CHAPTER TEN

IF VIC WASN’T CAREFUL, HE was going to key himself up into a hypertensive episode—and it would be entirely his own damned fault.

He felt like a teenager before junior prom, restless and pinballing around his apartment. He tried to read, tried to focus on work, tried to cook dinner, but he couldn’t focus on any one task when the only thing at the forefront of his mind was the minutes ticking down until Amani arrived.

He was being ridiculous. He was being childish. He was…he was…

He was acting like a man in love.

He stared at his drink, bourbon resting untouched, untasted on the table.

Love? No. Infatuation, maybe. Fascination with this addictive new experience. No matter how intimate these experiences were, penetrating deeper than flesh…what someone else might call love, he would call endorphins. He was riding this new high of discovery and pleasure, and once the newness wore off he’d settle into the familiar and be able to distance himself appropriately and remember his place in this agreement of theirs.

Yet when the chime warned him of the elevator approaching, he was on his feet in an instant, heart crashing against his ribs—and he had to physically restrain himself as the elevator doors opened, admitting Amani into the apartment. That flowing poise carried him forward as if gliding, as he stepped out of the elevator.

And stars trailed in his wake, snaking over the floor in liquid rivers.

That was how it looked at first glance, when underneath his coat he wore a belted caftan in a different style from his tunics, a wraparound robe in star-shimmer fabric like gossamer speckled in galaxies, the folds at the front parting so that every step offered glimpses of tawny, satin-sheened legs. The trailing hem of the robe streamed across the floor behind him. His hair was fully unbound today, falling in natural sweeps around his face, over his shoulders, down his back. Divine in every sense of the word, as if his next step would take him up into the sky, and Vic found himself completely at a loss for words, standing there with his blood moving in crashing crescendos.

Amani drifted toward him, then swayed to a lazy halt, tilting his head and looking up at me. “You seem surprised to see me, pet. Did you forget you’d asked me to come?”

“N-no—no, I just lost track of time.” Vic shook himself from his daze and stepped forward to take Amani’s cello case and his coat, glancing at the wall clock as he slipped the coat down slender arms barely visible through sheeting, translucent partial sleeves. “Do you always get out of class this late?”

“Tuesdays and Thursdays,” Amani answered, transferring a small, unlabeled paper shopping bag from one hand to the other to slip his arm out of the coat.

“And I thought I worked long nights.” Vic tossed the coat over the back of the sofa and set the cello down more carefully, glancing at the bag. “What’s in the bag?”

“Something for later.” With a keen, piercing look, one that seemed to promise everything that made Vic’s body burn, Amani set the bag down on the coffee table, then settled onto the sofa gracefully, shivering a little. “It’s freezing out. I think it might snow soon.”

Vic followed the tempting line of bare legs to the arch of Amani’s feet, and his simple leather strap sandals. “You always wear sandals. Aren’t you cold?”

“A little. But I like the cold.”

Vic hesitated, momentarily resisting an impulsive urge—then gave in and sank to one knee in front of Amani, cradling a slim ankle in his hands as he carefully began to work at the sandal straps. Easing them free, he set the sandal aside, then enveloped Amani’s slim foot in both his palms. His skin was cool against Vic’s, and he stroked slowly, trying to ease some warmth back into the flesh, savoring the quiet pleasure in just being able to do this for Amani. “Your toes are like ice.”

“Is that why you wanted me to come?” Soft, teasing, yet somehow more gentle than the typical tone of tart mockery. “To find out if you really do have a foot fetish?”

“No.” Vic smiled to himself as he used his thumbs to press at each delicate toe, coaxing circulation to increase. “This is me just wanting to touch you. Do something for you.” He glanced up at the pretty thing watching him so curiously. “I just…wanted to see you tonight. And if I’m being honest, I really would like to learn how to play the cello again.”

Amani hid a quiet laugh behind curled fingers. “Greedy. You want two for the price of one? Lessons in music and lessons in submission?”

“Maybe,” Vic murmured, letting his fingers slip upward, stroking over a sveltely slim calf toward his knee, “I just want to keep you here longer with me.”

Amani shifted his leg in Vic’s grip, almost enticing him to caress higher when his caftan fell aside to expose a luscious length of thigh just soft enough that flesh gave and yielded in delicious impressions as Vic followed his temptation, leaning in to press a kiss to one dusky knee.

“Then maybe,” Amani sighed, as he pressed his bare foot to the center of Vic’s chest and teasingly pushed him back, “I should make you practice naked. With a cock strap. Possibly anal beads.”

Vic fell still, looking up at Amani, eyes widening—yet no matter his surprise, his cock knew exactly how to react, already starting to course to life, hardening against his jeans. “That’s cruel.”

“Did you forget the dictionary definition of a sadist?”

“I might need you to remind me.” God, Amani was going to wreck him. He lowered his eyes, bending to catch his other foot, working his sandal off. “Cock strap, yes. Anal beads, no.”

Slim fingers feathered down his cheek, wove into his hair, and he leaned into the touch with a pleased sigh. “Never been curious how it feels inside, pet?”

“Curious,” he confessed, setting the sandal aside. “Not ready. Not yet. Maybe if you give me time to work up to it.”

“If that’s what you need.” Amani toyed a few locks of his hair between his fingers, then nodded toward the table. “Check the bag.”

He didn’t want to pull away from that touch—but for the moment curiosity won out over desire. He rocked back on his heels, leaning over to flick the top of the bag open and peer inside. A clear little glass bottle of lube was tangled with a string of spherical wooden beads of descending size; something that looked like a leather bracelet dangled with several slim, buckling straps, while another contraption consisted of two thick padded leather buckling cuffs joined by a short, gleaming silver rod. He lifted it out, frowning, turning it over.

“What is this?”

Amani reached out and plucked it from his hand. “A retractable, adjustable spreader bar.” He thumbed something on the side—and the metal rod in between practically shot out, extending a good three feet in length to either side; Vic jerked back with a startled sound, while Amani smiled sweetly. “For your posture,” he lilted. “You wanted to be cuffed, didn’t you?”

“I don’t understa—o-oh. Oh.”

“‘Oh.’” Leaning closer, Amani slipped the spreader bar over Vic’s head and gently pressed it to the back of his neck, caging him, drawing him forward—so Amani could kiss him, gracing him with soft pressure and that slick, teasing caress that made him moan and turn boneless every time. “You seem confused,” his Master whispered against his lips. “So strip, pet, and I’ll show you exactly how it works.”

When Amani pulled back, releasing him and setting the spreader bar aside, Vic nodded, swallowing past the lump in his throat, pulse rabbiting as he stood and shrugged out of his shirt, his jeans and boxer-briefs following moments later. There was something shiver-worthy about standing naked in front of Amani, being devoured by darkening cat’s eyes, taken in as if Amani was only trying to decide where he would taste best. The longer Amani watched him, the more Vic’s cock seemed to swell in anticipation, pulsing and breathing with a life of its own.

Amani took his time looking at Vic, expression lazily satisfied, pink tip of his tongue caught between his teeth—before he smiled and slipped to his feet, dipping into the bag to retrieve the smaller arrangement of straps. “Guess what this is for.”

“You…mentioned a cock strap, so I’m guessing…”

“Correct, pet.”

The back of Vic’s neck tingled. His fingers clenched, and he bowed his head. “…put it on me?”

“You are a good pet.” Amani swayed into him, bringing that sinful voice to his ear. The leather traced down his chest, over his stomach, making his body twitch and tighten and ripple in shudders; that new leather scent was thick between them, heavy and well-oiled. “I like when you ask me for things, sweet boy.”

Before Vic could reply, before he could even groan as that sweet boy threatened to undo him, he felt something butter-soft yet slightly stiff wrapping around the base of his cock, those delicate fingers grazing against him in shuddershock strokes of glancing contact, his knees buckling as the leather strap settled snugly in place around the base of his cock—tight, just tight enough to knock the breath from him, just tight enough for a pleasant burn of discomfort that didn’t quite wander into pain, forcing him to center the entirety of his awareness on that strap hugging his cock. The strap—and the warmth of Amani’s fingers cradling his balls, rolling them deftly, spinning his senses and tearing him apart with an unexpected rush of fever. He buckled, sagging forward, desperately reaching out to clutch at Amani’s shoulders, panting heavily through parted lips—but as quickly as the assault began, it ended as the slimmer straps snapped around his sac, isolating each testicle in a clinging grip and separating them, leaving him feeling…feeling…

He didn’t know how to describe it. It was almost a violation, to have his body toyed with this way—violation, desecration, shame, yet none of those words were right when the sensation tore all words from him to leave his voice nothing but a pleading groan, his hips shuddering with the urge to thrust in an instinctive need to relieve the sweetly piercing pain. Still Amani watched him with such languid calm, covering one of Vic’s hands against his shoulder and squeezing it.

“You know you won’t be able to come until I take this off?” Amani ran his fingertip lightly along the strap separating Vic’s balls, and Vic whimpered deep in his throat. “Not even if I tell you to.”

“Mnnh…I…” Fuck. His head was clouded, spinning, his pulse overtaking his thoughts, catching them up in its river and sweeping them away in a red torrent. “I…p-probably could…but it would hurt.”

“It would.” His Master swayed into him, lithe body pressing against him, pure molten warmth through the thin, gauzy caftan. “Do you want it to?”

“M-maybe.”

“Let’s find out.” All it took was a single finger against Vic’s chest to send him backward, uncoordinated but letting Amani press him back until the backs of his thighs hit the easy chair and he nearly fell into it, wincing as his cock and balls jounced against the straps, pulling at him in devilish and awful ways. Digging his fingers into the arms of the chair, he pressed himself back, taking a moment to just breathe, trying to hold out or he’d collapse. He could barely keep his eyes open when he just wanted to close them and writhe, caught in the grip of these torturous sensations—but he stared, as Amani sank smoothly to his knees before him.

No. That was wrong. His Master shouldn’t be kneeling, shouldn’t—

His mind slammed to a halt as Amani pressed his palms to the insides of Vic’s knees, and shoved his legs firmly apart.

He cried out. He couldn’t help himself; the sharp jerk on his inner thigh muscles shot straight up to his cock as he was spread open, hips jerking upward, cock leaking in dribbles and spurts of pre-come that felt like tiny dripping tongues running over his full length. He couldn’t breathe—and he bit down roughly on his lower lip to stifle another cry as padded leather snapped around one ankle, before the length of the bar forced his legs farther apart still as the other cuff enveloped his other ankle. His cock twitched, spasmed, and wrenching pain shot through him as for one explosive moment he hit that peak where he could have come without even touching himself, spontaneous and hot.

But the strap kept him locked in, choking it off, until he was caught on the verge and shaking hotly.

Amani straightened, rubbing his cheek to Vic’s inner thigh like the cat he was. “Is that too wide?” he asked gently.

“N-no…” Vic shook his head sharply, twisting his hips, nearly clawing furrows in the leather of the chair to keep from giving in to the roaring, powerful urge to touch himself, to rip the straps free, to ease the tension inside him when it would feel so good, so fucking good, but his Master hadn’t given him permission. “No, ah, it’s…i-it’s…just right…”

“Good.”

Amani flowed to his feet, fingertips just barely grazing the underside of Vic’s cock in passing, and Vic thrashed violently as that hard spurting charge of pressure came again, building hot only to stop, trapping him at this vicious peak. He hissed through his teeth, trying to get his breathing under control, watching through hazed eyes as Amani picked up his Ficker from its stand and settled it between Vic’s legs, holding it delicately.

“Take it,” he commanded.

Vic reached for the cello with trembling hands, leaned it against his chest, then curled in with a gasping moan and pressed his burning forehead to the cool wood of the upper bout as his cock dragged against the back of the cello’s body. He was defiling this instrument, dripping against the wood, smearing it with himself, but right now he couldn’t care, not when Amani was watching him, watching him suffer, watching him struggle to even coordinate himself and shift his fingers into the proper position on the cello’s neck. The bow, next, Amani easing it into his shaking fingers.

“Sit up straight,” he ordered, and Vic tensed his entire body, trying to comply. “Duo No. 1 for Two Cellos. Do you know it?”

“I…mmn.” Vic racked his hazed brain, coming up with half-remembered threads of melody, and nodded stiffly. “I’ve…I’ve heard it enough times to mimic it.”

“Very well, then.” Amani snapped his cello case open and lifted out his Stradivarius, sinking down with it in perfect posture as naturally as breathing, poised and lovely and gripping his cello between parted thighs, the caftan falling open to bare his legs completely and offer shadowed glimpses of soft, smooth fabric cupping thick hardness. Yet he remained calm and in control as he slipped its bow from its case, laid it against the cello’s strings, and met Vic’s eyes across the space between them.

“Play with me,” he whispered—then stroked the bow and made it sing.

For breathless moments Vic could only watch, listen, transfixed as that sound vibrated over him and immersed his body in whispers of audible touch. Yet even if he was falling apart, even if need had hold of his body in powerful jaws that bit down hard and held him trapped, those notes were an invitation, a command, a beckoning hand calling him to Amani, calling him to his song. And after a few more shaky inhalations, waiting, listening, catching the thread…

Vic gripped his bow more firmly, and set life to his strings.

Somehow, even with shaking fingers, he found the tempo, the thread. Somehow, even with every hollow vibration of the cello resonating up through his cock and into his belly to leave him weak, broken, liquid with desire, he fell into the alternating and melding and shifting and writhing harmony of notes. And somehow…somehow, even with his mind fogged and his heart racing and his senses high and spinning…

Somehow he played, and in each throbbing skein of music was rapture.

This wasn’t Victor alone, coaxing at the strings. This was every passion Amani exuded in that transfixing, arresting aura enveloping him to make him part of it, to pull him into the music and into the soul of the beautiful man commanding him without even touching him. Every stroke of Amani’s fingers to the strings was a stroke against Vic’s body, and as he quivered he gave it back to the cello to make it howl and cry for him, howl and cry for Amani, and every frenetic keen from the Stradivarius seemed to call his name and draw him in.

There was no duet. A duet was born of two, when this was somehow one—this chaotic gestalt energy, symphonic and catastrophic, lifting him up and crashing him down in this twined flight of music that rode the current between them to link them deeper and deeper. He lost breath, lost thought, lost everything but that synchronicity as they spun wilder and wilder, notes flowing faster and faster, fingers moving in tandem, racing them toward a higher and higher peak…

Until they crested, stopping simultaneously, notes fading into a ringing and expectant silence. Amani was panting, sweat misting his throat in a soft-slicked sheen, his eyes wild and lit from within with a burnished amber glow, hot and electric as lightning. Their eyes locked. Amani set his cello aside with slow deliberation, propping it against the couch. Silence held for one more moment. Then:

“Come here, sweet boy,” Amani whispered.

And Victor broke.

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ONE MORE MOMENT LONGER AND Amani might have come.

Not yet. Not yet, not when he wasn’t ready, not when he needed this feeling inside him to become flesh, to become motion, to become something deeper than words and song. And when Vic dropped his cello against its stand, snapped the spreader bar free from his ankle cuffs with shaky hands, and crashed into him, Amani locked his mouth to his pet’s and draped his arms around his neck and wrapped his thighs against that powerful waist as Vic bore down on him, crushing him to the sofa, burying him beneath his weight.

They clutched at each other, nails dragging, tongues twining and dipping and delving and tasting, wild wordless moans blending between them and melting into a single husky, hungry voice. Vic’s cock dragged against Amani’s inner thighs, his hips, so hot, so heavy, so thick, dripping against him and smearing his skin and his briefs with wetness, mimicking what he craved with every thrust and dragging against his own cock until it surged against the tight fabric trapping it. He bit madly at Vic’s mouth, teasing and tormenting it, catching up handfuls of tangled, sweat-darkened hair and dragging his pet in deep. Lust had a scent; lust had a taste; lust had a body, and that body was writhing between his thighs with such hardened perfection that Amani almost couldn’t stand to let him go.

But he managed to tear away, catching his breaths sharply, nipping Vic’s upper lip with a whisper of “Sweet boy” just to watch him arch, tremble, grit his teeth in near-pain while Amani dipped into the bag for the bottle of lube, flicked it open with his thumb, and coated his fingers. Even tangled with Vic he managed to drag his briefs down, flinging them aside, leaving him bared and spreading his legs underneath Vic, opening himself so he could tease his fingers against his own entrance, tossing his head back with jolts of pleasure as he spread that slickness against his skin, rubbed it in, slipped his fingers inside and gave himself a taste of what he wanted so much.

“Amani,” Vic breathed huskily, all the desperation in the world in his voice, in the dilated eyes that watched Amani with fixative hunger.

“Be…mmnh…be good for me, sweet boy,” Amani breathed, then cried out softly as he added a second finger, stretching himself, scissoring his fingers. “Don’t you want me to be ready for you?”

“Amani.” A snarl, gasping, fraying threads, and Amani reached up wit his other hand to trail his fingers over those snarling lips, dip inside, stroke and tease and trace his way downward to wrap against that straining throat, collar him just to see that burn build higher behind Vic’s eyes.

“Impatient.” He plunged his fingers into himself a few more times, lifting his hips on breathy gasps with each, then slipped them free, sinking to the sofa beneath Vic, stroking his inner thigh along his waist. Rock hard all over, wound so tight, ready to break. Lovely. “Beg me, sweet boy.”

“Please,” Vic ground out, body jerking forward sharply to grind his cock against Amani’s, friction burning deep, before he visibly forced himself to stillness. “Please.”

“Fuck me,” Amani whispered, and they came together like a storm.

Rough hands gripped Amani’s hips, lifted him up, spread him open just enough to give him a taste of the perfect pain he gave to Victor, before with a rasping groan Victor arched over him, power gathering in his body like a bullet waiting to fire, only to slam home deep as a gunshot as he pressed his thick cock-head against Amani’s body and drove in hard. Even slicked, even prepared, the splitting pain was overwhelming, pushing a scream from Amani’s throat as he dug his nails into Vic’s back and clung hard, lifting himself up into it, wrapping his legs around Vic’s waist. With rough, animalistic growls under his breath, Vic rocked his hips sharply, pushing deeper and deeper in short, forceful surges, filling Amani more and more and tearing the breath from his lungs.

He thought he would snap completely, when Vic settled home completely inside him, bringing their bodies flush, intimately locked. Vic shook so deeply his entire body was a beautiful seismic disaster, rolling and churning muscle moving against Amani with caged strength; he bowed his head, resting his brow to Amani’s chest, starting to pull back—but Amani curled a hand against the back of his neck, winding the other into his hair, pulling, holding, keeping.

And Vic froze, right in that perfect spot that set off little fires all over Amani’s body, flashpoint bursts that rocked him dizzily and left him panting, clinging, burying his face against that mess of tangled hair.

“Right there—right there, sweet boy. Stop,” he whispered, and when Vic started to move like some mindless animal driven beyond understanding, “Stop.” A sharper command, his fingers tighter in his hair, and Vic stilled with a softly broken snarl, barely held by Amani’s touch, his command. “Stay. Stay just like this.”

“Amani…” He breathed Amani’s name the same way he said Master, plea and passion in one, torment and fulfillment, and Amani’s entire body clenched, as something perfect locked in place inside him.

“Say it,” he gasped, pressing his lips to Vic’s hair, his temples, his cheeks, his throat. “Say my name that way again.”

Vic turned his head, huffing breaths hot as a beast’s against Amani’s ear, and then that grating, needy growl: “Amani.”

“Sweet boy.” Oh fuck. Oh fuck, this was too much, too perfect, and Amani eased his grasp on Vic’s hair, relaxing his leash, biting at his earlobe, drawing it into his mouth to suck and tease and flick before letting go. “Now…slow.” And obediently…obediently Vic began to move, slow as rolling waves, slow as drifting snow, deep as a sky you could reach and reach and reach for and never grasp, at once filling Amani and destroying him with this resonant ache that curled as deep and pulled as powerfully as the most compelling sonata. He found rhythm, found pleasure, found himself as he rose to meet Vic, moving with him again and again, purring his approval over and over for his sweet boy. “Just like that,” he gasped. “Slow…slow. Let me feel how deep you are.”

Vic’s only answer was a whisper of “Master—” and the full force of that strength pouring into Amani, tightly controlled and given to him in hot-penetrating surges, slipping and stroking and stretching and pushing deeper, deeper, until his body was sated in its fullness and cried out with loss each time Vic drew back. He arched against the sofa, luxuriant and luxuriating, losing himself where time had no meaning. Nothing mattered between them save this: the sound their bodies made as they met, and the harmony of their voices rising in needy, pleasured cries.

And when Vic touched him—when Vic curled a hand between them and stroked over his cock, shaping him with brutal hands turned to a gentle lover’s touch, Amani found his peak, found that one striking note whose frequency could tear him apart…and he shattered, Victor’s name on his lips as flesh locked and limbs tangled and he tightened against the slickness, the heaviness of Victor’s cock, gripping him and holding him deep as his pleasure poured from some deep place inside him to spill across Vic’s hand, drip between them, spill against their skin.

“Master,” Vic repeated, letting go of his cock to clutch at him harder, his voice choked, near a sob as he thrust harder, his hips moving in short jerking shudders, almost fighting the coils of tension keeping Amani locked and trembling and caught as hardness stirred and moved and stroked inside him in every tender, sensitive spot that made him scream. Fuck—fuck, Vic was about to—if Amani didn’t—

He started to reach between them, searching for the snaps on the cock strap, but he was too late. Vic abruptly stiffened, his entire body bucking, his head throwing back on a roar that sounded half agony, half pure bliss as a flux of pure strength rocked down his body, slammed into Amani, expelled in wet, molten-hot splashes surging against his inner walls and trickling over his skin, filling him with slickness.

They held together like that for a moment, trembling, frozen…before Vic’s eyes rolled back with a moan, and he sank down heavily atop Amani, almost collapsing, his weight dead and limp. Amani cursed softly, cupping Vic’s cheeks, searching over his face as he stroked his thumbs along his jaw.

“Vic. Vic,” he rasped, then wrapped his arms around his shoulders, rubbing his cheek to damp hair. “Come back to me. Breathe. You’re okay. Breathe.”

Vic stirred with a broken moan, then mumbled and turned his head, burying his face against Amani’s throat. “Fuck. Fuck fuck fuck,” he straggled out weakly. “I think…I ripped my cock.”

Amani blinked.

Blinked again.

Then burst into soundless laughter, only to hiss and stop as Vic stiffened and his cock shifted inside, twinging and prodding a little too deep for now.

Taking a steadying breath, Amani murmured, “I doubt it’s ripped.”

“Sprained?” Vic offered. “Broken. Do they make casts for your cock?”

“Vic.” Amani sighed with fond exasperation. “Get out of me so I can make sure you’re okay.”

“…I don’t know if I can move.”

“Here.” Amani grasped Vic’s hips and braced himself, steeling for the pain as he shifted underneath Vic, sliding himself upward and carefully pulling himself off his cock. It grated inside, but he held back his cry, forcing out through his teeth, “Come on. I’ve…ah, fuck…I’ve got you.”

Vic closed his eyes tight, spine fluxing and chest thrusting against Amani as he writhed. “Sweet hot rutabaga mother fucker!” he gasped out, then slumped atop Amani in a heaving heap.”

“I’m trying very hard not to laugh at that.” Struggling to catch his own breath again, Amani stroked Vic’s hair back and kissed his brow. “Are you okay? Seriously?”

“Yes, just…” Vic was still shuddering, little involuntary twitches all over his skin. “Ah fuck, get that thing off me.”

“Just a second.” Amani slipped a hand down between them, delicately finding the straps; contact couldn’t be avoided, and he was as careful as he could be in unsnapping them and working them free, but still Vic jerked and flinched and whimpered, his arms locking around Amani and holding crushingly tight. Once he’d found the last snap, Amani dropped the cock strap aside and slipped his arms around Vic’s shoulders, stroking the back of his neck. “Shhh. The soreness will fade when you aren’t so sensitive.” He nuzzled into his hair, just cradling him close. “Maybe we should hold off on tomorrow night’s session.”

“Not a chance,” Vic mumbled into his chest, muffled. “If you don’t want to have sex, just come spend time with me. We can go to a film.”

“The ten thousand dollar theatre ticket?”

“I should hope it’s a very good film.” Vic pushed himself up a little, then, looking over his shoulder, his expression hazed and slack and tired. “I think I ruined that Ficker,” he muttered, and Amani chuckled tiredly.

“Come on,” he said, and thumped his shoulder. “Find me a polish cloth, and I’ll make sure it’s okay.”

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AMANI DIDN’T REMEMBER FALLING ASLEEP.

He remembered cleaning Vic’s cello, carefully wiping any bodily fluids away before they could ruin the wood, using a polish cloth to preserve the shine. He remembered breaking down his own cello to remove the endpin and pack it away, along with the bow. He remembered leaving his caftan on the floor to sink against Vic, naked and tangled on the sofa, resting between Vic’s legs and against his chest, cooling sweat under a knitted throw, no need for words in a communal and comfortable silence.

But he didn’t remember falling asleep until he was waking up, melted and warm and lazy tucked up against Vic’s chest and in Vic’s arms.

He made a drowsy sound, yawning and peering one eye open, expecting to see Vic passed out with his head against the arm of the sofa—but he was awake, eyes open, fixed somewhere distant beyond the glass walls, the set of his mouth drawn and thoughtful. Amani lingered on him for a moment, then braced a hand against his stomach and pushed himself up, rubbing at his eyes.

“Hey,” he said softly. “Sorry. I didn’t mean to sleep here.”

Vic’s gaze cleared, shifting to Amani, and he offered a small smile. “It’s okay.”

“What time is it?”

“Four AM, give or take.”

Amani pressed a hand to his chest. “Oh, thank goodness.” He wouldn’t miss his morning classes. “Why are you awake?”

“I’m not good at sleeping, really.” Vic trailed his fingers against a few loose locks of Amani’s hair, teasing against his skin feather-light as he brushed them back, regarding him with quiet winter-blue eyes. “Do you want an early breakfast? I can make something.”

Amani half-smiled, shifting to sit up and free Vic from his weight, pulling the throw up to wrap it around his naked body. “No five-star chefs to cook every meal for you?”

“Nope.” Vic levered himself up and dipped to retrieve his boxer-briefs and jeans, stepping into them fluidly—though there was no hiding the wince as he pulled them up over his cock, and he left the button and zipper undone, denim hanging rakishly below the band of his underwear. “I actually don’t like having people in here. So I learned to cook for myself. I’m not half bad at it.”

“You don’t like having people here, but you keep begging me to come back?”

“It’s different, with you.” Vic flashed him a lazy smile as he padded to the kitchen island. “I just…need somewhere to be tired without people judging me or looking for my weaknesses.” His voice drifted back as he opened the fridge and standing pantry, peering inside. “You actually invite me to be weak. You make it safe—which makes it safe for you to be here.”

Amani curled up comfortably with his shoulder propped against the back of the couch and his legs tucked against him, watching Vic. “I can understand that.”

“Do you have anywhere like that?”

“Not really.” He toyed with the fringes of the throw, playing them between his fingers. “I think that place, for me, would be less a location and more a person.”

Vic paused, just looking at Amani across the space between them. “Have you ever found that person, then?”

“I don’t know,” Amani admitted.

Pregnant silences. They had a talent for pregnant silences, full of questions neither of them would ask—and once again it was Amani’s turn to look away first, pressing his hand over the hollow, quietly hurting spot on his chest where his heart should be.

After a moment, Vic asked, “Vegetarian all right?” the very softness of his voice seeming to offer an apology for that weighted stillness, followed by a gentle laugh. “I don’t think the Kobe beef I have in the freezer is halal.”

Amani flushed. When he’d said small things could be powerful in the right situation, he’d never thought it would be him lingering with warmth on the fact that this obnoxiously rich not-so-straight boy paid enough attention to him to remember these things and ask him. “Nothing with animal fat?”

He picked a bottle of glimmering golden oil up off the counter. “One hundred percent vegetable oil, nothing with a pulse involved.” He set the bottle down, then, and retrieved a large wok-style skillet from under the counter. “Breakfast vegetable stir fry work for you? There’s a grocery store in the basement, too, if you want to go shopping so I can make something you’d like.”

“No.” Amani shook his head, and peeked back through the curtain of his hair to watch Vic move around the kitchen with casual ease. “Stir fry sounds perfect.”

l

THEY ATE AT THE COFFEE table in companionable silence, nothing but the clink of forks and the sound of tea cups setting against the glass. As Amani finished the last bite of his surprisingly delicious peppered stir fry and cradled his tea mug between his hands, though, he caught Vic watching him, toying with his fork, and smiled.

“What?”

“Nothing.” Vic laughed sheepishly, dropping the fork and rubbing the back of his neck. “I was just wondering…”

“Out with it, pet.”

“I…do you get anything out of this?” Vic asked, almost shyly. “Other than not having to worry about tuition.”

Amani wrinkled his brows. “What do you mean?”

“This is…” Vic gestured between them. “It’s a life-changing experience, for me. The colors of the world have changed, etcetera, etcetera.” A self-mocking smile broke through. “I’m trying not to be too flowery and poetic. But I just…I wonder if being with me like this, having me as your pet, fulfills anything for you. Or if you’re just doing your job and teaching me.”

Reaching out to set his tea mug on the coffee table, Amani considered that, turning it over carefully as he pulled the throw tighter around himself, against a hint of morning chill. “I’ve never been with one submissive twice. Never even seen one submissive twice,” he finally said. “So it’s different. When you take the time to know each other. To…to learn each other. To learn together. It’s different in here. New.” He clenched his fist and pressed it over his chest, his heart. “So yes,” he admitted, and he would never tell the nerve it took to say that, to keep his voice from shaking. “I do find something in this.”

Vic regarded him for long moments, winter-blue eyes searching, before his smile warmed, slow and deep. “Good,” he said, and stood to gather the dishes.

Amani held his tongue, just letting his gaze follow Vic’s easy, confident movements. In some ways it startled him, even after their last few sessions, how easily someone like Vic fell into submission, embracing it as if he’d been born to it…but in other ways it made him so lovely to watch, someone that one day some Dominant would want to capture and keep.

Amani only hoped they weren’t the type to try to subjugate and break, when Vic—for all his contradictions—was perfect just as he was.

But as Vic was piling the dishes in the sink, his phone buzzed from his jeans, He retrieved it from his pocket, tossing Amani a smile from across the room. “Sorry,” he said, then swiped the call. “Hey.” But he’d hardly spoken before he went pale, raking a hand back through his hair, his voice turning harsh. “At this time of morning? Fuck.” He paused, white-knuckling the phone, pacing, then asked, “Did you call the police?” Another pause, a frustrated sound, a curse, and he was already moving quickly across the room, bending to grab his T-shirt and drag it on around the phone, dropping down to stuff his feet into his shoes. “No. No, I’ll be there as soon as I can. Call me as soon as you hear anything.”

Then he was dropping the phone, yanking his laces together, before standing and shoving his phone in his pocket while Amani watched with wide eyes.

“Is everything all right?”

Vic jerked as if just remembering he was there, then plastered on a forced, but not unkind smile, his eyes a little too wide, stark with worry. “I’m sorry. I have to go,” he said, leaning over to grab his coat from where it was crumpled on the other sofa. “And I can’t wait to ask for permission.”

“No, that—that sounds serious, of course you should…Vic?”

He broke off as Vic leaned in, tangling his fingers in Amani’s hair, bending over him and pressing his lips to his brow. He just…stayed there like that for several precious moments, melting his warmth into Amani’s skin, soothing the bite of worry that had started to creep up, before he pulled back with a gentler smile.

“Hey. Don’t worry.” He traced his thumb along the edge of Amani’s eye softly, then drew back, pulling on his coat. “I’ll see you tonight. Make yourself more tea if you’d like. You can stay as long as you want.”

Then he was gone, a jingle of keys and the rush of the elevator doors and a soft chime.

Then nothing, and Amani was alone.