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“About framing you…” Ian went on as if there’d been no interruption. “I want to say sorry, but that isn’t quite right, because while Iamsorry, I don’t regret it—it was the only card I had left and I played it, but I do wish I could have done it another way, one that didn’t steal your freedom from you.”
Ian had said as much over and over in his letters, but neither of them had addressed the topic until now.
“It’s already forgiven. You did the right thing.”
Ian’s eyes narrowed, hopeful and suspicious. “Really?”
“Yes. Emphatically.” Alek cupped Ian’s cheek. “Thank you for saving me.”
Alek wished he could say something more profound. Ian had suffered at Alek’s hands for months, risked criminal charges by framing him, sacrificed the relationship he wanted so desperately, fronted his money to give Alek the best chance of recovery—all to save him. But for Ian, thank you must have been enough because his shoulders sagged, all the tension leaving his body.
“Now will you stand so I can thank you properly?” Alek said.
Ian grinned. “No.”
“Are we really going to fight over who’s dick to suck first?”
“We’re not fighting because I’m sucking yours first,” Ian said confidently, his jaw set into a determined line. “If you want to say thank you or sorry or whatever, you can be a good boy and make that noise I really like while I’m draining your come down my throat.”
“When you put it that way…” Alek leaned back, grateful for the padded carpet runner that lined the stairs. “As you were.”
The muscles in Ian’s back flexed and stretched as he bowed over Alek’s lap. With eyes wide and always on him, Ian took Alek deep, so deep that Alek felt like he was being sucked into a black hole. He grabbed ahold of Ian’s hair just in case, because anything was possible when the impossible was, when Alek was back at the Victorian with Ian, and everything was forgiven.
Ian sucked him like a starved man feasting after famine, his filthy moans surrounding Alek’s cock in hot vibration.
“I missed your mouth,” Alek said on a gasp.
Ian made another ravenous moan that had hairs rising all along Alek’s body like he was about to be struck by lightning. In what was likely only a few minutes—though Alek wasn’t sure because all concept of time was warped like they were in a Salvador Dali painting—Alek made that noise Ian had asked for without even meaning to, that half sob, half moan laced with awe and disbelief as stars burst behind his eyes, nerves exploded like a blown transformer, and Alek came so hard he was worried every inch of glass in the house would explode from the intensity of it.
After swallowing, Ian rested his cheek on Alek’s thigh, watching him with sated adoration, like he’d felt Alek’s pleasure second-hand. When Ian tried to stand, Alek realized his fingers were still tangled tight in his hair.
“Sorry.” Alek loosened his grip.
Ian stood, his hair ruffled, and hauled Alek, weak-kneed and very much still fuck-drunk along with him.
“Let me feed you before round two,” Ian said.
Alek pulled to a stop. “I’m not hungry.”
“Well, I’m thirsty.” Ian took another step.
“How could you possibly be thirsty after swallowing two months worth of come?”
Ian stopped, brows raised. “You still can’t come without me?”
Alek dropped his eyes and shook his head. “If you didn’t take me back, I would have had no choice but to commission a sex doll made in your image.”
Laughing, Ian tugged Alek down the hall.
At the swing door to the kitchen, Ian held out his arm like aMaître d'and said, “After you.”
Alek shot Ian a shrewd look and leaned against the door, backing his way into the kitchen. There was a fresh reno smell—new paint, sawdust, varnish off-gassing—the scent always reminded Alek of when he and Ian first went into business together, how he would follow Ian from one worksite to the next, riveted by Ian even as he hung drywall, and especially when he used a power saw. Alek could almost taste the salt of Ian’s sweat when he kissed him.
Alek turned around. The kitchen! Gone were the loathsome cantaloupe colored cabinets, the cheap linoleum, the hulking stainless steel fridge that matched nothing else in the house. The floor was a chessboard of black and white marble and the built-in shelves and cabinets layered thickly with decades of paint had been stripped down to the original satin birch, gleaming with a golden stain faithful to the period. Matching wainscoting reached up the walls to meet plaster painted Paris Green. Instead of an island, running down the center of the room was a 19th century servant’s table that Alek had restored and kept in waiting.
Across the kitchen, Alek opened a tall cabinet added seamlessly alongside the original built-ins; as expected, concealed within was a luxury fridge any home chef would sell their soul for. The five-foot wide free-standing cast iron stove that Alek had lovingly rehabilitated was no longer collecting dust in their storage unit, but instead the focal point of a wall that Ian had tiled floor-to-ceiling with ceramic squares that at first looked amoody emerald green, but upon further inspection were alive with notes of absinthe and darkest forest pine as they shimmered in the last dying beams of cloud-filtered daylight.
“My, my, you’ve been busy,” Alek said, turning to face him.
