by Jayne Rylon
Though we haven’t touched my old loft yet, and lived in it while this section of the house was built out, that’s phase two. I’m no longer reluctant to let him transform it into a more useful space that doesn’t duplicate the purpose of the rooms down here.
If it makes him happy, it’s fine by me.
“I picked up some orange chicken on my way home.” He holds up a brown paper bag with a few grease spots and shakes it in my direction. It smells delicious.
I can’t wait to eat.
The food.
And him.
24
Kaden
I scrub my knuckles over my eyes a few times. When I blink, I’m shocked at what I see. I finally started painting over those canvases of Cortez like I promised myself I would, filling them with image after image of Rogan instead.
Except the medium I mixed up must be bad. It’s not thick enough, or sticking right. Hey, I’m not a chemist. Plus, I’m often caught up in my vision and forget to measure things super accurately. Shit happens.
The repercussions of my distraction are eerie today.
A ghost image of Cortez is seeping through the black background I’d attempted to cover him with. That wouldn’t be so odd if it wasn’t a new painting of Rogan and me in progress.
I’m trying to work out whatever kinks keep driving me nuts about the first one.
So now I’m faced with a picture of Rogan standing behind me, sweetly kissing the spot between my shoulder blades while Cortez stands in front of both of us. Is he watching or about to make out with me while Rogan cheers us on?
Whoa.
Insta-wood tents my pants. Guilty as hell, I try not to stare. Or drool.
Did I do this subconsciously?
To destroy the evidence, I rush outside intending to toss it the Dumpster. Even that doesn’t seem sufficient. I won’t risk hurting Rogan or making him feel like he’s not enough. He’s already wrestling with an inferiority complex—compliments of his douchebag ex—which sometimes makes him suspicious of me and whether I’d cheat on him or go after another man.
That’s never going to happen. I don’t want anyone else.
If I’ve experienced a stray desire a time or two for what I used to have—or woken sweaty from a dream about the days when I used to be Cortez’s pet—it’s only because committing myself to a relationship with a definite power exchange in the bedroom has stirred up some shit in my psyche. I think that’s normal.
It could come off greedy as fuck. I freely admit that.
Rogan and I have so much together. I would never jeopardize it.
So I jam the painting in a steel barrel that contained some building supply or other for the renovations. Then I douse it with alcohol from my outdoor supply shed, another recent addition thanks to Rogan, and light it on fire. Only when the smoke clears and I confirm the errant painting has been reduced to coals do I spray its sooty remains with the hose then trudge back inside.
I’m still standing in my studio, kind of in shock, when Rogan comes up behind me and wraps his arms around my waist. “Hey, there.”
I jump.
“Sorry, did I startle you?” He chuckles against my shoulder blade. The uncannily similar position I so recently eradicated from existence has me on edge. It’s not as easy to erase the scene from my mind as it had been to torch the canvas.
“Kind of.” I’m not going to lie, I’m completely freaked out.
“You’re tense.” He rubs my shoulders, unknotting some of my muscles. Meanwhile, he kisses my neck. I act like my raging erection is entirely in appreciation of his efforts and not because of the lingering memory of the phantom threesome I’d seen.
I mean it’s not like I haven’t gotten it on with two guys at once before. Hell, even more than that in the days of my bad judgment and wild parties. But something about seeing those two particular men with me sandwiched between them.
It rattled me as if I lived in a snow globe possessed by a hyper child.
“Kaden?” Rogan asks quietly.
“Hmm?”
“Are you all right?”
“Yeah. I just…” I turn and kiss him violently, then practically drag him through the studio toward our new bedroom. Maybe it’s the changes that are unsettling me. I really do like them, I swear. But they’re drastic. And the loft is next.
Could some part of me be upset at letting that final piece of my life with Cortez go?
I’m sure I should confide in Rogan, share my suspicions. I still have weak moments, where exposing my inner workings is tough. This is one of them. Besides, I don’t want to take anything away from the effort he’s put in to the plans or his excitement at watching them come to life.
He’s proud of what we’ve accomplished. I’m not going to ruin that for him.
We tumble onto our gigantic new bed. It’s like bouncing onto a cloud. Not a single dip, tear or stain in sight. It doesn’t quite feel like it’s mine. Ours.
The definite upgrade provides plenty of real estate for mattress gymnastics.
Can’t complain about that.
“How much do you like that suit, Rogan?” I growl as I pounce on him.
“It’s one of my favorites.” He doesn’t move to stop me from ripping it off him if I choose.
I can see why he prefers it. It’s perfectly tailored to showcase his fine form. It makes him seem sharp, classy, and indomitable. One look at him and his competitors must run the other direction.
Not me.
“Then get it off before I tear it off.” I sit on my heels and enjoy the show as he strips out of first his jacket and then his pants. When he unbuttons his shirt and peels it down his arms, my breath catches as always.
My straight-laced corporate king now has a hint of rebel badassery inked up his forearm.
It surprised me when he went through with it. Especially because he’d been so worried about what people would think of his cast. Now he didn’t care who saw his tattoo. Hell, he often showed off my design. Even at fancy benefit dinners I escorted him to. My art would ride his skin for the rest of his life.
That was one hell of a commitment. A statement that had touched me, while satisfying the sudden possessiveness I’d developed over him.
“Now undress me.”
His cock continues to grow. He gets off on servicing me, nearly as much as I do on letting him. He crawls to me, naked, then eases my shirt up my torso. The entire time kissing, licking, and nibbling on the flesh he exposes.
Rogan was built to bring men pleasure. For some reason I’ll never understand, I’m lucky enough to be the recipient of his talents. Night after night.
His skilled touches relax the part of me that was turned on by my accidental fantasy depiction even while they enflame the part of me that lives here, in reality, with my incredible lover.
I’m not sure when he finished removing my socks, the last thing I’d been wearing. Long enough ago that he’s massaged my feet and calves and is progressing up my quads. I crash onto the mountain of silk pillows in an array of blues then tug on his hair until he skips to the good stuff.
Rogan blows me, employing every trick he’s learned to please me best.
He reaches for my balls as I lift my hips to fuck deeper into the moist heat of his mouth. His fingers slip off target and nudge my ass instead.
I groan, a deep and feral sound.
He freezes and looks to me for permission, his mouth stuffed full of my now twice-as-hard cock. Although I don’t explicitly grant it, I don’t stop him either when he turns his accidental brush into a deliberate prod.
The tip of his finger rubs my hole. Strictly forbidden territory.
I’m on the verge of shooting, forcing him to drink me down now that we’ve gotten our medical all-clears. I usually have much better self-control. What the hell is going on today?
When Rogan correctly reads my arousal, he proceeds nudging the barest bit inside my ass. And that’s when everything goes to hell.
My cock wilts.
&
nbsp; I hear Cortez in my mind, declaring that I could never go three years without something in my ass. Fuck him. I can and I almost have. I’m not going to break that streak now when I’m so close to proving him wrong.
“Stop.” I grab Rogan’s wrist, preventing him from impaling me.
“Sorry. I just thought…” He blushes. “You seemed to like it.”
“Don’t apologize.” I loosen my grip, rubbing his poor arm where I’d abused it. I don’t want to be like Ronaldo, lashing out for something my boyfriend isn’t responsible for. “You didn’t do anything wrong. I—changed my mind, that’s all. I’m really not into it anymore.”
“But you’re still into blowjobs, right?” He distracts me from the uncomfortable situation I’ve landed us in by stroking me and licking my shaft until I regain my erection.
If I’m thinking of the times Cortez used to ride me hard and fast while Rogan sucks me off, that’s not a sin, is it? What if they double-teamed me, forcing these rogue thoughts from my head so I could simply enjoy the effort they were putting into pleasuring me?
Oh shit.
“Rogan!” I hardly have time to warn him before my climax crashes over me. One tiny thought is enough to bring me down. Hard.
I throw my head back and shove my dick deeper, pouring jet after jet of come into his throat. I jerk and spurt until I’m sure my balls are completely empty. He drinks it all except for a dribble that overflows his eager mouth.
Even then he continues to suckle my spent cock, bathing it with his tongue until every bit of my seed is cleaned from me. “Fuck, yes. I needed that, Rogan.”
He smiles then places one last kiss on the head of my dick. “I noticed.”
“Roll onto your back.” I shake my head, trying to sort out what just happened while I remember to take care of my guy. He hasn’t come. His stiff cock is jabbing my hip.
“It’s okay. You don’t have to.” Rogan smiles sheepishly up at me. “I kind of like going without sometimes. Knowing I pleased you without taking anything in return.”
I pet his hair, not entirely comfortable with that. I respect his needs, though. And I recall feeling that way myself sometimes.
It will make his release twice as potent when I wake him with sweet morning loving tomorrow. I nod, then pull him to me, horrified to see my fingers shaking when I reach for him.
What the hell?
As if he can sense my discomfort, he snuggles in tight and lets me rub light circles on his back to soothe myself. After a long time, when his erection has finally faded and I’m floating in this mammoth bed, staring at the ceiling, he whispers, “Kaden? Are you still awake?”
“Yeah. Change your mind about that orgasm?”
“Nah. I was wondering…” He clears his throat, removing some of the extra-husky tone from his voice.
“What?” I put one finger beneath his chin and tip his face toward mine so I can see his expression better. “Go ahead. You can ask me anything.”
“Are you starting to miss what Cortez gave you?” He squeezes my knee, which only makes me feel more like shit. Why is he so fucking compassionate? Why can’t he get mad? Scream at me to forget that crap and learn to be satisfied with everything he gives me?
“No,” I snap, trying to end this discussion before it begins.
Rogan has other plans. He sits up. I don’t like him looking down at me, not while we’re talking about this.
“Is the reason you won’t let me play with your ass really because you’re so stubborn that you took Cortez’s parting shot as a challenge, or is it because you’re afraid that if I do it and you like it, you’ll need more? Things that I can’t give you.” Well that’s obviously what he’s worried about. Am I?
I should be. I’m not sure. It’s…confusing. Frightening.
So I lash out. Because that’s better than the alternative.
“You’re not listening!” Oops. I didn’t mean to yell. I also can’t seem to stop shouting. “That part of me isn’t unsatisfied, it’s missing. Gone. I gave it to a guy who didn’t give a shit and threw it away. It’s destroyed. I can’t ever get it back. Just like I’ll never recover the part of my heart that belongs to you. I’m sorry it’s not the whole thing, but it’s everything I have left to give. You don’t have to worry about me suddenly deciding I need a cock up my ass again tomorrow then going out to find one to do the job, but you’ll have to be happy with the parts of my heart that are left, which are all I have to give you. I hope that can be enough.”
My racket fades by the time I finish my speech, which drains my energy.
“Of course it is, Kaden.” He kisses me then, comforting me.
I sigh against his parted lips and rub his cheek with my thumb. “Sometimes you’re so fucking perfect I kind of hate you.”
“Do you, really?” He swallows, then stares at me. “Because I’m pretty sure I love you. Don’t flip out, okay?”
There it is. Out in the open. Where neither of us can deny it any longer.
I wrap him in my arms and hold him tight to my chest. The full weight of him rests on me, just like the responsibility of honoring his affection does. “I love you too, Rogan. Even if I shouldn’t because I’m too fucked up to do it right.”
“Let me be the judge of that.” He kisses my jaw, then murmurs in my ear, “One more thing, and then I’ll let it go for tonight. I promise. I love you for who you are. Not who you used to be. It scares me when I notice that you’re not as settled as I am. And…honestly…sometimes it makes me feel like shit because it seems like you don’t believe our life is good enough to blast the shadows from the dark corners of your mind.”
“I know. I’m sorry.” I deflate, miserable that I’m letting him down. “I’m working on it. That’s the best I can do.”
“Maybe we should see a counselor. Together.” He bites his lip, as if unsure of how I’ll react to that suggestion. “I’m afraid if we let these unresolved issues fester, we’re not going to make it to our first anniversary. I’ll do anything possible to make sure we celebrate that milestone and a lifetime more. Please. Let’s get stronger together.”
At first I don’t say anything, because I can’t. I’m overwhelmed by his generosity and patience.
He frowns, his face falling at the pregnant pause between us.
So I scrub my hands over my face and look directly into his eyes. “I’ll do anything to keep you. Set it up.”
He collapses against me and hugs me tight.
If we’re both willing to fight, I have to believe we can make this work. Isn’t that what a true partnership is—lifting each other up when one of us is struggling instead of letting us both fall together?
25
Kaden
The next morning, I decide to get up early and make breakfast in bed for Rogan. I’m pretty much never awake first. I usually roll over and find him ruling the universe from his laptop while lounging against our headboard. Sometimes he already has a tray of coffee and a bowl of my favorite cereal with fresh fruit set out for me. He’s the best. Seriously.
Rogan deserves something special for putting up with me in general and double for weathering my temporary insanity last night, grounding me in the love we now officially share.
I can’t believe he said it. And that I nearly fucked it up again.
I collect ingredients for pancakes, bacon, and eggs from the refrigerator, thinking I can always help him work up an appetite if I cook too much. Whipping the batter together, I flip on the bazillion-burner gas stove, jumping out of the way of the bonfire-worthy flame that shoots out of the professional-grade appliance. It’s going to take a while to get used to the differences between my mini-cooktop and this beast.
After checking my reflection in the fancy stainless steel microwave mounted on the wall nearby to make sure I haven’t singed my eyebrows, I tap into my creativity. Food coloring, a half-dozen squeeze bottles Rogan had insisted on buying for condiments we never use, and a couple of test runs later, I’m perfecting my pancake art game.
This one is a multicolored heart with our initials in it.
Cheesy, yup. Do I care? Nope.
After a few more creations are stacked up and slathered with syrup—which I hope Rogan gets on himself so I can lick it off—I step away from the last two, which are finishing cooking. There’s got to be a tray in here somewhere. Digging through the endless row of cabinets, I search for something to pile my edible masterpieces on.
When I peer into the very back of the corner cupboard, I notice a brown paper sack similar to the one Rogan brought the Chinese food home in the night before. What’s that doing wedged between a toaster and a stand mixer in their never-before-opened boxes?
Curious, I peek inside.
What. The. Fuck.
It isn’t some secret stash of fortune cookies or the gobs of duck sauce packets we never use. Does anyone, really?
No, it’s fat stack upon fat stack of cold, hard, cash.
I slide the bag out of the cabinet and drop it on the table as fast as possible, as if I’m afraid to leave DNA evidence on it or some shit. We have a monstrous safe in our bedroom. Rogan insisted on it, along with a host of other security upgrades for my art, the shop proceeds, and times when he brings his business home with him.
So why the fuck is this here?
I use a spare chopstick lying next to the takeout menu on the table to poke the bills. They’re fucking hundreds.
Dizzy, I stumble to a chair and sink into it.
As a former user, drugs are the first thing that comes to mind. Except if Rogan had a habit that required this kind of money, I’d know about it. You can’t get that high and still function normally enough that your live-in lover could be oblivious to your addiction.
It takes me a few minutes of straight-up panic before I notice the corner of a manila envelope poking through the green bricks. What’s that?
