Come in From the Cold

by Tymber Dalton

  Except Douglas had known that he needed to move forward with something he’d thought about his first night in the dorm after having spent an hour that afternoon in silent, solitary prayer at the university’s chapel, as if God had spoken to him personally.

  He knew he could never love someone else the way he’d loved Connor. He had pledged his heart and soul to Connor and had meant every word of it, even if it meant it damned himself.

  The next best thing he could do was pledge the rest of his life to God and spend it trying to make something right for Connor.

  That would count for something, right?

  Thus he’d entered the seminary after obtaining his undergrad degree in only three years.

  Douglas’ parents had moved to Georgia for his dad’s job six months after he’d left for college, so he didn’t find out about Connor’s mother dying until three weeks after it’d happened. Back then, they didn’t have cell phones, no laptops or e-mail, the way they did now. Even if they had, he knew Connor couldn’t afford anything like that due to limited funds.

  When Douglas had tried to call Connor’s house after finding out about his mom’s death, he’d discovered the number had been disconnected.

  A door quietly shut in Douglas’ heart as he’d accepted that part of his life was over forever.

  Then he’d met Mackie.

  * * * *

  Douglas met Mackenzie Lee Wallace at the start of his third semester in Texas. She shared a philosophy class with him, and they could spend countless hours talking and debating and discussing. The cute, snarky, blue-eyed atheist didn’t mind that he was a devout Catholic who had plans to become a priest.

  In some ways, it simplified things between them. They could spend time together caring for each other and know that it wouldn’t go any farther than philia, or perhaps even agape. She never pressed him for sex, and he didn’t mind cuddling with her, even if he took plenty of cold showers later.

  Another heart he’d broken.

  Another vow made upon a tearful good-bye, only this time with him the one extracting the promise from her.

  She’d been the only other person who knew about what he’d felt for and shared with Connor, the things the two of them had done together as teenaged boys when pain and pleasure became inextricably entwined in Douglas’ brain and heart and soul, the only other person besides Connor who knew he was bi and kinky.

  The only other person who knew why kneeling in prayer was such a familiar comfort to him, because in some ways it reminded him of the mental peace that had always settled over him when kneeling at Connor’s feet. Especially when wrapped in Connor’s ropes.

  The only other person who knew he considered the vow he’d pledged to Connor at their parting as the kind of common-law marriage that, at the time, was the only type they could have had, legally or spiritually.

  Damn sure not in the eyes of the Church.

  The person who’d even tried to convince Douglas to return to Florida, to seek out Connor and reunite with him instead of becoming a priest, even though Douglas knew by then that she was in love with him.

  He’d loved her, too.

  He’d worried about Mackie when she did date, what few times she met guys she felt like going out with, because she apparently gravitated toward men who were the polar opposite of him. She’d even joked once that if she couldn’t have him, she needed someone not like him.

  But while they were inseparable as friends for those three years, even sharing an apartment for a while, they’d never slept together sexually and she never slept with anyone else. He’d felt thankful that she didn’t treat his determination to become a priest as a “challenge accepted” kind of situation for her, trying to make him give in to her. He’d had to distance himself from more than one coed over the course of his college years for just that reason.

  He and Mackie had mostly maintained contact throughout the years, more infrequently as she had relationships, jobs, and life in general to distract her from him.

  When Mackie showed up at his door that night it’d been over three years since he’d last heard from her. The older female Lyft driver who’d brought Mackie from the bus station carried her bags to the door for her, then waited there with her until Douglas had answered and it was clear he wouldn’t turn her away.

  And, apparently, only after she was satisfied a priest would be someone safe to leave Mackie with.

  Once he’d shoved back his homicidal rage and wanting to go kill the fucker Mackie just escaped from, and processed her tearful confession, Douglas had quietly and immediately accepted his fate. She’d refused to let him take her to the hospital out of fear her ex would discover her location. He’d had to help her undress and climb into the shower because she could barely move her left arm at that point. She’d been wearing the same clothes for over two days, the clothes she’d had on when her ex attacked her before he left to go drinking with buddies.

  The purple and black bruises on her body had enraged Douglas, especially the ones around her stomach and kidneys, where he’d kicked her with his steel-toe work boots.

  She’d packed what she could, well aware she’d lose anything else, and the Uber driver who’d picked her up had loaded the suitcases for her and waited with her at the bus station because he’d felt sorry for her and worried when she refused to let him drive her to a hospital, or at least a police station.

  The last time she’d called the cops on her ex for hitting her, the good ole boys had let him off with a warning. They’d no sooner pulled out of their driveway than he’d told her she’d disappear if she ever did that again.

  The night before she showed up, Douglas had lain in bed, sleepless, the rosary she’d given him wrapped around his right hand the way he frequently slept with it.

  Earlier that day, a series of three songs in a row played on the radio and had triggered nut-punched-painful memories of Connor—“21 Summer” by Brothers Osborne, “Objects in the Rear View Mirror May Appear Closer Than They Are” by Meat Loaf, and “Beam Me Up” by Pink.

  Douglas always aurally self-flagellated with his iPod playlist when he went through his daily workout, music that emotionally scoured him raw as he relished the pain he inflicted upon himself with weights or cardio or reps on a machine, or even getting out and running the sidewalks in the neighborhood, trying to escape from his thoughts, his memories.

  Those three songs were included on one such playlist.

  Except this had played on his car radio as he’d been returning to the rectory from an inner-city after-school program, where he helped with tutoring.

  It’d hit him so hard he pulled over to cry during the third song.

  As if God was forcing him to feel and think about something other than just surviving another day.

  The next morning, as he’d stood in his kitchen and listened to the radio while he waited for his coffee to brew, he’d cried again over the holy trinity of “Take Me to Church” by Hozier, “Heaven Can Wait” by Meat Loaf, and “My Little Secret,” the Cavo version.

  In theory, three songs that shouldn’t be played anywhere together outside his own iPod, because the station’s usual programming was modern pop and rock. It was unusual to hear them play an older song, unless it was a classic like Stairway to Heaven.

  Then “You’re My Home” by Billy Joel swept in behind that trifecta to take his legs out from under him. He’d literally slid to the floor, curled up in a ball, and wrapped his arms around his knees as he’d sobbed.

  That was the second-suckiest morning Mass he’d ever given, he was pretty sure—the second-to-last Mass he’d ever led, even though he hadn’t known it at the time. Fortunately it was a Tuesday, and there were only fifteen people in attendance, which was about average for that service.

  No one had said anything about the hitch in his voice or his red eyes, although he’d been prepared to claim allergies.

  It should have been the warning, though, of the storm about to blow into his life, metaphorically and literally, late
r that night.

  * * * *

  Douglas really hadn’t found it difficult to remain celibate over the years. Sometimes he’d awaken at night, especially after particularly intense dreams about Connor and the things they’d done, and be forced to rub one out just so he could go back to sleep and not lie there emotionally suffering over the memories of the tears in Connor’s eyes when they’d last said good-bye.

  Or the sole sweet, sultry kiss he’d allowed himself with Mackie before saying good-bye to her.

  Even more than the sex, Douglas had missed the companionship with Connor, their emotional intimacy.

  Their friendship.

  Connor’s ownership of him.

  The imperfect, unconditional love they’d had for each other.

  The feelings accompanying those times when he’d given over control and trust to Connor, even before knowing the real name for what they’d had, before knowing it was a power-exchange dynamic, and he’d been Connor’s happily willing submissive, masochistic slave.

  Five years ago, upon joining Facebook, Douglas had discovered Connor on the site but didn’t reach out to him, afraid more of the potential rejection than anything else. He’d been afraid to look for Connor before that, scared what he might find, terrified his heart would shatter if he discovered the man he loved no longer lived.

  Or, nearly as heartbreaking, that someone else had made him happy in ways Douglas had chosen not to.

  All these years, he’d silently watched Connor’s profile from afar, checking it daily for updates.

  When Mackie reappeared in his life, Douglas stopped posting on Facebook because the immediate aftermath was a small-scale hurricane of its own as he’d resigned, married Mackie in a brief civil ceremony the next afternoon, and quickly rented a tiny apartment for them that they could—barely—afford, and found a new job, one with health benefits so she and the baby would be taken care of.

  He didn’t want there to be any way for Mackie’s ex to track her to him. Fortunately, the blowback in the aftermath of his resignation had been mostly local.

  Except for his family excommunicating him.

  In his telling to Father Rowling, he’d left out the other factor that contributed to his decision to lie to everyone, because that had been between him and Mackie and would remain so.

  Less than four weeks after they’d reunited, the two of them spent a weekend curled up in bed and crying together after she lost the baby. Only her doctor had known the truth about the baby’s parentage back then. He’d told them it was likely the attack and previous abuse she’d suffered had probably caused injuries that led to Mackie’s miscarriage.

  She’d been Douglas’ wife, and he’d loved her. Since he’d already given up his former life, he refused to deny her or himself. He’d been determined to eke out a tiny parcel of happiness for them, something they could claim as theirs, something to help distract him from the memories of Connor and the compounded guilt he felt about where he was now.

  It had all been worth it when they learned Mackie was pregnant again just a couple of months later. It’d been the closest thing Douglas had felt to joy since saying good-bye to Connor—

  When the sound of a car horn chirping outside the hotel startled Douglas awake, a brief moment of disorientation sent his pulse surging. He got up and checked Zee—sound asleep—and then used the bathroom before returning to bed.

  Every night since losing Mackie, he’d dreamed of her, and of Connor.

  Sweet torture, yet he couldn’t bring himself to pray for no dreams.

  Dreams were better than nothing, even dreams as bittersweet as the ones currently plaguing him.

  Because with both Mackie and Connor gone, and with him cut off from the Church, he knew he would most likely spend the rest of his life alone.

  Dreams—and memories—were all he had left.

  Chapter Three

  “Come on. I know you can go deeper than that.”

  The twink was making a decent attempt, though. It wasn’t like he was chewing on a damn toothpick. That was eight thick, solid inches of meat sliding between the tongue and palate of the guy whose name he thought was George or Gene or…something that started with a G or J sound.

  I should pay better attention to shit like that.

  This was Connor’s play weekend. His first play weekend in over four months. In his second-floor room at the Toucan resort in St. Pete, he had several dozen condoms, six bottles of lube, and a box of nitrile gloves, and by fucking god he was going to put a massive dent in the entire inventory.

  Connor tightened his grip on the guy’s hair and added a bit more pressure. “Choke it down, boy. Nothing else happens until you get that fucker all the way down your throat.”

  It was late Friday afternoon. Connor knew this twink was only the first of many guys he’d cycle through that weekend. He didn’t often get out to play, so he was bound and determined he’d make the most of this weekend.

  Hell, this guy was just his warm-up act. Connor was nowhere near ready to blow his first load yet.

  He wanted to save that for someone’s ass. If he had the energy for a round two tonight, he’d put it down someone’s throat, but that was yet to be determined.

  If he felt like a round three…

  Then it’d be something really special.

  This kid—he’d confirmed he was twenty-one by looking at his driver’s license after checking out the guy’s test results—had said he wanted to be used hard sexually and beaten, with some light-to-medium level humiliation.

  All well within Connor’s wheelhouse. What a perfect way to kick off a kinky weekend at the Toucan.

  It took the guy another ten minutes to finally get his nose pressed deep against Connor’s neatly trimmed pubes without gagging.

  “There you go. Told you you could do it.” Connor kept his fists buried in the twink’s hair, taking over and throat-fucking the guy kneeling there on the floor at the end of the bed with his wrists secured behind him by a simple column tie. Connor sat on the end of the bed.

  The guy stared up at him and blinked back tears from his green eyes—never grey. No matter how fucking adorable the guy was, Connor never played with a guy with grey eyes.

  The guy wasn’t badly hung, seven slim inches—not that the size mattered. Connor never bottomed. He’d only willingly bottomed to one person in his life, and got his heart broken as a result.

  Never.

  Again.

  The guy’s dick stood straight out, rigid, and dripped pre-cum. Connor used his right foot to stroke the guy’s cock, sliding it between his big and first toes and making the guy groan around Connor’s cock in his mouth.

  “Yeah, you like that, don’t you, you greedy little slut?”

  Another needy whimper from the guy that vibrated all the way through Connor’s balls.

  Connor eased the guy off to the crown. “Lick it. Use your tongue.” The guy eagerly went to town doing just that, more than making up for needing an adjustment period deep-throating him.

  Over the next thirty minutes, Connor edged the guy and alternated between throat-fucking him and letting him play with the head of Connor’s cock.

  Then he hauled the guy up and over the end of the bed, facedown. “Part two, slut.” Connor’s cock was hard and throbbing and protesting the interruption in the attention being paid to it, but he didn’t fucking care.

  Daddy had some rage of his own to get rid of, and this twink’s ass provided the perfect target to take it.

  Connor grabbed one of the paddles the guy had selected earlier from Connor’s toybag and started working over the twink’s thighs and ass with it, no warmup.

  The guy’s warmup had been kneeling there while worshipping Connor’s cock.

  He did fist the guy’s cock, stroking him and keeping him hard as he tenderized the man’s flesh. “Yeah, you take that like a fucking champ, don’t you? Little slut loves pain.”

  The guy was wearing a large butt plug already, his own that he’d brought wit
h him. Connor played with it, wiggling the base, pressing on it and making the guy moan.

  Then he resumed the impact play.

  By the time he got bored with the guy an hour later and turned him loose, Connor had jerked him off, beat him some more, and got him hard again, just to send him out the door needing a good fucking.

  Someone else could take care of that for the guy.

  Connor had no interest in sticking his dick in the guy’s ass, wrapped or not. He wanted to fuck someone he had to work a little harder for, not a slut who bent over for any- and everyone. If he wanted an easy lay, he might as well fuck his own hand, or any number of toys in his bag.

  And judging from the diameter of the plug in the size queen’s ass, the man would barely feel Connor’s dick fucking him anyway.

  Connor freshened up and pulled on a pair of jeans and black leather motorcycle boots. No shirt, no underwear. He wore a black leather armband snapped around his left bicep, which would help answer a basic question for anyone curious enough to talk to him.

  Then he made a quick phone call to check in back home.

  Everything was fine.

  After slipping his driver’s license, room key card, and a couple of twenties into his left front pocket, and his phone into his back pocket, he headed out again. He wasn’t interested in getting any phone numbers or giving his out. If he met someone who turned his crank enough to want to know more about them, he’d give them the number for his work cell or a throwaway e-mail address he kept for just this purpose.

  He never gave out his personal number, except to people he’d known in real-life for a while, long enough to know they weren’t creepy.

  Downstairs, around the pool courtyard, there was an adorable twink walking around in an electric green Speedo. Man was probably half his age—which was fine with him, because he was spanking and fucking them, not marrying them—but he couldn’t catch the guy’s eye and wasn’t going to chase him down.

  Instead of cruising around the pool, he headed for the leather bar tucked into the front corner of the resort. They didn’t have any place like this in Sarasota, other than Venture. But Venture wasn’t a bar, and it wasn’t ideal for pick-ups, either.