I deserved more.
Thirty
Micah
Showering wasn’t a pleasure anymore. For obvious reasons. I had to handle my dick. A dick that had worked against me.
Perhaps I was part masochist by making myself clean it so much. Touching it made me feel sick, so I forced myself to endure it three times. I forced myself to jack off too. Only leaving the shower once I’d come.
I wasn’t turned on. Wasn’t even horny. But I wanted to come. I owned my body and it’d do whatever I fucking wanted.
So I came.
Even if it hurt.
Even if, after, I always wanted to cry.
But today, I didn’t make myself jack off. I cleaned it once, thoroughly but just the once, and when I stepped outside the shower, I didn’t feel that strange dirtiness that was following me around like a shadow.
I felt tight inside, roiling still, but not as angry.
I needed to tell Devlin that I wasn’t mad at him. I needed to think about finding a counselor somewhere—as far as I knew, we were here for a month. Not that long, but long enough for these feelings to fester if I didn’t express them. And, more importantly, I needed to do something for me.
Me.
With the towel tucked around my waist, I headed into the connecting bedroom. Devlin had told me that, once upon a time, it had been a dressing room, which like most things in this house, fascinated the hell out of me.
The third floor housed the Duke and Duchess’ quarters. The second was where we were—the heir’s apartment. The dressing room was the bridge between the Viscount’s bedroom and his Viscountess. I’d half-expected him to put me in there, but he hadn’t.
We shared his bed.
A bed that was ancient.
In a room that was too.
The wallpaper was printed silk. It had small birds on it and the duck egg blue had faded to a kind of cyan. There were no marks on it that indicated, once upon a time, he’d put posters up as a teenager. There was a chandelier above the bed, and the curtains that shrouded the four-poster were embroidered and just as ancient as everything else in here.
I’d say the Astleys were poor and couldn’t afford anything else, but it was clear to me that everything was perfectly preserved, even if they used it—care was taken, maintenance a priority, and with as many members of staff as they had, it made sense how they could keep this place like a living museum.
Still, the bedroom was indicative to me of how strange Devlin’s life must have been as a child.
Stuck between the past and present like this wasn’t healthy, even if, to me, it was cool now.
A glance around the room upon entering it revealed Devlin had come up. He was on the bed, legs crossed at the ankle where his bare feet were on display, his phone in his hands.
Everything about him made me hard. I’d been fighting that arousal, but seeing him there, so at ease amid this splendid grandeur, the past and present knocking heads as he used a phone and wore a slickly tailored suit that was at war with everything ancient in here, my cock just reacted.
He didn’t notice, and I was kind of pissed that he didn’t.
“Good run?” he asked, his tone lazy, his focus not veering from his phone.
“Yeah, I feel better,” was all I said as I let the towel fall to the floor, and allowed my hand to fall to my cock.
I hadn’t gotten off in the shower, but that had been all punishment.
This was all pleasure.
A grunt escaped me as I gathered some pre-cum and used it to lube my hand before sliding back down, and squeezing the base of the shaft. With a few quick strokes, I knew I could come, which was such a stark contrast to what I’d been doing in the shower where it was almost painful maintaining an erection, never mind climaxing.
The sensation was wonderful. Honest. Clean. It made me feel that way too.
The relieved sigh that escaped me had him lowering his phone and darting his gaze over to me.
When he saw me, his eyes flared wide and he jerked up onto his elbows, staring at me for a second before, thickly, whispering, “What are you doing?”
“What does it look like I’m doing?” I rasped.
He moved slowly off the bed, pausing at its side as he reached over and fiddled with a cufflink, first the right, then the left, which he twisted around to tuck onto the nightstand. Then he proceeded to unbutton his shirt, tugging the tails out at the back, and baring his naked torso to me. He slid his belt out of the loops, let it drop to the floor with a faint rattle of the buckle, before he went to work on his fly.
All while I jerked off.
Watching him strip himself down.
Watching as he toed out of his pants and kicked them aside.
As naked as me, his hand went to his dick, and he mirrored me.
Stroking his cock at the same pace as me, lazily, and watching me as I watched him.
“I wonder if you know how beautiful you are,” he told me simply, but for all his tone was that, his voice was gruff, and the words hit me hard.
“I’m not beautiful,” I rumbled back, my hand pausing in its actions.
“You are. To me. Everything about you. At first, it was your face. I was like a giddy teenager, facing their first crush. But now? Your strength amazes me. Everything about you does.”
My erection started to die. “I’m not strong.”
He arched a brow. “Are you, or are you not, pressing charges?”
“That doesn’t make me strong.”
“Robert Llewelyn didn’t. He didn’t go to the cops until it was too late. You did.”
“You made me.” I frowned at him. “You were there, with me, the whole time.”
“So you did it for me? I didn’t make you sign that witness statement.”
I blinked at him. “You took me to the hospital and started the rape kit.”
“You didn’t have to go through with it.”
“The police—you called them in.”
“But you didn’t have to talk with them.”
“You brought the lawyer in to explain what would happen now that she’s been charged.”
“You didn’t have to listen.”
“Stop answering me! I just went along with what you wanted, dammit,” I snarled at him, suddenly angry again when my anger had died.
But he was calm. So fucking calm that I wanted to slap him. “You did what was best for you. I just put things into motion, and you could have stopped them in a flash. I wouldn’t have made you do anything.”
My hands furled into fists at my sides. “You did that out of guilt,” I snapped.
“Yes, and shame,” he agreed immediately, so immediately it soothed something inside me which was annoying because I didn’t want to be soothed. “You were hurt because of me. Were forced, because of me.” His voice was thick again, and his eyes were drowning in misery. “I’ll never forgive myself for that.”
“You’re not God.” Letting one hand relax, I reached up and rubbed it over my still damp face. I’d intended to have this conversation with him today, but hadn’t anticipated that it would be in anger.
And before he’d opened his mouth, I’d wanted to fuck.
I didn’t want to talk about this now.
I just...
Christ, I didn’t know what I wanted at this moment, but I saw his pain, and couldn’t allow him to suffer.