“Matty—”

And then Matty kissed him. Shaw had never had a kiss like it before. His kisses with Carl, before everything had gone wrong, had been intense. They’d been like controlled detonations inside Shaw’s head. They’d been fueled by teen hormones and by the frantic excitement of a first relationship.

But this. This kiss was like fracking: it worked its way into the bedrock of Shaw’s soul and exploded, shifting the very groundwork of Shaw’s existence. There was so much need. There was so much want. There was so much hurt. It was a cocktail of pain and desperation and desire that worked on Shaw in a way nothing ever had before. He was hard. He was so hard it hurt. His skin had shrunk. His bones ached. Shaw gripped Matty’s jaw with one hand, forcing his head back, kissing the boy harder, taking what he had wanted to take for a very long time.

Then, gasping for air, Shaw broke the kiss and forced himself away from Matty. He shook his head; he couldn’t talk, not yet, but he could shake his head.

Matty made a mewling noise and pressed toward him.

“No.” Shaw cleared his throat. “No. You’re a—you’re a client. And you’re vulnerable. You’re hurt. You’re not thinking clearly—”

“I am thinking clearly. For the first time in my life I’m thinking clearly. Please, Shaw. Please. I want you. Make me beg if you want me to beg. I’ll beg. Please. Please. Please.” Matty ducked his head, but his eyes met Shaw’s as he said, “Please give me your cock.” And it sounded so awkward and so genuine that Shaw felt his whole body pulse in response to it. “Please,” Matty said, “please. Please. Please.”

Shaw wasn’t sure how, but he managed to shake his head again.

“What’s wrong with me? What the fuck is wrong with me?” Matty took a step back. “Oh my God. I can’t believe this. I can’t fucking believe this. What the fuck is wrong with me? Why? Why won’t you? Just tell me why. Just tell me what’s wrong with me and I’ll leave.”

“I don’t want you to leave. I want you to sleep on the couch. And in the morning, things’ll be better, I promise.”

“I hate you. I fucking hate you so fucking much.”

“Fine.”

“I wish you were fucking dead.”

Shaw nodded; he couldn’t meet Matty’s eyes.

Another minute passed, a long minute, and then Matty grabbed his bag and wheeled it down the hall and into the living room. Shaw stood there. He wanted to go into the bathroom. He wanted to splash water on his face. He wanted a cold shower. But he was afraid of stepping into the hall—of pulling back from the water, lowering a towel from his face—and finding Matty there.

So instead, Shaw kicked off his shoes and dropped onto the bed. He was still so hard that it felt like a cramp, and he was afraid if he touched himself that he’d explode, so he stared up at the plaster ceiling and tried to breathe.