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Minty rubbed his hands over his face. “I don’t want to tell her about the diagnosis. Knowing I’m dying will just bring her pain. And it was so hard for her to accept me being—” He gestured at himself. “I mean, the problem wasn’t with her. Never with her. She loved me just the way I am from the very start. But she took so much crap from her church and from her old friends, and my dad, all because of me, and—” Tears started down his cheeks, which had gone from white as a sheet to flushed pink. “She always says that my future is so bright now. That all our pain is in the past. The onlycloud hanging over her head was not knowing my HIV status. She wanted me to get tested. And I… so for her birthday, I thought I’d give her that.” He swallowed convulsively, looking sick. “I can’t give her this news instead.”
“It’s her birthday today?”
He nodded. “Yeah. She made cake. I got her a card. Inside I told her I’m going to take her to Biltmore House for their Christmas celebration.” He glanced toward the clock on the wall. “I need to leave soon. I’m supposed to be there by twelve.”
I studied his face, his shaking hands. “I’ll drive you.”
He snapped back from wherever he’d gone, his gaze piercing. “No.”
“Yes. You can’t drive like this. Look at you, baby, you’re shaking.”
He sighed. “I just can’t tell her the truth if you’re there.”
“So, youaregoing to tell her?”
He covered his face and curled in on himself. “I don’t know. Maybe. No? I think no. Not on her birthday.”
“Then let me come with you.”
“And introduce you as what? My Dom? My Master? The guy I beg to hurt me?”
My heart twisted at his attempt to put distance between us to cover his vulnerability. “You’ll introduce me as your boyfriend. That’s what I am. You know that.”
He sucked in a quivering breath. “Are you?”
“Of course. You practically live here with me. You’ve made promises to me, and I’ve made them to you. You’re the only guy I want to be with, and the only guy I’ve ever loved like this.”
“Love as an action or a verb?”
I smiled. “Both. I told you so while I was fucking your throat the other night, didn’t I?”
He blinked. “That’s…you can’t keep…” He cleared his throat. “You’ve only ever said it when we’re fucking, or we’ve just finished fucking, or we’re in a scene.”
“So?”
“You can’t just tell me that during a scene or when we’re having sex. It’s not fair.”
“Why? You seemed to like it.”
Minty tore at his hair in frustration. “I did, but now I think it wasn’t enough.”
“Oh?”
He met my eyes. “Because it needs to be romantic.”
“Our scenes aren’t romantic?”
He blushed. “I guess, it’s like this: I already know I make you come so hard you lose your mind. You might say you loved me just because you shot your brains out your dick and into my ass. That’s not the same thing as a sober love confession.”
I laughed, my throat gritty with emotion—anger, sadness, hurt for him, and fondness all rolled into one. “That so?”
“Yes.”
“Then ask me to tell you now. Nicely.”
“I won’t ask,” he said, crossing his arms over his chest again. “I’m telling you how it’s going to be. Ithas to beromantic. So don’t say it again—scene or no scene, fucking or no fucking—until you’ve fixed the problem.”
“Bossy bottom,” I murmured, closing in for a kiss. He dodged me and my lips landed on his cheekbone. “Let’s wash up and get out of here. I’m looking forward to meeting your mom.”
