Page 40 of Love Language

Greg wandered over to his closet, thinking about what Marco might like to see him in.

He told himself to only look at the clothing on the left. The side he was supposed to focus on.

His subconscious wasn’t listening, though. His hand drifted, as if under its own volition, to one of the red shirts that belonged to Richard. Well, they were for Greg’s body, but his Sir owned them, and when Greg had worn them, it was a reminder that Sir owned him, too.

He pulled a sleeve to his cheek, the soft fabric catching just a bit on his scruff. Just feeling it against his skin always sent him tumbling back into memories, his throat closing and his eyes going scratchy.

Sir would wake him up with a kiss, send him into the shower with a light spank on his ass. And then… he’d come back into the bedroom and the everyday shirt that Greg had hung on the doorknob of the closet would be replaced with a red one.

Greg would hold position, sometimes for a few seconds and sometimes until he was almost late for work, until Sir would come over and dress him in it.

Sometimes Sir would fondle him or even blow him until he was hard and aching, and then get him dressed as if he weren’t on the edge of insanity.

Sometimes Sir would have him brace his arms on the closet door, watching himself in the mirror, and spank him until his ass was heated and red. He’d have to sit down carefully all day at work, trying not to give himself away.

Sometimes, when he was very lucky, Sir would use his ass and then send him to work with cum leaking out, still hard and desperate for just one more touch.

And sometimes, none of those would happen at all, and Greg would spend all day secretly rubbing the fabric on his chest and cuffs, wondering what torment Richard had planned for him later.

Those days were the most common, and he thought that’s why Richard loved putting him in those shirts. He’d spend all day in nervous and aroused anticipation, wondering what was coming next. Sometimes Richard would send him hints over text, and sometimes he would act like nothing unusual was happening and then startle or attack him when he was least expecting it.

He’d worn them to work with such pride, no one knowing their secret meaning, living in that constant state of fear and desire while everyone else went about their business.

Greg pressed the scarlet sleeve to his mouth, though he wasn’t sure if he was kissing it or covering a sob. Tears stung his eyes, but he knew they wouldn’t fall. Moments like these made him miss Richard so much that he ached.

His Sir had programmed him to respond to these shirts, and it had been glorious. Now that he was gone, the response was still there, but Richard wasn’t. And it was just… horrible.

He slammed the closet door.

Now even his evening with Marco felt tarnished and dripping with his sorrow for Richard. He’d wanted a nice shirt, and now he just… couldn’t.

He forced himself to get his act together and brush his teeth. Hopefully, he told himself as he stepped into the shower, he hadn’t put away his dry cleaning in the living room and he could find a shirt there.

Because if not, it was going to be a T-shirt, everyone in the office be damned.

By the end of the day, though, he was more on an even keel. His dry cleaning had been in the living room, and he’d put on a plain, white shirt that was blessedly free of memories.

The morning had been rough, but not as rough as they used to be.

Work was a nice distraction. His authors, editors, and proofers all mostly on track, and he’d managed to schedule more book tours than he’d expected. It was nice to get lost in the little details that he could either control or firmly acknowledge were beyond his responsibilities.

By the end of the day, he still felt a little grim, but mostly resigned.

And lonely.

He could do this, though. He’d been doing it for more than three years. So, he was fine.

But when he saw Marco standing outside the restaurant, one that he privately thought that Marco didn’t care for, but which had the best lemon chicken soup, he just collapsed into his arms.

Marco just held him for a few minutes, calmly stroking his back, as if this were the most natural thing in the world.

Greg crouched on his knees a bit and leaned forward to burrow his head into Marco’s shoulder. As always, a little part of his mind marveled that Marco’s much smaller body could offer him so much comfort and security. He always saw Marco as having such strength.

Finally, he pulled away enough that they could at least get into the restaurant, Marco’s hand firm and confident at the small of his back.

They were seated at a small table, their knees touching, before Marco tried to ask him about it. Greg always appreciated that little bit of time, Marco’s lack of hurry and readiness to listen to whatever he shared.

Want to tell me what’s going on, sweetheart? he signed with gentle eyes.