Chapter 2

Volume 3: The Slap

Chapter 2

Chapter Notes

See the end of the chapter for notes

Chapter Notes

See the end of the chapter for notes

When Tilrey came in, at five minutes to midnight, Gersha was in bed doing his best to read the Council Record. He could barely stomach it at the best of times, and his concentration fled entirely as footsteps paused at his door, then detoured into the bathroom. After a minute or so—he read the same sentence about a quorum five times—he heard the hiss of the shower.He was not going to be jealous, possessive, or neurotic. He was not. He had told Tilrey countless times that his time was his own, and that he could live in Gersha’s apartment and sleep in Gersha’s bed without needing to be “available” to Gersha on free-nights, or at any other time.Tilrey still usually was available, and Gersha had a sneaking dread that he sometimes said yes to sex when he wasn’t interested. But three times he had admitted, “I don’t feel like it right now” with no prodding from Gersha, and each of those nos was a milestone.So yes, Tilrey deserved his privacy. But the note had said “urgent,” so it wasn’t wrong for Gersha to be concerned and curious, was it? He could keep sitting here in bed, pretending to read, but all his nerves were vibrating. Tilrey would see right through it, and anyway, wasn’t honesty better with someone you loved? Didn’t lies always come back to hurt you?And so he threw off the blankets, padded to the door of the bathroom, and opened it softly. The shower was still running. He sank onto the bench beside the tub, letting the steam permeate his thin pajamas.Vapor hung thick in the air, obscuring the far wall, giving the room the vague dimensions of a dream. The humidity soothed Gersha’s worries, and he closed his eyes, waiting for Tilrey to finish.Gersha looked rather excruciatingly beautiful with the black curls plastered to his pale forehead. When his spooky green eyes opened wide, shining with steam, tears, or both, Tilrey wanted to pull him into his arms and feel the Upstart’s whole body mold itself to his, trembling with surrender.That was his first reaction. Next came a stab of irritation—Why couldn’t you just wait in the bedroom? Why are you always watching me with that damned concerned, reproachful look?He pulled down a towel and began drying himself, deliberately moving no faster than normal. He could feel Gersha’s eyes on him, and he knew the marks of Ekorin’s lips practically glowed on his pale neck and throat and perhaps other places he hadn’t noticed yet. Well, too bad.He was not going to be shame-faced or furtive, and he wasn’t going to lie, and most importantly—though this was the hardest part—he wasn’t going to sink onto his knees before Gersha and worship the man’s cock with his tongue and do his best to drown all Gersha’s justified questions in satisfaction.What he’d done tonight, he’d done in Gersha’s name, which meant he couldn’t postpone the confession—not even till tomorrow. Ekorin might bump into Gersha in the Council chamber and say something. So it didn’t matter if Tilrey ached from Ekorin’s vigorous efforts and his throat was scratchy and his brain was weary of policy and scheming and he just wanted to suck Gersha’s cock and then sink into a dreamless sleep. The time was now.Gersha rose from the bench, hugging himself in his damp sleep-shirt. “I’m sorry,” he said.In their early days, Tilrey would have assured him, “You have nothing to be sorry for, Fir,” whether he thought so or not. Now he simply discarded the towel, slipped a robe over his shoulders, and took Gersha’s arm. “Did you get my note?”“Yes.” Gersha let himself be led back to the bedroom, but he didn’t meet Tilrey’s eyes until they were both settled on the bed.“You said you’d explain.” Gersha’s eyes flitted up to the telltale marks on Tilrey’s neck and away, too quickly. The fastidious twitch of his lips was hard to miss. “But you don’t need to explain anything if it doesn’t concern me—or if you don’t want to. You never need to explain anything. I only thought, because you said ‘urgent’. . .”“Shh, Fir.” Tilrey pulled back the covers and tucked Gersha in, then rested one steadying hand on his Fir’s shoulder. Green hills and running streams, I really don’t want to do this.But he had no choice. Part of taking the lead was taking responsibility, as Ekorin had so kindly pointed out to him.“You’ve been good enough to trust me, love,” he said, gazing into Gersha’s wide, damp eyes. “And actually, this does concern you.”He couldn’t miss the way Gersha glanced at his mottled neck again, eyes narrowing, clearly wondering what on earth that had to do with him. “How?”Tilrey braced himself, then began. “I think we’re in agreement on what your goals in the Council are, Fir. But sometimes achieving those goals takes more than orating and writing reports and hoping your colleagues will see the light. It takes special finessing, like we did with Besha and Karishkov. And when I see an opportunity, it’s hard not to seize it . . .”As Tilrey related the events of that afternoon and evening, Gersha drew away from him by centimeters until he was sitting with his back straight against the headboard, hands clasped in his lap.He tried to keep his face blank, but he couldn’t suppress the occasional shiver of revulsion. A place he’d considered safe—his bedroom—was now a place where he was degraded and his will turned to a mockery. A person he’d considered safe—his beautiful, brilliant, creative, considerate lover—was announcing that he had used Gersha’s name to authorize things Gersha would never, ever want him to do. Accept, yes, but never want, and certainly not order.When Tilrey fell silent, Gersha forced himself to look up. The boy hadn’t tried to close the distance between them. He sat cross-legged with elbows on knees, looking more worried than Gersha had seen him in a long time, as if he actually needed a sign of approval.Which, clearly, he didn’t, or else tonight wouldn’t have happened.“So, the upshot is, Ekorin will vote for this bill tomorrow?” Gersha’s voice sounded small and tinny in his own ears.Tilrey nodded.Gersha swallowed hard, but yes, it had to be said aloud. “And he’ll do it because you . . . you . . .” He reached for the euphemism Verán and the other senior Councillors always used to refer to the exchange of kettle boys’ sexual favors. “You obliged him.”Tilrey seemed about to speak, but Gersha cut him off. “And he thinks the whole thing was my choice. My idea. To exchange you, to sell you for his vote.”Tilrey grimaced a little, his eyes not meeting Gersha’s. “Well, he has to believe that, Fir. If he thought I was acting alone, he wouldn’t have agreed to it.”No, indeed. And rightly. Now that the boy was looking so contrite, Gersha felt outraged pride swell in his chest. He kept his voice level, though, because he couldn’t let his point, his real point, get lost in the chaos of his emotions. If he got angry enough, Tilrey would start playing the role of the meek little kettle boy again, and that did neither of them any good.“I’m not angry because you slept with him,” he said tightly. “I want you to understand that—it’s important. I don’t like that you slept with him, but that’s not what I’m angry about.”Normally, at such a tense point in the conversation, Tilrey would have reached out to touch Gersha, to calm him. Now he only hugged his own chest. “I understand, Fir.”Why do you think I’m angry, then? He wanted to hurl that barbed question, but if he lashed out, Tilrey would respond with gestures of submission, and Gersha didn’t need that. He needed attention.If he had to, he would state the obvious and look like a fool. He would make an obstacle that Tilrey’s ingenuity couldn’t slither around.“I’m angry because you misused my trust.” His voice was shaking—fine, let it. “I understand why you want that bill to go to a full Council vote. I agree with you. But would I have paid that price for it? Would I have fucked Ekorin? No. You know how I feel about sex as currency. Yet you went right ahead and did that, and you did it in my name.”He clenched his fists, unable to look at Tilrey. “Can you imagine how that feels, to have someone do something in your name that you don’t believe in? To know that act will always be associated with you? I know what you’re thinking—that I’m being ‘prudish’ again. But think about that, Tilrey. Think about how I’ll have to face Ekorin for years to come, in and out of the Council chambers, and see in his face the reflection of what he thinks I am when it was actually a choice you made. So yes, I’m goddamn pissed at you. I won’t pretend I’m not.”Saying the words left Gersha lightheaded, almost giddy, as if a burden had slid off his shoulders. He was furious at the person he loved most in the world, and he’d said so, and somehow the world hadn’t ended. He hadn’t swallowed his feelings and told Tilrey it was fine when it was not, and he hadn’t ordered the boy out of his bed or his life, either. Maybe this honesty thing could actually work. Maybe he’d drawn a boundary that wouldn’t be crossed again.Then he looked up and found Tilrey gazing at him with no expression at all, and his breath caught, because this was all wrong.“You can hit me, Gersha,” Tilrey said quietly. “Is that what you want?”The words lashed Gersha like a blow. With no conscious intention, he reached across the gap between them and slapped Tilrey on the cheek.The poorly angled blow barely landed. Gersha snatched his hand back and clasped it with the other as if it had acted of its own accord. “I’m sorry,” he said. “That wasn’t . . . I didn’t want to do that. I don’t know why—I don’t want—”“No, you don’t want to hit me. No matter what I do.” Tilrey’s voice was confident now, almost mocking, as he edged closer. “You did it because I told you to.”Again the white-hot flash, the impulse quicker than thought, the hand slicing the air between them. This time Gersha heard a resonant clap as his palm met Tilrey’s cheek, and he felt Tilrey flinch from the impact, and a tiny part of him relished it. He asked for it, didn’t he?Then he was down on his knees with his forehead pressed to the duvet, his hands over his eyes, moaning, “No. I don’t want to hurt you. I’m angry, but I don’t, I won’t, I never . . . Rishka. Please. I love you.”After a moment, Tilrey’s hand was in his hair, stroking back the curls. “That’s all right, love. You know it’s all right.” A feather-light kiss on his nape.But it wasn’t all right. It would never be all right. Gersha had done something he despised, something unforgivable, and it didn’t matter if Tilrey had goaded him to do it, because this time it had been his choice.He sat up and reached out blindly for his lover, pushing the robe back, feeling the chalky warmth of skin. And why had Tilrey goaded him? To distract him?No, there was more to it. He could tell by the way the boy’s body opened to his, his arms sliding around Gersha, his breath hot on Gersha’s cheek. That was not fake submission. That was . . . hunger.“You needed that,” he said in Tilrey’s ear, amazed by the revelation and yet certain. “You wanted that. What I just did. Why?”Tilrey’s hand slipped between Gersha’s legs, but Gersha gently removed it. He didn’t want that distraction, not now, though the boy’s stubbled cheek sliding against his neck sent delicious shivers down his spine. “Why?” he asked almost sternly.Tilrey groaned and hid his face against Gersha’s collarbone, his fingertips teasing up the edges of Gersha’s shirt to rest against his waist, skin to skin. They stayed that way for a bit, just breathing, and then Tilrey said very softly, “When he . . . when Magistrate Linden . . . when he was angry, I could always feel it. It made the air thicker, electrically charged, like when you know someone desires you. It called to something inside me. And then when he hit me . . .”His breath caught on an exhale, and he went silent for a moment, his nails digging lightly into Gersha’s waist. Gersha raised one hand to stroke the boy’s neck, and then his hair, moving as carefully as if Tilrey were a wild creature that might start to bite and claw itself free at the first sign of constraint.“It was . . . a release, I guess you’d say. Bror says it’s a normal thing, but I still don’t understand it. There was something in me that hungered for that anger. I wanted all the Magistrate’s anger, I wanted it inside me, like I could ground it. The first few blows were always so good.”He shuddered, and Gersha felt an answering shudder move down his own spine. “But not after that?”Tilrey shook his head, his face tight against Gersha’s chest. “Usually it only felt good until he drew blood. Or knocked me down. Then it just fucking hurt. But those first few slaps, when he was looking at me with his eyes all lit up with pissiness, like he saw something dangerous in me and he wanted to beat it out of me . . .” He drew a sharp breath. “I don’t know if I can explain to you, Fir—Gersha. But I was angry, too. I was vibrating with it, and the anger inside me rushed to meet his, and I did feel dangerous. I felt powerful.”He released his breath in a wrenching sigh. “I guess it was the only time I felt safe being angry. When I was standing there and letting him beat the shit out of me. And I knew there’d be bruises, and Verán would be pissed, and I liked that, too. It was worth every second of the pain, just knowing they’d look at me and see a problem instead of an asset.”Tilrey raised his head a little, but his eyes were still cast down, and Gersha caught the glint on his lashes. “Pretty fucked up, huh, Fir? Maybe that’s more than you bargained for having in your bed.”It was more, yes, but it was never too much. Gersha wasn’t sure he trusted himself to speak. He ran his hands lightly up and down Tilrey’s back until he was able to say, “You were very angry, weren’t you? Back then. All the time.”A faint chuckle. “Yeah. I guess I was.”Gersha remembered how placid and blank Tilrey had appeared when they first met, like an exquisite shell with nothing inside, and how frustratingly difficult it had been to get him to express an honest opinion. He wanted to spit out his ferocious rage at Verán and Linden and the rest of them, all the men who’d forced Tilrey into a way of life where being angry was unthinkable. But he’d tried that before, and he knew too well how Tilrey felt about being “pitied.”“So,” he said carefully, “when I told you I was pissed off just now, you got pissed off, too. And you figured the best way to handle that was . . . well, to let me hurt you.”Tilrey did laugh then, and pulled away, though not far enough to loosen his hold on Gersha’s waist. “You sound like one of those counselors at the clinic, Fir, the ones who tinker with your brain to turn your thinking right again. Verán sent me to one of them once when I wouldn’t eat.”He was trying to change the subject again, and it was late and they were both tired, but Gersha couldn’t let it drop. Remembering the strange release he’d felt when he expressed his own anger, he took hold of Tilrey’s face and gently raised it to meet his gaze. “So, you pissed me off and I drew a boundary. A pretty reasonable one, I think. And you got so angry right back that you needed to hurt somebody or be hurt. Why?”Tilrey shook his head, his eyes focused to the side of Gersha. “Don’t ask me that.”“Why not?” Gersha knew the structure of Tilrey’s face intimately: the bony points of the jaw; the soft, giving lips; the high cheekbones; the thin-skinned temples where his lips could trace a pulse. Why did he feel so helplessly ignorant of what lay beneath?But perhaps he wasn’t so ignorant after all, because words were coming to his lips unbidden. “It’s okay for you to be angry, Rishka. I don’t know if you have any good way of expressing it, but if you do, I won’t mind. And if you really want to be hit, too, like we just did, I can do that for you. Not more, not to hurt you, but just like that. Just to . . .”He flinched as Tilrey sat up, brushing his hands off. But the boy only took hold of Gersha’s face lightly, the way Gersha had to him, and planted a lingering kiss on his brow.“To calm me,” he finished the sentence, his clever fingers sneaking between Gersha’s thighs again. “You did, love. Thank you. And I get it, and I won’t violate your trust that way again. We’ll work things out. Tomorrow. Okay?”You can’t keep distracting me with sex. Gersha’s face must have expressed his half-hearted objection, because Tilrey said, “I’m not trying to ‘manage’ you, Gersha. I just can’t . . . I’m so tired, I can’t talk anymore, and I’ve been wanting to touch you ever since this afternoon when that stupid meeting got in the way.”Then he pushed Gersha onto his back, his hand closing on Gersha’s cock at the same instant their lips met. The warm, probing wetness of the boy’s tongue flicked teasingly at Gersha’s lips and slid deeper, growing more aggressive, and Gersha opened his mouth to it as heat mounted in his groin.They’d talk more tomorrow, and they’d work things out. He swore it to himself. But for now—He ground his hips against Tilrey, then relaxed the pressure and reached between them to capture the boy’s cock, whispering, “Let’s come together this time.”Afterward, when he was sure Gersha was asleep, Tilrey turned out the lights in the bedroom and brushed his teeth.Then he slipped quietly through the dark living room, unsealed the coldroom, and tugged on his greatcoat and boots. They weren’t adequate for midwinter when he was naked underneath, but he wouldn’t be outside long.Just long enough to step into the thick of the storm. Flakes whirled around him, sparkling in the exterior floodlight, slamming arctic wind in his face. He could barely see two feet ahead of him, the city vanishing under the force of the squall. He kept one hand on the door handle and opened his mouth to the cold wetness, reveling in the hideous force of the wind. What if it could flatten all of Redda to the ground?His fingers were nearly numb when he punched the door-code, less than a minute later. He collapsed into the coldroom, sealed the door, and sank onto the bench laughing, too giddy for a moment to handle the task of easing off his heavy boots.The side door to the driver’s quarters grated open, and Bosh, Gersha’s driver, peered out, clad in his long johns. “Where’s the fucking party?” he grumbled, then took in Tilrey’s bare legs. “You okay, kid? Not going out like that?”“No, no, just coming in.” He kept the coat wrapped around him, not wanting to make Bosh uncomfortable. Over the years, once Bosh had learned to trust Tilrey—he was very protective of Gersha—they’d fallen into a companionable relationship. Tilrey particularly appreciated that Bosh seemed to have no interest in fucking him.“You should see it out there, though,” he added. “It’s better than ninety-proof vodka—my head’s spinning.”Bosh scowled in his seen-it-all way. “That’s why it’s dangerous. Storm’ll hypnotize you if you let it. Back when I was in the service, I lost two comrades who got themselves lost less’n a kilometer from base.”“Well, I’m not lost.” Tilrey rose and gave the driver a playful punch on the shoulder. “I just wanted a taste of it. Go back to bed, old man.”“You’ve got strange ways sometimes, lad. All I’m saying is, be careful.”“Oh, I’m always careful.” Tilrey wondered fleetingly if Bosh had guessed that he used to fantasize about hurling himself thirty stories off the parapet into the snow. But he hadn’t had such thoughts in . . . well, he couldn’t remember the last time.Back inside the second seal, in the dark bedroom, he watched the squall batter the window at the edge of the blind. His fingers were still tingling, his ears ringing, all his nerves awake.Then he slid into bed and drew his sleeping Fir into his arms. Gersha molded himself to Tilrey’s body, warm and slightly sweat-damp, murmuring happily without waking.And Tilrey knew that yes, he’d been angry. His own private storm was still somewhere deep inside him, whipping and cold and scathing like the one outside. If he let it out, it would rage and howl and wipe people flat.Ekorin, for instance, with his robotic fucking and his talk about “surface cleverness.” That storm would crush him to nothing. It would wipe Verán and his cronies off the face of the earth. It would level the Sector with the Council chambers inside. It would kill innocent people like Ekorin’s secretary, whose eyes had skimmed over Tilrey like he didn’t exist. It would destroy everyone who’d ever hurt or disrespected him, and many who hadn’t.It might even hurt Gersha.And so he would keep the storm deep inside, where it belonged. He pressed his face to the hollow of his Fir’s neck and kissed the collarbone, feeling the steady pulse under the thin, vulnerable skin.Those slaps had felt good, but only because Gersha had been truly angry. If he did it again just to satisfy Tilrey, with pity in his eyes, it wouldn’t feel right at all.It would be okay. Maybe Tilrey could find another willing partner, a Laborer—someone like Bosh, only with a taste for roughness. Maybe they could even explore a happy medium that Gersha enjoyed a little more—spanking, say. There were all sorts of options.For now, though, Tilrey had that vote. He had that goddamned vote. And though he was sorry about everything he’d done to get it . . . well, he wasn’t quite sorry enough.The next day, every time Gersha peeked out of his office, Tilrey was sitting at his desk in the antechamber, assiduously occupied with dull secretarial duties. He even ate lunch there, instead of wandering down the corridor to the secretaries’ lounge the way he usually did. (“They’re boring, but you hear a lot of political gossip in there,” he’d explained to Gersha. “Useful stuff.”)After lunch, Gersha put on his white robe and went to sit on the Int/Sec committee. Three hours later, on his way out, he heard an admin mention something about “Ed Comm” and stopped her to ask, “Have they voted on that Notification procedures bill yet, do you know?”The admin, already on her handheld, did some swiping. “They did, Councillor. Close vote, but it’s going to go to the full chamber.”He did it. He really did it. Gersha felt oddly proud and shamed at once by what Tilrey had accomplished. And now, he supposed, he should ask his versatile secretary for a tutorial on the tedious text of the bill.He returned to the office to find Tilrey still staring at his bulky screen, which connected to an office network without live news updates. “Have you heard?” he asked, unable to scrub the excitement from his voice.Tilrey only nodded pensively, as if he’d heard the news hours ago and moved on to the next challenge. “Ekorin delivered, Fir. But if we want his help with the full Council vote, you’ll need to give him a briefing yourself. I could schedule a lunch. Maybe bring Besha.”Gersha sat himself on the edge of Tilrey’s desk, feeling a bit ruffled. “First you’ll have to brief me, remember? And if I’m going to throw my weight behind this, I should talk with Lunkoldd.”“Way ahead of you, Fir.” Tilrey opened Gersha’s calendar. “You’re having tea with her day after tomorrow.” Noticing Gersha’s precarious position, he jumped to his feet. “You know you shouldn’t perch like that while I’m sitting, Fir. At least not while the door’s ajar. It makes it look like you’re not the one in charge.”Gersha sighed loudly, but he didn’t really mind the gentle scolding about protocol. He pushed off the desk with a glance at the door—barely ajar—and walked up to his secretary and pulled him into a very indecorous kiss.“I have something for you,” he whispered, his hand venturing under the jerkin to stroke the firm, muscular ass. “In there.”Tilrey followed without a word, and Gersha closed the inner door and sat himself down in his own desk chair. “Satisfied?” he asked, reaching into a drawer for the item he’d ordered from Supply earlier. “We’re properly situated now, me sitting and you standing, ready to execute my orders.”Tilrey shook his head affectionately. “Now that no one can see us, Fir, yes, we’re very proper. What—”He went abruptly silent as Gersha handed him the wafer-thin, jet-black handheld, about the size of a palm. “What’s this, love?”A hot blush rose to Gersha’s face as he took in the sheer incredulity on Tilrey’s. “What does it look like?” he asked. “Go on, open and initialize it. I keyed it to your right index print; it’s yours.”“But . . .” Tilrey continued to stare at the handheld as if it might bite him. “I’m not supposed to have that.”Gersha hastened to explain: “That device will only allow you to message back and forth with me. It’s what Upstart parents give their children. So, no, it’s not a full portal. But now that you have it, you have no excuse for pushing cryptic notes under the door instead of checking your brilliant stratagems with me before you execute them.”He flushed again, half-expecting Tilrey to be angry. But Tilrey only woke the handheld and pressed his index finger to the screen, still moving as tentatively as if the device might sprout wings and fly away.“So you’ve given me an instrument of power to . . . control me,” he said, gazing raptly at the screen.“I—well, yes.” What was the use of denying it? “But you know, there’s nothing unusual about it,” Gersha hastened to add. “Besha’s secretary has a closed-loop handheld, and I’m pretty sure several other Councillors’ do, too. It’s not technically allowed, but it makes you easier to reach, you see. For efficiency.”“Ah, right, efficiency.” There was an odd half-smile on Tilrey’s face. “Check your messages, Fir.”Gersha scrambled for his handheld, where he read, I would like to go down on my knees for you now, in a very proper way.He gulped in a breath. “I don’t need you to—I mean, if you’re trying to thank me, I don’t want that. This isn’t some kind of favor.”Tilrey came around the desk and swung Gersha’s swivel chair to face him. “Right, and I don’t sell myself for favors anymore, remember, Fir? Except when there’s a very important vote that could affect innocent people on the line. But this? This is something I want to do.”He sank to his knees, reached under Gersha’s tunic, and palmed his cock, grinning as Gersha gasped with the sudden shock of pleasure. “And from now on, of course, when there is such an exceptional situation, I’ll be able to contact you and gain your prior approval—or not, as the case may be.”Gersha writhed, the hectic flush all over him now, as Tilrey unfastened his trousers.“Indeed,” he managed to say, trying to keep up with whichever game they were playing now, “it’s very important to observe protocol.” He opened his knees and was rewarded with a firm squeeze that made his vision haze over.For a long time, Gersha had worried that Tilrey didn’t actually enjoy sucking cock, or enjoyed it only because it turned Gersha into a helpless, pleading mess. But by now he was pretty sure Tilrey’s pleasure went deeper than that. He enjoyed making Gersha come undone, yes, but he also enjoyed the whole performance of submission, even as they both knew it wasn’t real. Or because they did.Gersha tensed as a warm tongue circled the head of his cock. The first contact was so devilishly light and teasing, after the firm hand, that it made his whole spine come alive with itching, needy pleasure. He murmured, “No matter how many times you do that, it always gets me.”Tilrey backed off again. “I wouldn’t want to observe anything but proper submission, Fir, when you’ve put such enormous trust in me.”“Of course not. Only the properest. But . . .” He desperately needed that tongue to return to exploring him, needed to burrow himself deep in that supple throat, but he couldn’t let last night go, not yet. “What I said about being angry—I don’t want you to hide it from me, Tilrey. Even when you think it’s wrong or you shouldn’t feel it, I want you to tell me.”The boy made a small sound in his throat, half frustrated and half amused. “It’s not as simple as you make it sound. I don’t want to—well, to hurt you, love.”“You can never hurt me.” Though he knew that wasn’t strictly true, Gersha hoped Tilrey would believe it. “I want the real you, even when he hates my guts and vice versa. I can’t have a censored version. Okay?”“Okay, Fir.” A small pause. “I’ll try. Now, can we get back to proper Sector business?”Gersha gasped again, hoarsely, as his whole organ slid into Tilrey’s hot throat. “Oh verdant hells, please don’t stop doing that. Never, ever stop.”He threaded his fingers in Tilrey’s hair and threw his head back, only half-seeing the dour white ceiling. Maybe the staid décor of the Sector disapproved of their pairing, but that was just too bad.“Sorry about the carpet,” Gersha added when he was able to string words together. “I’ll . . . order a softer one at the first opportunity.”

When Tilrey came in, at five minutes to midnight, Gersha was in bed doing his best to read the Council Record. He could barely stomach it at the best of times, and his concentration fled entirely as footsteps paused at his door, then detoured into the bathroom. After a minute or so—he read the same sentence about a quorum five times—he heard the hiss of the shower.

He was not going to be jealous, possessive, or neurotic. He was not. He had told Tilrey countless times that his time was his own, and that he could live in Gersha’s apartment and sleep in Gersha’s bed without needing to be “available” to Gersha on free-nights, or at any other time.

Tilrey still usually was available, and Gersha had a sneaking dread that he sometimes said yes to sex when he wasn’t interested. But three times he had admitted, “I don’t feel like it right now” with no prodding from Gersha, and each of those nos was a milestone.

So yes, Tilrey deserved his privacy. But the note had said “urgent,” so it wasn’t wrong for Gersha to be concerned and curious, was it? He could keep sitting here in bed, pretending to read, but all his nerves were vibrating. Tilrey would see right through it, and anyway, wasn’t honesty better with someone you loved? Didn’t lies always come back to hurt you?

And so he threw off the blankets, padded to the door of the bathroom, and opened it softly. The shower was still running. He sank onto the bench beside the tub, letting the steam permeate his thin pajamas.

Vapor hung thick in the air, obscuring the far wall, giving the room the vague dimensions of a dream. The humidity soothed Gersha’s worries, and he closed his eyes, waiting for Tilrey to finish.

Gersha looked rather excruciatingly beautiful with the black curls plastered to his pale forehead. When his spooky green eyes opened wide, shining with steam, tears, or both, Tilrey wanted to pull him into his arms and feel the Upstart’s whole body mold itself to his, trembling with surrender.

That was his first reaction. Next came a stab of irritation—Why couldn’t you just wait in the bedroom? Why are you always watching me with that damned concerned, reproachful look?

He pulled down a towel and began drying himself, deliberately moving no faster than normal. He could feel Gersha’s eyes on him, and he knew the marks of Ekorin’s lips practically glowed on his pale neck and throat and perhaps other places he hadn’t noticed yet. Well, too bad.

He was not going to be shame-faced or furtive, and he wasn’t going to lie, and most importantly—though this was the hardest part—he wasn’t going to sink onto his knees before Gersha and worship the man’s cock with his tongue and do his best to drown all Gersha’s justified questions in satisfaction.

What he’d done tonight, he’d done in Gersha’s name, which meant he couldn’t postpone the confession—not even till tomorrow. Ekorin might bump into Gersha in the Council chamber and say something. So it didn’t matter if Tilrey ached from Ekorin’s vigorous efforts and his throat was scratchy and his brain was weary of policy and scheming and he just wanted to suck Gersha’s cock and then sink into a dreamless sleep. The time was now.

Gersha rose from the bench, hugging himself in his damp sleep-shirt. “I’m sorry,” he said.

In their early days, Tilrey would have assured him, “You have nothing to be sorry for, Fir,” whether he thought so or not. Now he simply discarded the towel, slipped a robe over his shoulders, and took Gersha’s arm. “Did you get my note?”

“Yes.” Gersha let himself be led back to the bedroom, but he didn’t meet Tilrey’s eyes until they were both settled on the bed.

“You said you’d explain.” Gersha’s eyes flitted up to the telltale marks on Tilrey’s neck and away, too quickly. The fastidious twitch of his lips was hard to miss. “But you don’t need to explain anything if it doesn’t concern me—or if you don’t want to. You never need to explain anything. I only thought, because you said ‘urgent’. . .”

“Shh, Fir.” Tilrey pulled back the covers and tucked Gersha in, then rested one steadying hand on his Fir’s shoulder. Green hills and running streams, I really don’t want to do this.

But he had no choice. Part of taking the lead was taking responsibility, as Ekorin had so kindly pointed out to him.

“You’ve been good enough to trust me, love,” he said, gazing into Gersha’s wide, damp eyes. “And actually, this does concern you.”

He couldn’t miss the way Gersha glanced at his mottled neck again, eyes narrowing, clearly wondering what on earth that had to do with him. “How?”

Tilrey braced himself, then began. “I think we’re in agreement on what your goals in the Council are, Fir. But sometimes achieving those goals takes more than orating and writing reports and hoping your colleagues will see the light. It takes special finessing, like we did with Besha and Karishkov. And when I see an opportunity, it’s hard not to seize it . . .”

As Tilrey related the events of that afternoon and evening, Gersha drew away from him by centimeters until he was sitting with his back straight against the headboard, hands clasped in his lap.

He tried to keep his face blank, but he couldn’t suppress the occasional shiver of revulsion. A place he’d considered safe—his bedroom—was now a place where he was degraded and his will turned to a mockery. A person he’d considered safe—his beautiful, brilliant, creative, considerate lover—was announcing that he had used Gersha’s name to authorize things Gersha would never, ever want him to do. Accept, yes, but never want, and certainly not order.

When Tilrey fell silent, Gersha forced himself to look up. The boy hadn’t tried to close the distance between them. He sat cross-legged with elbows on knees, looking more worried than Gersha had seen him in a long time, as if he actually needed a sign of approval.

Which, clearly, he didn’t, or else tonight wouldn’t have happened.

“So, the upshot is, Ekorin will vote for this bill tomorrow?” Gersha’s voice sounded small and tinny in his own ears.

Tilrey nodded.

Gersha swallowed hard, but yes, it had to be said aloud. “And he’ll do it because you . . . you . . .” He reached for the euphemism Verán and the other senior Councillors always used to refer to the exchange of kettle boys’ sexual favors. “You obliged him.”

Tilrey seemed about to speak, but Gersha cut him off. “And he thinks the whole thing was my choice. My idea. To exchange you, to sell you for his vote.”

Tilrey grimaced a little, his eyes not meeting Gersha’s. “Well, he has to believe that, Fir. If he thought I was acting alone, he wouldn’t have agreed to it.”

No, indeed. And rightly. Now that the boy was looking so contrite, Gersha felt outraged pride swell in his chest. He kept his voice level, though, because he couldn’t let his point, his real point, get lost in the chaos of his emotions. If he got angry enough, Tilrey would start playing the role of the meek little kettle boy again, and that did neither of them any good.

“I’m not angry because you slept with him,” he said tightly. “I want you to understand that—it’s important. I don’t like that you slept with him, but that’s not what I’m angry about.”

Normally, at such a tense point in the conversation, Tilrey would have reached out to touch Gersha, to calm him. Now he only hugged his own chest. “I understand, Fir.”

Why do you think I’m angry, then? He wanted to hurl that barbed question, but if he lashed out, Tilrey would respond with gestures of submission, and Gersha didn’t need that. He needed attention.

If he had to, he would state the obvious and look like a fool. He would make an obstacle that Tilrey’s ingenuity couldn’t slither around.

“I’m angry because you misused my trust.” His voice was shaking—fine, let it. “I understand why you want that bill to go to a full Council vote. I agree with you. But would I have paid that price for it? Would I have fucked Ekorin? No. You know how I feel about sex as currency. Yet you went right ahead and did that, and you did it in my name.”

He clenched his fists, unable to look at Tilrey. “Can you imagine how that feels, to have someone do something in your name that you don’t believe in? To know that act will always be associated with you? I know what you’re thinking—that I’m being ‘prudish’ again. But think about that, Tilrey. Think about how I’ll have to face Ekorin for years to come, in and out of the Council chambers, and see in his face the reflection of what he thinks I am when it was actually a choice you made. So yes, I’m goddamn pissed at you. I won’t pretend I’m not.”

Saying the words left Gersha lightheaded, almost giddy, as if a burden had slid off his shoulders. He was furious at the person he loved most in the world, and he’d said so, and somehow the world hadn’t ended. He hadn’t swallowed his feelings and told Tilrey it was fine when it was not, and he hadn’t ordered the boy out of his bed or his life, either. Maybe this honesty thing could actually work. Maybe he’d drawn a boundary that wouldn’t be crossed again.

Then he looked up and found Tilrey gazing at him with no expression at all, and his breath caught, because this was all wrong.

“You can hit me, Gersha,” Tilrey said quietly. “Is that what you want?”

The words lashed Gersha like a blow. With no conscious intention, he reached across the gap between them and slapped Tilrey on the cheek.

The poorly angled blow barely landed. Gersha snatched his hand back and clasped it with the other as if it had acted of its own accord. “I’m sorry,” he said. “That wasn’t . . . I didn’t want to do that. I don’t know why—I don’t want—”

“No, you don’t want to hit me. No matter what I do.” Tilrey’s voice was confident now, almost mocking, as he edged closer. “You did it because I told you to.”

Again the white-hot flash, the impulse quicker than thought, the hand slicing the air between them. This time Gersha heard a resonant clap as his palm met Tilrey’s cheek, and he felt Tilrey flinch from the impact, and a tiny part of him relished it. He asked for it, didn’t he?

Then he was down on his knees with his forehead pressed to the duvet, his hands over his eyes, moaning, “No. I don’t want to hurt you. I’m angry, but I don’t, I won’t, I never . . . Rishka. Please. I love you.”

After a moment, Tilrey’s hand was in his hair, stroking back the curls. “That’s all right, love. You know it’s all right.” A feather-light kiss on his nape.

But it wasn’t all right. It would never be all right. Gersha had done something he despised, something unforgivable, and it didn’t matter if Tilrey had goaded him to do it, because this time it had been his choice.

He sat up and reached out blindly for his lover, pushing the robe back, feeling the chalky warmth of skin. And why had Tilrey goaded him? To distract him?

No, there was more to it. He could tell by the way the boy’s body opened to his, his arms sliding around Gersha, his breath hot on Gersha’s cheek. That was not fake submission. That was . . . hunger.

“You needed that,” he said in Tilrey’s ear, amazed by the revelation and yet certain. “You wanted that. What I just did. Why?”

Tilrey’s hand slipped between Gersha’s legs, but Gersha gently removed it. He didn’t want that distraction, not now, though the boy’s stubbled cheek sliding against his neck sent delicious shivers down his spine. “Why?” he asked almost sternly.

Tilrey groaned and hid his face against Gersha’s collarbone, his fingertips teasing up the edges of Gersha’s shirt to rest against his waist, skin to skin. They stayed that way for a bit, just breathing, and then Tilrey said very softly, “When he . . . when Magistrate Linden . . . when he was angry, I could always feel it. It made the air thicker, electrically charged, like when you know someone desires you. It called to something inside me. And then when he hit me . . .”

His breath caught on an exhale, and he went silent for a moment, his nails digging lightly into Gersha’s waist. Gersha raised one hand to stroke the boy’s neck, and then his hair, moving as carefully as if Tilrey were a wild creature that might start to bite and claw itself free at the first sign of constraint.

“It was . . . a release, I guess you’d say. Bror says it’s a normal thing, but I still don’t understand it. There was something in me that hungered for that anger. I wanted all the Magistrate’s anger, I wanted it inside me, like I could ground it. The first few blows were always so good.”

He shuddered, and Gersha felt an answering shudder move down his own spine. “But not after that?”

Tilrey shook his head, his face tight against Gersha’s chest. “Usually it only felt good until he drew blood. Or knocked me down. Then it just fucking hurt. But those first few slaps, when he was looking at me with his eyes all lit up with pissiness, like he saw something dangerous in me and he wanted to beat it out of me . . .” He drew a sharp breath. “I don’t know if I can explain to you, Fir—Gersha. But I was angry, too. I was vibrating with it, and the anger inside me rushed to meet his, and I did feel dangerous. I felt powerful.”

He released his breath in a wrenching sigh. “I guess it was the only time I felt safe being angry. When I was standing there and letting him beat the shit out of me. And I knew there’d be bruises, and Verán would be pissed, and I liked that, too. It was worth every second of the pain, just knowing they’d look at me and see a problem instead of an asset.”

Tilrey raised his head a little, but his eyes were still cast down, and Gersha caught the glint on his lashes. “Pretty fucked up, huh, Fir? Maybe that’s more than you bargained for having in your bed.”

It was more, yes, but it was never too much. Gersha wasn’t sure he trusted himself to speak. He ran his hands lightly up and down Tilrey’s back until he was able to say, “You were very angry, weren’t you? Back then. All the time.”

A faint chuckle. “Yeah. I guess I was.”

Gersha remembered how placid and blank Tilrey had appeared when they first met, like an exquisite shell with nothing inside, and how frustratingly difficult it had been to get him to express an honest opinion. He wanted to spit out his ferocious rage at Verán and Linden and the rest of them, all the men who’d forced Tilrey into a way of life where being angry was unthinkable. But he’d tried that before, and he knew too well how Tilrey felt about being “pitied.”

“So,” he said carefully, “when I told you I was pissed off just now, you got pissed off, too. And you figured the best way to handle that was . . . well, to let me hurt you.”

Tilrey did laugh then, and pulled away, though not far enough to loosen his hold on Gersha’s waist. “You sound like one of those counselors at the clinic, Fir, the ones who tinker with your brain to turn your thinking right again. Verán sent me to one of them once when I wouldn’t eat.”

He was trying to change the subject again, and it was late and they were both tired, but Gersha couldn’t let it drop. Remembering the strange release he’d felt when he expressed his own anger, he took hold of Tilrey’s face and gently raised it to meet his gaze. “So, you pissed me off and I drew a boundary. A pretty reasonable one, I think. And you got so angry right back that you needed to hurt somebody or be hurt. Why?”

Tilrey shook his head, his eyes focused to the side of Gersha. “Don’t ask me that.”

“Why not?” Gersha knew the structure of Tilrey’s face intimately: the bony points of the jaw; the soft, giving lips; the high cheekbones; the thin-skinned temples where his lips could trace a pulse. Why did he feel so helplessly ignorant of what lay beneath?

But perhaps he wasn’t so ignorant after all, because words were coming to his lips unbidden. “It’s okay for you to be angry, Rishka. I don’t know if you have any good way of expressing it, but if you do, I won’t mind. And if you really want to be hit, too, like we just did, I can do that for you. Not more, not to hurt you, but just like that. Just to . . .”

He flinched as Tilrey sat up, brushing his hands off. But the boy only took hold of Gersha’s face lightly, the way Gersha had to him, and planted a lingering kiss on his brow.

“To calm me,” he finished the sentence, his clever fingers sneaking between Gersha’s thighs again. “You did, love. Thank you. And I get it, and I won’t violate your trust that way again. We’ll work things out. Tomorrow. Okay?”

You can’t keep distracting me with sex. Gersha’s face must have expressed his half-hearted objection, because Tilrey said, “I’m not trying to ‘manage’ you, Gersha. I just can’t . . . I’m so tired, I can’t talk anymore, and I’ve been wanting to touch you ever since this afternoon when that stupid meeting got in the way.”

Then he pushed Gersha onto his back, his hand closing on Gersha’s cock at the same instant their lips met. The warm, probing wetness of the boy’s tongue flicked teasingly at Gersha’s lips and slid deeper, growing more aggressive, and Gersha opened his mouth to it as heat mounted in his groin.

They’d talk more tomorrow, and they’d work things out. He swore it to himself. But for now—

He ground his hips against Tilrey, then relaxed the pressure and reached between them to capture the boy’s cock, whispering, “Let’s come together this time.”

Afterward, when he was sure Gersha was asleep, Tilrey turned out the lights in the bedroom and brushed his teeth.

Then he slipped quietly through the dark living room, unsealed the coldroom, and tugged on his greatcoat and boots. They weren’t adequate for midwinter when he was naked underneath, but he wouldn’t be outside long.

Just long enough to step into the thick of the storm. Flakes whirled around him, sparkling in the exterior floodlight, slamming arctic wind in his face. He could barely see two feet ahead of him, the city vanishing under the force of the squall. He kept one hand on the door handle and opened his mouth to the cold wetness, reveling in the hideous force of the wind. What if it could flatten all of Redda to the ground?

His fingers were nearly numb when he punched the door-code, less than a minute later. He collapsed into the coldroom, sealed the door, and sank onto the bench laughing, too giddy for a moment to handle the task of easing off his heavy boots.

The side door to the driver’s quarters grated open, and Bosh, Gersha’s driver, peered out, clad in his long johns. “Where’s the fucking party?” he grumbled, then took in Tilrey’s bare legs. “You okay, kid? Not going out like that?”

“No, no, just coming in.” He kept the coat wrapped around him, not wanting to make Bosh uncomfortable. Over the years, once Bosh had learned to trust Tilrey—he was very protective of Gersha—they’d fallen into a companionable relationship. Tilrey particularly appreciated that Bosh seemed to have no interest in fucking him.

“You should see it out there, though,” he added. “It’s better than ninety-proof vodka—my head’s spinning.”

Bosh scowled in his seen-it-all way. “That’s why it’s dangerous. Storm’ll hypnotize you if you let it. Back when I was in the service, I lost two comrades who got themselves lost less’n a kilometer from base.”

“Well, I’m not lost.” Tilrey rose and gave the driver a playful punch on the shoulder. “I just wanted a taste of it. Go back to bed, old man.”

“You’ve got strange ways sometimes, lad. All I’m saying is, be careful.”

“Oh, I’m always careful.” Tilrey wondered fleetingly if Bosh had guessed that he used to fantasize about hurling himself thirty stories off the parapet into the snow. But he hadn’t had such thoughts in . . . well, he couldn’t remember the last time.

Back inside the second seal, in the dark bedroom, he watched the squall batter the window at the edge of the blind. His fingers were still tingling, his ears ringing, all his nerves awake.

Then he slid into bed and drew his sleeping Fir into his arms. Gersha molded himself to Tilrey’s body, warm and slightly sweat-damp, murmuring happily without waking.

And Tilrey knew that yes, he’d been angry. His own private storm was still somewhere deep inside him, whipping and cold and scathing like the one outside. If he let it out, it would rage and howl and wipe people flat.

Ekorin, for instance, with his robotic fucking and his talk about “surface cleverness.” That storm would crush him to nothing. It would wipe Verán and his cronies off the face of the earth. It would level the Sector with the Council chambers inside. It would kill innocent people like Ekorin’s secretary, whose eyes had skimmed over Tilrey like he didn’t exist. It would destroy everyone who’d ever hurt or disrespected him, and many who hadn’t.

It might even hurt Gersha.

And so he would keep the storm deep inside, where it belonged. He pressed his face to the hollow of his Fir’s neck and kissed the collarbone, feeling the steady pulse under the thin, vulnerable skin.

Those slaps had felt good, but only because Gersha had been truly angry. If he did it again just to satisfy Tilrey, with pity in his eyes, it wouldn’t feel right at all.

It would be okay. Maybe Tilrey could find another willing partner, a Laborer—someone like Bosh, only with a taste for roughness. Maybe they could even explore a happy medium that Gersha enjoyed a little more—spanking, say. There were all sorts of options.

For now, though, Tilrey had that vote. He had that goddamned vote. And though he was sorry about everything he’d done to get it . . . well, he wasn’t quite sorry enough.

The next day, every time Gersha peeked out of his office, Tilrey was sitting at his desk in the antechamber, assiduously occupied with dull secretarial duties. He even ate lunch there, instead of wandering down the corridor to the secretaries’ lounge the way he usually did. (“They’re boring, but you hear a lot of political gossip in there,” he’d explained to Gersha. “Useful stuff.”)

After lunch, Gersha put on his white robe and went to sit on the Int/Sec committee. Three hours later, on his way out, he heard an admin mention something about “Ed Comm” and stopped her to ask, “Have they voted on that Notification procedures bill yet, do you know?”

The admin, already on her handheld, did some swiping. “They did, Councillor. Close vote, but it’s going to go to the full chamber.”

He did it. He really did it. Gersha felt oddly proud and shamed at once by what Tilrey had accomplished. And now, he supposed, he should ask his versatile secretary for a tutorial on the tedious text of the bill.

He returned to the office to find Tilrey still staring at his bulky screen, which connected to an office network without live news updates. “Have you heard?” he asked, unable to scrub the excitement from his voice.

Tilrey only nodded pensively, as if he’d heard the news hours ago and moved on to the next challenge. “Ekorin delivered, Fir. But if we want his help with the full Council vote, you’ll need to give him a briefing yourself. I could schedule a lunch. Maybe bring Besha.”

Gersha sat himself on the edge of Tilrey’s desk, feeling a bit ruffled. “First you’ll have to brief me, remember? And if I’m going to throw my weight behind this, I should talk with Lunkoldd.”

“Way ahead of you, Fir.” Tilrey opened Gersha’s calendar. “You’re having tea with her day after tomorrow.” Noticing Gersha’s precarious position, he jumped to his feet. “You know you shouldn’t perch like that while I’m sitting, Fir. At least not while the door’s ajar. It makes it look like you’re not the one in charge.”

Gersha sighed loudly, but he didn’t really mind the gentle scolding about protocol. He pushed off the desk with a glance at the door—barely ajar—and walked up to his secretary and pulled him into a very indecorous kiss.

“I have something for you,” he whispered, his hand venturing under the jerkin to stroke the firm, muscular ass. “In there.”

Tilrey followed without a word, and Gersha closed the inner door and sat himself down in his own desk chair. “Satisfied?” he asked, reaching into a drawer for the item he’d ordered from Supply earlier. “We’re properly situated now, me sitting and you standing, ready to execute my orders.”

Tilrey shook his head affectionately. “Now that no one can see us, Fir, yes, we’re very proper. What—”

He went abruptly silent as Gersha handed him the wafer-thin, jet-black handheld, about the size of a palm. “What’s this, love?”

A hot blush rose to Gersha’s face as he took in the sheer incredulity on Tilrey’s. “What does it look like?” he asked. “Go on, open and initialize it. I keyed it to your right index print; it’s yours.”

“But . . .” Tilrey continued to stare at the handheld as if it might bite him. “I’m not supposed to have that.”

Gersha hastened to explain: “That device will only allow you to message back and forth with me. It’s what Upstart parents give their children. So, no, it’s not a full portal. But now that you have it, you have no excuse for pushing cryptic notes under the door instead of checking your brilliant stratagems with me before you execute them.”

He flushed again, half-expecting Tilrey to be angry. But Tilrey only woke the handheld and pressed his index finger to the screen, still moving as tentatively as if the device might sprout wings and fly away.

“So you’ve given me an instrument of power to . . . control me,” he said, gazing raptly at the screen.

“I—well, yes.” What was the use of denying it? “But you know, there’s nothing unusual about it,” Gersha hastened to add. “Besha’s secretary has a closed-loop handheld, and I’m pretty sure several other Councillors’ do, too. It’s not technically allowed, but it makes you easier to reach, you see. For efficiency.”

“Ah, right, efficiency.” There was an odd half-smile on Tilrey’s face. “Check your messages, Fir.”

Gersha scrambled for his handheld, where he read, I would like to go down on my knees for you now, in a very proper way.

He gulped in a breath. “I don’t need you to—I mean, if you’re trying to thank me, I don’t want that. This isn’t some kind of favor.”

Tilrey came around the desk and swung Gersha’s swivel chair to face him. “Right, and I don’t sell myself for favors anymore, remember, Fir? Except when there’s a very important vote that could affect innocent people on the line. But this? This is something I want to do.”

He sank to his knees, reached under Gersha’s tunic, and palmed his cock, grinning as Gersha gasped with the sudden shock of pleasure. “And from now on, of course, when there is such an exceptional situation, I’ll be able to contact you and gain your prior approval—or not, as the case may be.”

Gersha writhed, the hectic flush all over him now, as Tilrey unfastened his trousers.

“Indeed,” he managed to say, trying to keep up with whichever game they were playing now, “it’s very important to observe protocol.” He opened his knees and was rewarded with a firm squeeze that made his vision haze over.

For a long time, Gersha had worried that Tilrey didn’t actually enjoy sucking cock, or enjoyed it only because it turned Gersha into a helpless, pleading mess. But by now he was pretty sure Tilrey’s pleasure went deeper than that. He enjoyed making Gersha come undone, yes, but he also enjoyed the whole performance of submission, even as they both knew it wasn’t real. Or because they did.

Gersha tensed as a warm tongue circled the head of his cock. The first contact was so devilishly light and teasing, after the firm hand, that it made his whole spine come alive with itching, needy pleasure. He murmured, “No matter how many times you do that, it always gets me.”

Tilrey backed off again. “I wouldn’t want to observe anything but proper submission, Fir, when you’ve put such enormous trust in me.”

“Of course not. Only the properest. But . . .” He desperately needed that tongue to return to exploring him, needed to burrow himself deep in that supple throat, but he couldn’t let last night go, not yet. “What I said about being angry—I don’t want you to hide it from me, Tilrey. Even when you think it’s wrong or you shouldn’t feel it, I want you to tell me.”

The boy made a small sound in his throat, half frustrated and half amused. “It’s not as simple as you make it sound. I don’t want to—well, to hurt you, love.”

“You can never hurt me.” Though he knew that wasn’t strictly true, Gersha hoped Tilrey would believe it. “I want the real you, even when he hates my guts and vice versa. I can’t have a censored version. Okay?”

“Okay, Fir.” A small pause. “I’ll try. Now, can we get back to proper Sector business?”

Gersha gasped again, hoarsely, as his whole organ slid into Tilrey’s hot throat. “Oh verdant hells, please don’t stop doing that. Never, ever stop.”

He threaded his fingers in Tilrey’s hair and threw his head back, only half-seeing the dour white ceiling. Maybe the staid décor of the Sector disapproved of their pairing, but that was just too bad.

“Sorry about the carpet,” Gersha added when he was able to string words together. “I’ll . . . order a softer one at the first opportunity.”

Chapter End Notes

I expect to post “Return of the Threesome” (not its actual name) next week. Updates also on Tumblr. Thanks for reading!

Chapter End Notes

I expect to post “Return of the Threesome” (not its actual name) next week. Updates also on Tumblr. Thanks for reading!

I expect to post “Return of the Threesome” (not its actual name) next week. Updates also on Tumblr. Thanks for reading!