“Hurts,” he heard himself whine.
“You can take it,” Walker growled.
“I can take it,” he echoed, nodding quickly. “I want you to finish inside.”
“Fuck,” Walker snarled, falling off rhythm.
Two more tight snaps of his hips and he was collapsing, burying his face in Kota’s neck as he throbbed inside him. What would it be like without a condom? With him just filling him up?
Walker was dead weight on top of him, but Kota didn’t care. He held him tightly against him, not wanting the feeling to go away.
Still, reality crept in. Walker pulled away, slipping free of Kota to dispose of the condom. Kota felt hollow, like something had cored him out then abandoned him.
But when Walker returned, he gathered him into his arms. “Why do you look so upset all of a sudden?”
‘Cause this is the first time I didn’t feel completely alone in the world.
“Just tired,” he said, burrowing closer. “Let’s just go to bed.”
Walker had been alone all of his life. Even when he wasn’t physically alone, he was mentally alone. His mother hadn’t wanted him—or any of the children she gave birth to—and his father had tried to kill him more than once. Several older siblings had been taken by the state before he was born. His parents had birthed many children, but had cared for none. But, unfortunately, birth control wasn’t a huge concern for people as mentally bankrupt as his parents.
After he’d killed his father, he’d left and never looked back. He’d never felt any kind of way about it. He had always just existed in the world, observing but never really a part of it, watching people move through emotions he could recognize intellectually but never fully understand himself.
He had limited experience with other people’s feelings. He’d watched his parents rage at each other, had witnessed his father’s drug-induced violence and his mother’s rambling religious hallucinations. In all that time, even as a child, he’d never experienced fear or empathy. It was what made him an excellent executioner. But it made him a terrible partner.People were inconvenient—a hassle that he just didn’t need. Too unpredictable. Too emotional. Too fragile.
So, he stayed alone. His work didn’t really allow for any openness or honesty, anyway. His lifestyle didn’t appeal to most people. He understood—from a purely analytical standpoint—what people looked for in a “good” partner. He had no idea if he was capable of such a thing. He could mimic affection well enough when necessary, but real attachment? That was something else entirely.
But now, there was Kota. Kota who had just been dropped into his lap hours ago, Kota who was lying naked in his arms, looking seconds away from tears. And Walker was stymied. The kid was warm where their bodies touched, soft in a way that made Walker hyperaware of every inch of skin pressed against him. He tugged the covers up around them both, but Kota didn’t acknowledge the action.
Walker had no idea what to do or what to say. And for the first time in his thirty years on this planet, that bothered him. Why? Fuck if he knew. He’d eaten lunch meat that had sat out longer than he’d known this kid.
But watching Kota try to curl away from him, trying to hide that something was upsetting him…it did something to Walker. It agitated him, like a splinter under his skin he couldn’t dig out. His brain kept snagging on the problem and refused to let it go.
“Did I hurt you?” he asked.
What else could it be? Walker replayed the last hour automatically, searching for mistakes the same way he mentally reviewed a kill scene for loose ends.
There was a small sniffle. “No, I’m fine. Really. Just ignore me,” Kota said, words small and thick with tears. “I think the day is just catching up with me.”
The day? Oh, right.
He had been the victim of a violent crime just a few hours ago. He’d also witnessed Walker killing the man responsible. And now, they’d just had sex. He imagined that was a lot for most people to process. Honestly, Walker was a little impressed that Kota hadn’t snapped sooner.
“You can talk to me,” Walker said, propping himself up on his hand so he could see the side of Kota’s face, trying to ascertain just what—if anything—he’d done to set him off. The kid looked wrecked, his lashes damp, mouth pulled tight, like he was physically fighting the tears.
Kota peeked over his shoulder, his face collapsing when he saw Walker focused on him. “Oh, God. Don’t look at me,” he wailed.
Walker frowned. “Uh, why?”
“Because I prefer to have my mental breakdowns in private, as God intended,” he answered. “This is so embarrassing!”
Walker really wasn’t following. “Why?”
“Because crying after sex is what psychopaths do,” Kota said, his words dripping with self-disgust.
“I assure you it’s not,” Walker countered. “I’ve never cried after sex in my life.” He searched his memory. “I actually don’t think I’ve ever cried. I’m not even sure I cried as a baby.”
Kota gave a huff, flopping onto his back, not looking at Walker yet, but at least not turned away anymore. “Well, good for you. What’s it like to be emotionally stable?”
