38. Alex

CHAPTER 38

ALEX

Dylan had been back at work for three weeks before everything went to shit.

He’d been working weekends for the most part, which was fine with me. I knew my friends had shown up the night before because, in addition to him murmuring about how much money they’d tipped him out at the end of the night, I’d already ignored their text about coming out in favor of staying home with a book. Being at The Black Door while Dylan worked was not my idea of a good time since keeping my hands off of him made me absolutely miserable.

So it had been three Saturdays in a row I’d gone to bed alone and woken just before sunrise with his warm naked body pressed against mine. Last night, I’d reached around the front of his chest, slid my hand down between his legs, and jerked off while pressing lazy kisses against the nape of his neck. I’d stayed up too late to ride him the way we both wanted, but we had all the hours in the day on Sunday for that.

I’d not expected to wake a handful of hours later alone, Dylan’s side of the bed noticeably cold. I checked my hand, finding flakes of dry cum hidden in the bends of my knuckles, so I knew the hand job hadn’t been a fever dream, but Dylan was nowhere to be found. Climbing out of bed, I padded downstairs to find Dylan at the piano, cell phone in hand and the most miserable look I’d ever seen on his face.

And that was saying something considering I was certain we’d met at both of our lowest points.

“You look like you’ve seen a ghost,” I said, leaning against the door frame and regarding him with the weariness of a predator who’d spent a lifetime hunting and just wanted a rest. Things had been so good. They’d been perfect, but the tight stretch of his shoulders—even the injured one—led me to believe his mindset was far from where he’d been after coming apart in my arms hours before.

To my comment, Dylan snorted, a dismissive noise in the back of his throat before setting his phone face down on the top of the piano. He didn’t need to look at me head-on for me to see the bags under his eyes, the frown lines around the edges of his mouth.

“Do you want to listen to me play?” he asked, fingers dancing softly over the keys and repeating a melody I was sure I’d heard somewhere before.

“I want you to tell me what’s wrong.”

“Is that an order?” He licked his lips, throwing me a sidelong glance before depressing the lowest bass note on the piano.

“If it needs to be.”

Dylan sighed, letting go of the key before wiggling his fingers and launching into the intro of a song that sounded like the most depressing serenade I’d ever heard. I hesitated in the doorway, debating the merits of closing the space between us or staying where I was. Dylan looked like he wanted to run, and even though I was confident I had the fortitude to catch him, I hoped it didn’t come to that again. Deciding against sitting, I leaned my weight on the door frame while Dylan played the song, listening to the rough sound of his labored breathing after the last note sounded.

“Did something happen at work?” I finally asked.

Of course I’d worried about Dylan going back to bartending. We’d met at a bar and any rules Tryst had about fucking patrons hadn’t mattered because he’d ended up at my house the first night. I knew Athena ran a tighter ship and I also knew she’d detailed her expectations to him because she’d sternly given me the same set of guidelines before she’d even agreed to interview him the second time. It wasn’t that I worried Dylan was going to cheat on me—the thought had honestly never crossed my mind—but I imagined there had to be some kind of trauma lying dormant related to being behind the bar again. Dylan’s shoulder was still stiff in the mornings or if he didn’t move it often enough to keep the muscle working, and the last thing I wanted was for him to be reminded of that horrible night when he’d landed in the hospital.

Dylan didn’t need to work, but I respected that he wanted to. That respect would end up in the dumpster if it compromised the foundation of our relationship, though. I should have made that clear when we’d talked about it the first time.

“No,” he said, shaking his head, “nothing like that. Besides, even if it had, your little crew of trophy doms were there and so was Tate.”

Dylan stopped abruptly like he’d swallowed down the rest of his sentence.

“Did you want to go there with me?” I asked, resting my head on the door frame. “We can go if you’re not working.”

Dylan flashed a quick smile down at the piano keys, but it vanished as fast as he had from our bed the night before.

“I’d like that,” he said, “but that’s not the problem.”

“Green, Dylan?”

He answered with a rough nod and a whisper.

I strode toward him, collaring my hand around his throat and lifting him off the piano bench in one smooth motion. He grabbed my wrist, eyes wide, and then his back was on the bed, my knee shoved between his spread legs, and our mouths less than two inches apart.

“Tell me what’s gotten into you,” I said, nipping at the corner of his lower lip. “Tell me why my favorite pet was not in bed and ready to get fucked when I woke up this morning. Tell me why he was in here sulking at his piano instead of coming on my cock.”

Dylan blinked slowly, letting his lashes flutter and close. He exhaled, sinking down into the mattress, going pliant beneath me. I shoved my knee higher between his legs, making contact with his balls and pushing until he gasped.

“My dad,” he rasped, throat bobbing against my palm. “My dad called me last night.”

My first instinct was to let go of Dylan’s throat, help him into a seated position, and ask him to tell me more, but down to the marrow of my bones, I knew that was the wrong course of action. That might have been right for someone other than him, other than me…but that wasn’t what Dylan needed and it sure as shit wasn’t what he asked for. I tightened my fingers around his throat and dragged my lips up toward his ear.

“Who cares?” I asked, absolutely serious. “You have me now. My home, my good will, my fucking money.”

My name.

I didn’t say the last part out loud, and Dylan arched his head back, gasping when I bit his earlobe hard enough to leave a mark. The bruises on the back of his neck from where I’d bit him weeks before were finally faded into nothing, and every day I found myself fighting against the primal urge to mark him again…and again, and again, and again. I wanted to mark him permanently, make sure everyone knew who was responsible for him.

It sure as shit wasn’t Russell Lang.

Not anymore.

“The hospital sent a statement to his house,” Dylan said softly.

I released the pressure on his throat so he could speak, but pushed harder between his legs with my knee to compensate for the loss. Dylan groaned, spreading his legs wider.

“Go on.”

“It was paid.”

“I know,” I told him. “I paid it the day you were discharged.”

“Why?”

“Because I wanted to. Because I can.”

Dylan hummed, letting out a breath that sounded like a restrained cry. He opened his eyes, lashes ghosting across my cheek and I moved so I was more over him, so I could see him…kiss him.

“I’ll pay you back,” he whispered.

“No, you won’t.”

“It’ll take a while.”

“Your money is no good here,” I told him, tracing the shape of his lower lip with my tongue.

“I’ll pay you with sex then,” he teased, flinching as the words left his mouth. It wasn’t too soon, though. The history of how we came to be wasn’t something I was ashamed of, and I didn’t want him to feel that way either.

“You can’t afford my rates,” I assured him, shifting my weight so I was over him fully, one hand on either side of his head. My glasses hung low on my ears, but I wanted to see his expression so I could be sure he understood the truth of what I was going to say next. “You know if I had my way, you wouldn’t work, Dylan. You would stay here like you deserve, my fucking spoiled and pampered pet.”

He moaned, the sound vibrating through me and making my cock almost instantly hard.

“I’d love nothing more than for you to allow me to take care of you the way I want to, but I respect that autonomy matters to you.”

“Why not both?” he asked, smiling against my lips.

“You have both,” I said, “at least, as much of the first as I can manage while you insist on making drinks for men who will never be as lucky as I am.”

Dylan’s cheeks flushed a bright red and he licked his lips, pupils dilating as he stared up at me.

“Is it…are you going to get mad about it? Later on?”

I shook my head quickly, needing him to know just how serious I was with my promise to him. How much I meant everything I’d said up to that point and everything I would tell him after.

“I love you,” I whispered, kissing his temple, his hairline, his ear. “I know I don’t tell you often, maybe I say it less than you deserve to hear it, but I love you and I’m going to love you for the rest of my life. I’m going to take care of you for as much and as long as you’ll let me. If you really want to pay me back for the hospital, you can.”

Beneath me Dylan whimpered, and then laughed. “I don’t.”

“Will you let me buy you a new guitar?”

“Yes,” he whispered.

“Will you let me enroll you in cooking classes?” I teased next, kissing the shell of his ear.

“Why don’t you just buy normal pans?”

“Deal.”

Shifting my weight, I gave one last burst of pressure to Dylan’s cock and balls, then rocked back onto my heels. Spread out on the bed, he looked far less distraught then when I’d found him at the piano, and it was impossible to pretend that didn’t give me a violent rush of pride and possession. Licking my lips, I adjusted my glasses back onto my face before letting my hands fall softly against Dylan’s thighs.

“What do you want to do about your dad?” I asked, mouth pulled into a half-frown. “What did he say to you?”

“I didn’t answer. He left a voicemail. It was just mean.”

“What did he say?” I asked again.

“He wanted to know I’d gotten the money.” Dylan swallowed, jaw tight. “He asked if I’d finally given up on music and gotten a real job.”

“Music is a real job.”

“If it was real, I wouldn’t need to bartend.”

“You don’t need to bartend,” I reminded him. “You want to.”

“I…” He snapped his mouth closed and shut up. Dylan’s eyes went wide for a second, and the flush on his cheeks from earlier spread down toward his throat and chest.

I arched a brow. “You?”

“I don’t want to bartend so much as I want to contribute.”

“The things you give me here count far more than any amount of money you could ever bring in,” I said. “Even if you worked for your father or for Kale or Ford or anyone…I have more than enough money from my investments to last the both of us the rest of our lives. The last thing I need is more money. What I need is more you .”

“Alex, I?—”

“If working makes you whole, then I support it, but I don’t want you to think for one second that the only way you can contribute to this relationship is financially.”

“My dad?—”

“Is a piece of shit,” I interrupted. “Brooks and Ford have done deals with him in the past and your dad is not reputable by even the furthest stretch of the word. I’m glad you don’t work for him. I’m glad you’re not like him.”

“Alex.”

I swallowed the rest of my commentary. “Dylan.”

“I’ve never been in a relationship with someone who doesn’t want something from me.”

“I want plenty from you,” I assured him. “I want everything.”

He rolled his eyes, giving his hips a wiggle, but all it did was draw my attention down between his legs to the bulge that hadn’t quite settled since I’d sat up.

“You know what I mean.”

“Yeah,” he conceded, reaching up and curling his fingers around my waist and pulling me back down on top of him, brushing his lips across mine with a sense of finality. “I think I finally do.”