Page 27 of Key of Kink

We stood there a while. I was in no hurry to be anywhere else, and apparently, neither was Max. When I finally stepped away to collect my clothes, it wasn’t with that brittle sense of separation I’d felt in the past.

It felt more like closing a book I knew I’d come back to. I wasn’t floating. I didn’t feel emptied. I wasn’t chasing the sensations, desperate to experience them once more.

I was simply happy.

That was a very good sign indeed.

“Can we do this again?” I didn’t want to appear overeager, but I also didn’t want this to end too soon.

Say yes, Max. Please say yes.

“I don’t see why not.”

It wasn’t an effusive reply, but it would do.

And next time, I want to rock your world.

Max

I waited until Quinn had left the club before heading to the bar. I was done for the night, so I ordered myself a glass of wine, then sat in the corner, far enough away from other people that they wouldn’t feel compelled to engage me in conversation.

I wanted to think.

One of my rules was that I didn’t replay scenes. They ended when they ended. I logged them mentally—what worked, what didn’t, where I’d adjust next time—and then I let them go. That was part of the discipline. Holding on was how meaning crept in where it didn’t belong.

So when I found myself on the Tube home still thinking about Quinn, I explained away my reaction. It was just adrenaline residue, post-scene vigilance.

Back in Niall’s flat that was my temporary home, I took a long shower, hot enough to force my shoulders to drop. Usually that was enough to rinse the day—and the scene—away.

This time, it wasn’t.

I dried off, dressed, and made tea. The kettle clicked off while my mind got stuck in a loop.

Quinn’s stillness. His breathing. The way he’d looked at me afterwards, not searching, not clinging, but there. The moment when everything had been done, when I’d released him and expected the usual gentle disengage, the emotional reset that told both of us we were complete.

Instead, Quinn had stayed exactly where he was, comfortable in the space between us, as though he trusted it wouldn’t collapse if he didn’t rush to fill it.

That was new. Scenes didn’t usually echo.

Except this one had.

Scenes didn’t linger because they weren’t meant to. They were containers, defined and useful.

Quinn hadn’t treated it like a container. He’d treated it like a conversation.

A conversation both of us wanted to repeat.

I exhaled slowly.

One thing I knew with uncomfortable certainty.

I wouldn’t forget Quinn the way I forgot everyone else.

Chapter Six

Max

I was on the way to the studio for our Tuesday night rehearsal, and what occupied my thoughts?