He held me tight, his hand cupping my head, the other on my ass, and suddenly, my heartbeat surged with a terrifying realization. We weren’t touching because we were going to have sex again. We were both sated and mellow from the rough coupling outside earlier that day. We were making out before we fell asleep, just to be close to each other.
As if we were in love.
14
His pleasure
Vincent
I knew I was beyond help when I found myself standing in the kitchen, with Michael in my arms, both of us fully clothed, kissing. Tongues caressing, his hands in my hair, his taste and scent all around me and in me. Just kissing.
He hummed and nuzzled my beard.
“Can we go outside for a while? I want to move. I know the morning run should be enough, but…”
The report had been good for the past few days. We were completely alone. So, I nodded. “Yeah. You know self-defense, Mikey?” A random idea popped into my head.
“Not really, no.”
“Then c’mon.”
We paused on the pier. The wide flat surface was good enough for what I had in mind. I showed him a few tricks, just basics, nothing with guns or knives, and he tried to mimic me, alternately concentrating and laughing. He was quick to learn. I didn’t teach him expecting he’d need it anytime soon—that was my job. The crash course was a way to lift his mood, kill some time, and maybe even calm his frail nerves.
He managed to hit my neck just right, and I dutifully pretended to crumble. He jumped and fisted the air. Adorable.
“Yes!” he cried out. “An hour every day, and I’ll be Karate Kid.”
I chuckled. “Sure, Mikey. Whatever you want.”
“Seriously. This is fun. I want to do it again.”
“We can. No problem. Now dinner. It’ll be dark in an hour.”
He leaned in and pecked my lips, his grin wide and happy.
“Thank you. My turn to cook.”
I took a shower, and when I was done, Michael had dinner ready. We still had enough supplies, but it was getting boring now we’d run out of fresh food. Michael was inventive, though. Tonight, he’d made chili con carne from frozen meat and canned beans with some ready-made pasta sauce. It was delicious. However, I noticed he was careful with what he ate, taking only a little of the chili, his plate half-full of mostly cooked potatoes. He’s made the food for you, not for himself. He’s making sure you can fuck him whenever you want.
“Michael, eat properly, please.”
He met my eyes, all guileless innocence, pretending not to understand. I added more chili to his plate.
“Eat, boy.”
He looked down, smiling softly at the food.
“Yes, Daddy.”
We ate in silence for a while. I had questions I’d been wanting to ask, but was unsure about how much stress it would cause him. I weighed the pros and cons of the conversation and decided to broach the subject. He’d been happy today, calmer than I’d ever seen him. I was going to ruin his mood, but my need to protect him prevailed.
“Mikey.”
“Hm?” he mumbled around a mouthful.
“I read the FBI report before we left New Haven.”
He lifted his gaze from his plate. “Yeah?”
“You never gave them any suspects.”
“Because I seriously don’t know.” His tone became immediately annoyed. “I can’t just point at a person in my life and say yeah, they might’ve hired a killer to take me out. That’s ridiculous.”
“No one ever came to mind, you say.”
His eyes flashed. “Of course, they had. Just about every single person I know. I’m so fucking paranoid it has even occurred to me Uncle Bart might be fed up with me enough to kill me.”
“That’s very unlikely.” I ignored his frustration and tried to stay calm. I knew how he felt. The trauma of being exposed to something like this was going to affect him for a long time after it was all over. “Who else?” I kept my voice steady, even though inside, I ached for him.
“I have no idea who could be capable of such a thing. None.”
“During the past couple of years, who has been angry with you?”
“Uncle Bart.” Michael’s shoulders slumped. “Too many times to count.”
“Besides Bartholomew Bourgeon, who loves you like a parent and has no financial motive. Think, Mikey. I want you to remember conflicts, threats, angry rants, late-night phone calls. Who?”
He rolled his eyes. “Multiple exes. One of Uncle Bart’s CFOs. My personal trainer. Bunch of other people I can’t remember.”
“Tell me about the CFO first.”
“It was nothing. I