Grady slumped against the wall, his head spinning. He sucked in long breaths, endorphins floating light and free to coat everything in a familiar hazy, sated glow that went beyond a standard release.
Words refused to come, much like his thoughts, and he didn’t care. How long had it been since he’d not cared? Not worried or stressed or been so damn sick with fear or guilt? Just given himself over and let go? Almost eight years, actually. Since James. He would’ve laughed if he’d had the energy.
Lethargy pulled at his arms, yanked at his head, and begged him to give in to the rest that beckoned him. If only he could.
Reality seeped in with the pungent scent of arousal, sex, and man. He wet his lips, swallowed, and caught the lingering taste of come. His groan came out silent, his voice seemingly gone. Everything hurt from his throat to his jaw, to his lips that still throbbed with the beat of his heart.
He’d just received the most commanding face-fucking of his life, and he had no idea how to process it. Denial reared up to shove the entire experience into the realm of a simple blowjob. Two guys getting off. Nothing more.
He could manage that.
Yet he still kneeled at Micah’s feet, the guy’s cock inches from his face. He didn’t need to open his eyes to know that. Micah’s presence surrounded him, his harsh breaths gusting out above. It was easier—safer—to stay in the dark. To let Micah move first.
But his knees hurt and spunk stuck to his hand and coated his limp dick. Water sounded like the drink of the gods. What the hell was he afraid of?
It was just sex. Not quite anonymous, but one-offs definitely weren’t new to him.
He pried his eyelids open and was confronted by a spent dick still slick with his saliva, wrinkly balls, and a springy bunch of black curls. The urge to dive right back in, to suck until that dick was once again hard was so wrong.
He dug deep to the promise he’d made to himself to never be the weak, controlled guy again. Ever. No matter how freeing this experience had been.
His arm was a leaden weight when he lifted it to nudge at Micah’s leg. Micah shifted aside without a word. Freedom rushed in on a wave of fresh air and space, yet it was another long moment before he shoved away from the wall and managed to stand.
A quick glance around showed a dispenser of sanitary wipes mounted on the wall by the exit. He almost laughed at the blatancy but was too damn grateful to scorn the luxury. He cleaned himself off and zipped up. Another minute passed as he swiped at the come spattered across his jeans and dragged his shirt on, every action another distraction from the uncomfortable silence.
Micah was still quiet when Grady tossed the used wipes in the trash. Was he supposed to leave? Say something? Hookup protocol usually required a post-orgasm acknowledgment if not a thanks.
The cramp in his stomach returned, the endorphin buzz squashed by his crowding doubts. If this was just a hookup, why was he standing here, waffling over his next move?
He spun around. “Hey.” He spoke before his brain registered that Micah hadn’t moved. The sight of Micah’s bare ass was enough to stall his words. Muscled and round, it looked as good as it’d felt beneath his palms. He stepped forward, drawn by the temptation to squeeze those cheeks again, tease the shadowed crease, and nibble on Micah’s neck.
No. Shit. He needed to go.
He stopped and swallowed back the longing he couldn’t afford to have. Micah was dangerous to his sanity. They’d had a great time. Nothing more. There was no need to make things awkward.
“I’m going to get going,” he said, annoyance creeping back in. Micah couldn’t even turn around? “Thanks for the…” Fuck wasn’t right. Damn it. The domineering face-fuck and mind-numbing orgasm sounded odd.
Micah finally shifted away from the wall, reaching to undo the cuff strapped to his wrist. Grady frowned, all effects of his recent orgasm erased. When had Micah cuffed himself to the cross? Why?
Micah tucked himself in and redid his pants before turning to face Grady. Grady had to drag his eyes off the tempting display of Micah’s chest in order to focus on his face. His expression gave away nothing. Back was the calm regard that’d met him in the hospital.
“Thanks seems strange.” A smile quirked the edge of Micah’s lips, but it fell flat.
“It’s better than fuck you.”
“Especially since I didn’t do that.”
Grady’s bark of laughter burst out before he could stop it. It ripped through the tension, but died quickly. So much for not doing awkward. “Right. Okay.” It was long past time to go. “Maybe I’ll see you around.” He turned to the door.
“I can still help you.”
Grady hesitated, tensing. “Help me with what?”
“Finn.”
Finn. The coma. The accident. The shit ton of nothing and everything waiting for him. How could he have forgotten? The weight slammed back down on his shoulders. He didn’t deserve to forget, even for a moment.
“And comas in general.” Micah stepped closer. “My offer to talk still stands. No strings or expectations attached.”
“What?” Grady chuckled, sarcasm sliding in with his defenses. “One face-fuck gets me a free hour of your wisdom?”
Micah inhaled, jaw clenching with his cringe. “Of course not.” His glare cut across the space to nail Grady with its disgust. “You can stop being a dick at any time.”
Too true. And the only way to ensure he did that was to leave. Micah was still too damn hot and now way too dangerous. He opened his mouth to say something, only nothing came out. Any platitude would sound lame.
He took one last look, then left. His trek down the hallway and across the open bar area was made without incident. No one tried to stop him, and thank fuck he didn’t run into anyone from Kick. Explaining away a discussion with the bartender was completely different than justifying why he was sneaking out of a private room. In a BDSM club. When every partner in the company knew he wasn’t a Dom.
And he sure as hell wasn’t a submissive, no matter what just happened in that damn room. He would never be that again.
Micah forced himself to stay still until he was certain Grady wasn’t coming back. Five slow breaths later he sank to the bench, dropped his head into his hands, and started counting. He was on sixteen before the fuzziness finally faded.
His stomach heaved and acid burned his throat as he slowly lifted his head, hope blooming even though the outcome never changed. One glance around confirmed this time was no different. Everything was completely foreign. Not even a hint of recognition crept in to orient him.
He blinked a few times, knowing it wouldn’t help. His pulse still raced and he automatically used the breathing techniques multiple therapists had taught him. Slow in and out. Long, deep breaths to hold back the instinctual panic.
It didn’t matter, the damn fear still ebbed in to hitch a ride on the wave of heated embarrassment. He’d had years to get used to this, endured hundreds of episodes. Yet frequency and time didn’t eliminate the childlike terror that kicked in upon discovering he was completely lost in a place he should know.
All the calming exercises wouldn’t change the outcome. The world he knew and recognized wouldn’t magically click back into place. It didn’t work that way. Wasn’t ever going to work that way again. He’d given up hoping for that.
Slow breaths, long inhales, paced exhales. He was okay. He could handle it—would handle it.
He scrubbed his face and forced himself to study where he was. Hard-learned habits had him putting the pieces back together. He was in a room filled with BDSM equipment. A sign over the door read DANE’S in bold black letters. He’d been working, was supposed to still be working.
But he’d had an episode and then had sex with Grady in a private room. His safe room. And his orgasm triggered another episode. It was never the details of who or what he lost, just the where.
The parts of his vestibular system that worked together to provide spatial awareness, balance, and vision were so damaged that when they stopped communicating, he literally couldn’t recognize anything about where he was. Not the location or its association with his surroundings. Nothing, even though he knew he should instinctively remember everything.
At least he’d held it together in front of Grady—if being a silent prick after shoving his dick down the guy’s throat was considered “holding it together.” His snort of disgust didn’t excuse his actions. He owed Grady an apology that should start with an explanation. Like the guy would want anything more to do with him.
Some help he’d been.
Yet for a bit there, before he’d lost himself, he was certain he had helped Grady. There’d been no force involved. He’d never do that. However, he was pretty confident he’d given him exactly what he’d wanted, even though they hadn’t talked about it.
Then he went and shitted all over the moment by being too chicken to show his own vulnerability.
He heaved a sigh, regrets washing away any satisfaction he’d gained from their little tango. At least he was man enough to admit he’d gotten something out of their exchange too. That being in control of sex was exactly what he craved and rarely got without a ton of prep and questions.
And there was nothing he could do about Grady right now.
Okay. So where was this room located? Which way did he go to find the bar?
He could text Dane or Bobby and they’d be there in an instant. But he didn’t need help. Didn’t need anyone worrying over him or treating him like he was helpless. He wasn’t a child and he’d worked too damn hard to be pinned beneath the disabled status the medical world forced upon him.
He stood, stretched his neck, and squared his shoulders. He’d eventually orient himself. Things would shift into place in little patches or all at once, and he’d recognize everything again. Bury the anxiety and pretend until then, that was how he survived.
Dane appeared in the doorway before he’d taken a step, concern clear in his usually stern features. “Bobby’s covering the bar.” He scanned the room, pausing on the splatter of come on the floor. “Be sure to clean that up before you leave.”
Gratitude rushed up to choke back any words he might’ve said. Dane knew his entire story and had hired him anyway, brain issues and all. He was the one who’d made this his safe room. Given him a chance at being normal, even though Micah would never be completely normal again. And he rarely coddled him, something his family had yet to outgrow.
Micah owed him more than he’d ever be able to repay.
Dane tugged a couple of wipes out of the dispenser and handed them to Micah. There was nothing in his expression to indicate his thoughts. Just facts and actions. Clear and simple.
He made sure he wiped down every surface they’d touched before bending to clean the come off the floor. There wasn’t much, but the scent still teased him, his cock responding to the way-too-recent memories. Would he ever get rid of them?
He tossed the dirty wipes in the trash. Someone would be in to sanitize before the room was used again, but general courtesy extended to every corner of life. He might be brain damaged, but he could damn well take care of himself.
Dane headed down the hallway when Micah was done, and he followed without question. The Dom had more than earned his trust in the three years since he’d started working there. As had Bobby, Dane’s sub.
The hallway opened into a medium-sized room with sitting areas spaced out comfortably. About half of the tables were filled, but it wasn’t crowded. The bar was on the far side and Micah went to it. His skin still prickled with unease and his heart drummed out the nerves he refused to show. He didn’t recognize any of it, yet he knew he should.
He nodded at a table of Doms, smiled at another Dom, who arched a questioning brow. Don, Todd, Justin…the names came easily as did the knowledge of who they were. He was among friends. He was at Dane’s.
And he still had no clue as to where exactly that was or where the damn bathroom was even located, let alone the exit. At times, it felt like he was floating in space, unhinged and completely disconnected.
“Hey, man,” Bobby called when Micah ducked behind the bar. “I closed out Master Chuck’s tab and opened two more.” He gave a subtle nod to a table near a wall, a sub bent over the Dom’s lap, ass cheeks bright red on either side of the G-string wedged down his crack. The sub’s arms were still bound around the bar at his back, making him completely helpless. “Your call on serving more to that table. He’s had four.”
Micah nodded. The entire evening was perfectly clear in his mind. His job and responsibilities were untouched. “Thanks for covering for me.”
“Anytime.” Bobby grinned. “As long as Dane doesn’t mind.” He winked at his Master, who was observing them from across the room. “And he never will for you.”
Micah laughed and let the unfamiliar go. He shook his head, turning to scan the length of the bar. He had a job to do. One of the Doms seated at the far end motioned to his empty beer glass. He poured the stout, the order and location of the tap coming without thought.
He dropped off the beer, grabbed a towel to wipe up a ring of condensation, and dumped the dirty glass in the wash rack. He clicked into autopilot, his rhythm naturally falling into place as he took care of two more orders. The slightly musty, stale-beer-soaked aroma of the bar area filtered into his senses along with the consistent hum of conversation.
“You got this covered?” Bobby asked. He tossed a dirty towel in the laundry bucket and glanced toward Dane.
Micah didn’t need to look to know the Dom was watching them. “I’m good.” He inclined his head to Dane, the respect earned. “Go make your Master happy.”
“That’s always my aim,” Bobby said with a wink.
The honesty in the statement was pure and untainted. The two had been together for ten years. They’d met in the Marines and had kept their relationship hidden until they’d both left the service. Their bond was obvious to anyone who took the time to see beyond the kink.
Micah watched him go to Dane, his love clear in the softening of his features and lowering of his head. Bobby was a bruiser of a man. Headstrong and a total badass when he needed to be. His authority with club matters was never questioned, not even by other Doms, but he was an unabashed sub who yielded completely for his Master. The relationship made him stronger, not weaker like so many who didn’t understand the lifestyle believed.
A sub stepped up to the bar, Micah moved to help him, and the remaining strain slipped from his muscles. He was at his second home.
His bearings were back, his surroundings once again a familiar part of his awareness. The exit was to his left, the restrooms down the hall on the right, and the dungeon was at the end of the hallway.
He glanced at the clock only to realize he had no idea what time this episode had started. But almost two hours had passed since Grady had arrived. A relatively short amount of time for all that’d happened between them. So much and yet nothing.
Bobby was kneeling at Dane’s feet, his posture one of relaxed submission. Dane stroked his head, each pass of his hand an apparent unconscious action that screamed his love.
Longing pulled at Micah. Not for their relationship, but the connection. His illness had killed most of his dreams of ever having that with another man. His boyfriend of two years had fled before the full scope of his limitations was even diagnosed. The burden had been too much and Micah didn’t begrudge him.
He had a lot of baggage and the odds of finding anyone willing to help him carry it were so very long it wasn’t worth betting on.