Boy Issues - Morticia Knight Page 0,37

quiet in case Donovan had fallen asleep already. The sound of Donovan’s soft snores greeted him as he entered the room. Silver smiled as he shucked off his sweats. He’d go ahead and allow himself a moment of satisfaction that he’d done good, that he’d cared for his boy well, and that he was now safely tucked away in bed.

Right as Silver was drifting off, small whimpers tore him from sleep, and he took a moment to ground himself. He sat up and waited. The whimpers turned to moans, and Silver couldn’t stand it. He made his way to Donovan, then kneeled next to the bed and petted Donovan’s head, shushing him.

Donovan’s eyes fluttered open, the irises barely able to be seen from the dim glow of the bulb hanging over the landing. His eyes remained hooded, as if he hadn’t completely wakened.

Silver didn’t stop stroking his hair. “It’s okay to ask for what you need. I’m here for you.”

Donovan’s lip trembled. “Don’t make me ask. Not this time.”

Silver pressed a kiss to Donovan’s temple. “Okay. Not this time.”

He lifted the covers then climbed in next to Donovan, and he rolled over so Silver could spoon his back. Silver slid his arm beneath Donovan’s then pressed his palm to Donovan’s chest. The thump of Donovan’s heart beat beneath his hand, too fast, as if whatever had invaded his dreams had ensnared him and wouldn’t let go.

At last, the beating slowed to an easy rhythm and Silver exhaled, only then realizing how tense he’d become, how deeply the demons plaguing Donovan’s unconscious mind had filled him with worry. Silver rubbed his nose against Donovan’s bare shoulder, inhaling him in, the combination of Silver’s own soap and Donovan’s natural essence instilling in him a strange comfort.

Yes, there was more to Donovan’s persona than his meticulously crafted playboy façade that he hid behind a mask of fear. And it would be Silver’s pleasure to rip that mask away to discover the beautiful boy beneath.

Chapter Eleven

For a moment, Donovan couldn’t figure out where the hell he was. Then Silver’s impressive boner nestled against his crack gave him a joyful reminder. Silver had one muscular thigh draped over Donovan’s legs and a hand resting on Donovan’s hip. He’d never wanted someone’s fingers wrapped around his morning wood as much as he did at that moment.

But he’d be…a good boy?

What the hell was that all about? It almost seemed like Silver got off on power play, or something of that nature. Maybe he was a Dom or Sir, yet Donovan hadn’t noticed anything in Silver’s simple apartment that indicated anything such as that—no leather gear in his closet or floggers under the couch.

Then again, Silver might just do that sort of thing at a club every once in a while to get his kicks. Since trusting in and allowing his hook ups to have control had always been on Donovan’s hell to the no list, getting into that scene had never been up for consideration.

But with Silver…

So far, the little hints of dominance from Silver had been a turn on, but more than that, they’d helped Donovan to relax. He hadn’t realized how tightly wound up he was all the time. Even when he was supposedly enjoying himself, it felt as if he was on the verge of snapping at any minute. Yet, as the evening had worn on the night before, he’d found himself becoming calmer. Something about Silver’s presence, the strong and steady way he communicated, left Donovan feeling as though he was safe in his hands.

Donovan snorted. What the hell was wrong with him? Feeling something didn’t make it real. He’d felt safe and cared for by his father when he was a kid, and that hadn’t turned out quite the way he’d expected. On the other hand, his brother had always been a little shit, so no surprises there.

But where did that leave him with Silver?

He shoved all the soul-searching drivel to the side. He knew it would probably never work out between him and Silver anyway. Either he’d get sick of him or Donovan would come to the likely conclusion that he’d have to bow to his father’s will in a year.

It couldn’t hurt to try though, could it? He’d certainly never learned his lesson when it came to his designs. He’d tried and tried and tried, no matter how many times he’d been shot down. Then even after giving up for years, Lance had approached him at Spago’s, and asked