“Is this how you want me?”

“Quiet.”

Matty ran his hand back and forth, friction heating the fabric, and Shaw grunted again and tightened his hand in Matty’s hair. Matty let out a little sound of pain, but his hand didn’t slow.

“Yeah,” Matty whispered. “I’ve been bad. I’ve been really bad. Show me you’re in charge. Show me what happens to bad boys.”

Shaw slapped him. It was a light blow—meant to sting, not hard enough to really hurt. But the shock transformed Matty’s face, sent blood into his cheeks, widened his eyes, dilated his pupils like Matty had just snorted a line of coke.

“Don’t ever lie to me again.” Shaw shook him by the hair. “Never, do you understand me? If you want to leave, go right now. But if you stay, don’t ever lie to me again.”

Matty leaned forward, ignoring Shaw’s grip on his hair. His fingers unzipped the jacket, exposing Shaw’s bare chest, and he planted kisses on Shaw’s stomach, a line of them leading down to the scant trail of hair. Matty jerked at the fly, shoving the capris down around Shaw’s thighs, his kisses trailing into the reddish-brown bush, the tip of his tongue lapping at the base of Shaw’s dick.

Shaw’s breath exploded out of him, and he jerked hard, pulling Matty away. Matty cried out, twisting, lunging toward Shaw, but Shaw held him at bay.

“Say it. Right fucking now. Or get out.”

“Never again,” Matty said, clawing at Shaw’s wrist. “Never, I promise. I swear to God.”

And then Shaw released him, felt the warm, wet heat of Matty’s mouth, and sagged, struggling to keep himself standing. He stroked the back of Matty’s head. He felt Matty’s tears pepper his thighs.

“It’s ok,” he whispered, and his heart was breaking for Matty, for everything that had happened to him and everything he had been forced to do. A surge of something that Shaw didn’t recognize filled him, and he rocked into Matty’s mouth. Love, he thought. After all this time, this was what love felt like. “It’s ok. It’s ok. You’re here now. You’re with me. It’s going to be ok.”

Chapter 28

By some miracle, Tuck had already been asleep when North got home. North undressed and lay in bed, eyes closed, and the hours rolled by in nightmare waves of waking and not-quite waking. When Tuck rose and showered and dressed, North kept his eyes shut, even when Tuck slammed the closet door, even when Tuck dropped his shoes on purpose, even when Tuck sat heavily on the bed to pull on his socks. And eventually Tucker left for work, and North plunged into the shower. He sat on the tiles, chin on his knees, until the hot water pounding his back became icy needles. And then he stayed. And stayed. And stayed. Until he crawled out, shaking from the cold, and called himself a fucking piece of shit because he deserved so much worse.

He managed to get to the dresser, shivering so hard that the drawer rattled as he pulled it out, and then he couldn’t. He just couldn’t. It wasn’t any one thing in particular. North couldn’t do anything anymore. He had reached the end of whatever final, internal momentum had propelled him this far. And so he crawled into bed, naked, and pulled the covers over his head.