his pulse slowed to a tattoo that he could handle. Zac had told him about this the night before Jamie had nearly got him killed—how being with Liam had been so wonderful it frightened him. That he’d felt so safe and loved that he’d honestly believed it wasn’t real. Zac had been broken that night, convinced that he’d lost Liam for good, but Jamie wasn’t broken now, just afraid . . . afraid that the sensation of utter bliss he felt in Marc’s arms couldn’t be real. “Marc—”

“Shh. I’m not going anywhere, and neither are you for a while. Relax, okay? Stop thinking . . . just feel, mate. You’re safe with me.”

Safe. It wasn’t a word that Jamie had much experience with, especially naked in a bed with a bloke who could likely hold him down with one hand. But Marc wasn’t a liar. And despite the chaos in Jamie’s soul, he did feel safe with Marc, even though it could only be a matter of time before things went to shit.

They always did.

* * *

But when Jamie woke the following morning, the hammer had yet to fall. Marc’s bed felt right, and his warm body when Jamie rolled over and cuddled against his side felt even better.

Marc chuckled as Jamie entangled their legs and pushed his face against Marc’s ribs. “Sleep well?”

“I think so. What time is it?”

“Half six.”

“In the morning?”

“Yup.”

“Jesus.” Jamie glanced at the window to see the lightening sky. “I don’t remember falling asleep.”

“Really? ’Cause you passed out on me after— Well, you know. I thought I’d done you in.”

Jamie smirked, hoping that there was enough darkness to hide the heat in his cheeks. “I didn’t mean to crash on you. I was kind of hoping for another round.”

“Yeah?” Marc trailed his fingers down Jamie’s bare back. “I was worried that you were freaking out. You’re restless when you sleep, like you’ve got something on your mind.”

“Nothing that I haven’t told you,” Jamie said with a shiver. “Sorry if I fucked up your night. Didn’t kick you, did I?”

“Nah, you just mumbled a lot, but you settled when I came back to bed.”

“You left me?” Jamie’s heart stuttered. “Why?”

“Because I can’t sleep for eighteen hours at a time. We slept all day, remember?”

“Oh. Sorry.” Jamie started to sit up, embarrassment licking the contented bubble he’d woken up in. “I should probably get going—”

Marc’s arms pinned Jamie in place, and his lips silenced him, cutting dead any thoughts of leaving the bed. Jamie pulled on Marc’s shoulders, craving Marc’s weight on him, pressing down on him, digging into him in all the right spots, but Marc didn’t budge, and it didn’t take long for Jamie’s frustration to boil over. Marc’s touch made him crazy, and he wanted more, however he could get it.

He scrambled over Marc, straddling him in much the same way as he had the night before, but this time Marc stilled, his heated gaze clouding over.

Jamie gripped his face. “What? What is it?”

Marc blinked. “What?”

“Where did you go?”

“I’m right here.”

But Marc’s eyes remained distant. Jamie kissed him softly, his heart thumping as panic roared in his ears. He doesn’t want me. And who could blame him? Marc—

“Jamie.”

It was Jamie’s turn to blink. The shadows darkening Marc’s face had faded, like they’d never been there at all. Marc kissed him, his cock digging into Jamie’s back. “I’m here.”

Jamie believed him. How could he not? And the thought of riding Marc’s dick sent bolts of white-hot electricity up his spine. Marc’s hands cupped his arse, squeezing and kneading, and Jamie shoved wildly at Marc’s waistband, desperate for them to be bare to each other again.

But when Marc was finally naked, he made no move to drive his cock inside Jamie. Instead, he grabbed Jamie’s hips and scooted him up to his chest. “Wanna fuck my mouth?”

Jamie froze. There was almost nothing he wanted more than to slide his dick between Marc’s lips and thrust it in and out, chasing the ecstasy that only another man’s throat could bring, but—but he didn’t know how. Zac had sucked him off in the years that they’d been close, but always on his terms, and no john had ever been interested in giving Jamie pleasure.

A flicker of comprehension crossed Marc’s face, and Jamie shuddered. How did Marc always seem to know what he was thinking? He dropped his head and closed his eyes, but Marc cupped his chin and forced him to look up and meet his gaze.

“What is it?”

Jamie shrugged, and a twinge in his shoulder reminded him how they’d ended up in bed together in the first place. Marc’s eyes widened with obvious concern and the crazy heat between them dropped.

Marc sat up, steadying Jamie with his strong hands until he was safely in his lap. “Shit. I’m sorry. Too busy acting like a horny teenager to ask how you are. Does it still hurt?”

“I don’t mind you acting like a horny teenager. I like it.”

“As much as I like hearing that, don’t deflect the question.”

Damn. Doctor perception sucked, and Jamie couldn’t deny the flare of pain that was blooming in his torso now that his morning wood was running for the hills. “It doesn’t hurt like yesterday, and it’s nothing like the day before. I think it’s nearly fixed.”

Marc laughed. “It’s not fixed. But I’m glad it feels better. Maybe we should lay off the manhandling for a while, though, eh?”

Jamie didn’t know what to say. The idea of clambering off Marc and seeking out his clothes seemed like the end of the world, but he’d have to do it eventually, and his seesawing thought pattern was usually a clear sign that he needed to go to a meeting.

With a sigh, Jamie pressed his lips to Marc’s in a reasonably chaste kiss. “I’d better go.”

“I don’t want you to.”

“I know, but real life is calling, isn’t it?”

“Seems that way.”

“Shame.” Marc’s dick was still hard against Jamie’s back, but as Jamie glanced over his shoulder, something else caught his attention—Marc’s leg, or rather, the space where it had once been. Jamie had seen the scars before—on his knees in the kitchen—but in all the excitement of getting off, he hadn’t got a close look at Marc’s stump.

And last night, he’d got the distinct impression that Marc didn’t want him to—not like now, as he was lying so relaxed and easy with Jamie on top of him. Jamie stared back at Marc, hoping he’d decipher the unspoken question in his eyes as easily as he seemed to decipher everything else. But for once Marc didn’t appear to read Jamie’s mind. Or maybe he did, and he wanted Jamie to vocalise the fact that he wanted to gawp at the one thing that made Marc dig his teeth into his bottom lip.

Jamie swiped at Marc’s lip with his thumb. “I don’t have to . . . if you don’t want me to see.”

“What good would that do? It’s been gone three years, and you’ve seen the rest of me.”

Jamie slid off Marc and hovered his hand over Marc’s stump. “I want to touch it.”

“Why?”

“Because it’s part of you. Does it hurt?”

“Not right now. I haven’t had my prosthesis on for twenty-four hours, so it’s feeling pretty chill.”

“That’s good, right? To give it a break?”

Marc grimaced slightly. “Yes and no. Without the pressure of the prosthesis, I sometimes forget that the leg is gone. Then I get phantom limb pain, and that’s worse than any other shit I’ve ever been through, because it fucks with my head.”

Finally, something Jamie understood. “I went cold turkey in rehab and I went so bananas with it I thought my teeth were itching. I still get that when I get antsy.”

“Is that why you count when you clean, and tap your fingers? To distract yourself?”

“Maybe, but it’s reassurance too. When I was little, I kissed the boy next door seven days in a row, and my mum told me that she’d whip me seven times if I did it again. For years I believed that six was my lucky number . . . I’ll always be hooked on something, I guess.”

Marc pushed Jamie’s hand onto his stump. “Yeah, but if you can quit heroin, you can quit anything. Why not the counting? Do you think bad stuff will happen if you don’t do it?”

“Stop doctoring me.” Jamie’s hand touched the folded skin below Marc’s knee, and he sucked in a breath. “Oh wow . . . it doesn’t feel like I thought it would.”

“I’m going to take that as a good thing and leave it at that.”

“I’m serious. It’s like a snake.”

“Scaly?” Marc’s eyebrows shot up.

“No! I mean that I expected it to feel, I don’t know, cold maybe? Like a foot does sometimes. Like I thought snakes did until I held Marvin’s python.”

Marc’s eyebrows shifted impossibly higher, but Jamie ignored the innuendo and pressed his lips to Marc’s stump. Marc’s answering shiver seeped into him, and the temptation to linger on Marc’s skin was strong, but what was left of Jamie’s battered soul told him that it was time to go.

He took a final breath of all that was Marc and then slid from the bed in search of his clothes.

“Kitchen,” Marc supplied helpfully. “I washed them.”

“Aren’t you a regular mother hen? I do wash my shit at home, you know.”

“I know, but I was doing my own and figured that you might not want to put clothes back on that had been on the bathroom floor all night.”

He wasn’t wrong, but Jamie wasn’t in the mood to confess to more ridiculous ticks. Still naked, he left the room and padded to the kitchen. His jeans, T-shirt, socks, and boxers were draped on a rail set up in front of the stove. He snagged his underwear. It was deliciously warm, his socks too, and there wasn’t much in the world that made him happier, except—

No. He had to go, or he never would, and being with Marc would become something else that he couldn’t live without.