Page 3 of Love Language

And now, even after three years, he wasn’t sure he was ready to be back.

He’d known when they started dating that the almost twenty-year age gap probably meant that he would outlive Richard.

But he’d expected to say goodbye when they were older. Maybe when Richard was a hundred and he was a bit over eighty. Or even when Richard was eighty and he was sixty. He could have handled that.

Losing Richard at the age of sixty-seven, when Greg was only forty-six, just wasn’t fair. They’d had their whole lives ahead of them.

Which is why it still felt like his life was over, even three years later.

He’d be looking at his fiftieth birthday this year. That age had once seemed impossibly old to him, though he’d loved celebrating the milestone with his distinguished Sir. And now here he was.

Too old for a relationship and too young to die. Not that he wanted another relationship anyway. Who would want a fifty-year-old man for a sub, anyway?

He’d kept in shape for his Sir, but he knew he’d let himself go in the past few years. His hair was too long and probably unkempt. He didn’t know and he didn’t really care.

Brett had tried to talk him into wearing his old clubbing clothes, but they’d all been too small. This hadn’t come as a surprise, as he observed his gut every day when he stepped out of the shower.

He’d had a little paunch before, which Sir had teased him about, but not cruelly. His belly now was a good deal more substantial.

Tonight, he was wearing a loose pair of black jeans and a black t-shirt that was too tight only because he hadn’t bought any new ones. It was the closest thing to club-wear that he could find in his closet and didn’t remind him too much of Richard.

It wasn’t like he could attract a Dom anyway. Even if he wanted to.

So, instead, he sat heavily in his seat, wondering how long it would be until he could leave. Brett was sitting on his Daddy’s lap, deeply involved in a conversation with another couple that he didn’t know, talking about yet more people that he didn’t know.

He hoped that Brett’s Daddy would hurry up and take him away for whatever scene they’d been planning. That would certainly mean it was alright for him to leave. It was tempting to leave now, but he had a feeling that he’d hear Brett whining about it in the hallway at work on Monday.

Why had he come here, anyway? He didn’t really know Brett, and the more time he spent with him the more annoying he found him. In retrospect, he couldn’t figure out how he’d ever allowed Brett to drag him here.

He idly scanned the room, but looking at all the happy couples just made him feel more alone.

He missed Richard.

Maybe he needed a drink. He was allowed only one if he intended to play, and an infinite number if he didn’t.

He’d never ordered anything harder than soda when he was here with his Sir.

Catching Brett’s eyes for a moment, he motioned that he was going up to the bar. He should probably be considerate and see if anyone else wanted something to drink, but the idea of making conversation, even trivial conversation, with new people felt too overwhelming.

He walked slowly toward the bar, dragging out the activity for as long as possible.

Out of all the din, a voice jumped out to him. A little bit louder than necessary, the tones slightly flattened and some of the consonants blurred in a way that was instantly familiar to him. “You have to look at me or I can’t understand you.”

The man sounded frustrated, and Greg instantly identified him at the bar and sped up. Waving his hand in the man’s peripheral vision, he waited to be recognized.

The dark eyes pinned him to his spot, the stranger’s aggression and frustration burning a hole into him.

That intensity sent a pulse of desire through him, though he quickly shoved it away. It was completely inappropriate, and he knew it didn’t mean anything.

Excuse me, he signed meekly, would you like me to interpret?

He was taking a risk interfering in someone else’s conversation. The stranger could clearly voice competently, and he might not appreciate someone stepping in.

But the stranger’s eyes softened, and then his face lit with a smile.

He really was attractive, Greg realized, in a twink-ish sort of way.

The first thing that caught Greg’s eye was his makeup. A delicate blue on his eyelids, and a touch of darker pink outlining his cheeks. It made an intriguing counterpart to his neatly trimmed beard.