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“The massage?” He suspected Fillion might be talking about something else, though. Would the boy have the courage to say so?
“I—Sort of?”
“This is regular massage. I spent more time on your back and shoulders because you were so tight there. But aside from that, this is what I do.” He slid his fingers up to Fillion’s ass, rubbing oil over it, then digging in. “What you’re feeling on the other hand… that’s a you-and-me thing.”
“I don’t think I ought to be feeling things…”
“No? Why not? You’re single. I’m single.” And Fillion needed a Daddy in his life. And there was chemistry between them—that much was clear. Jerusalem and Christian were sneaky—and smart—matchmakers.
“We… we can’t talk about that. I’m naked!”
“Doesn’t that make it better?” Finishing with Fillion’s ass, he left off massaging it with regret. Then he covered it back up. “You can turn around now and I’ll get the other side.”
“I can’t!” Fillion sat up, those pretty eyes wide, his hands over the blanket in his lap.
“Oh. Well, it does happen occasionally, and when it does, I’m very professional and ignore it. And I can do that if you’d like. Or we can acknowledge it and see where things go from there.” He very much wanted Fillion to go for option two, but he suspected the boy would choose option three and end the massage altogether.
“I don’t think I want you to think I’m a slut.”
He shook his head and cupped Fillion’s cheek in his hand. “I don’t. I won’t.”
“I’m not, you know? I’m not bad.”
Oh, this poor wounded boy.
“Getting turned on by a massage does not make you bad or a slut. Wanting to act on that doesn’t make you bad or a slut. You are a good boy. Just a lonely one, you know? You’re going to lie down on your back for me and I’m going to finish your massage, because you need it. And then I’m going to hold you for a while, okay?” Fillion needed care and tenderness as much as he needed an orgasm. And the care needed to come first.
“Please don’t be nice to me…”
He was confused. “You’d prefer it if I was an asshole?”
“No!” The tears did come then, and Fillion hopped off the table and headed for the door.
“Stop right there, boy.” He went over to Fillion and wrapped the boy in his arms. “It’s okay, you can cry or scream or whatever you need to do. I’ll stay with you through it.”
“I—I need to… I hate this.”
“What do you hate, boy? Tell Daddy what the problem is.”
“I don’t have a Daddy! I don’t have anything but the bookstore and a headache.” Fillion went heavy in his arms, and he knew—not a vague curiosity, but genuine knowledge—that this boy needed him.
“I’m right here, boy,” he said softly, stroking his hand along Fillion’s back, looking to soothe.
The oil made Fillion soft and a touch slick, and he continued to caress, encouraging the sweet boy to relax. He hummed a little, rocked a little, but didn’t try to stop Fillion from having his meltdown. He suspected Fillion needed a breakdown—with a Daddy to make it okay.
“I’m so sorry. I just… I shouldn’t have told Chrissy about how sad I was.”
“I’m glad you did. You shouldn’t have to be miserable and alone.” He kissed the top of Fillion’s head.
And no one deserved this. Even if he hadn’t been watching Fillion from afar, he’d have been drawn to help. The fact that he’d been interested beforehand made it special. For him at least.
He finally picked Fillion up and went over to the chair by the window, sitting in it and holding Fillion close.
The view from up here was amazing, if a little lonely, and he rocked Fillion, cradling the boy gently.
Fillion felt good in his lap, against his chest. He hadn’t had a boy in longer than Fillion hadn’t had a Daddy and there was definitely a Fillion sized hole in him.
Fillion’s tears eased, fading into soft sniffles, the boy relaxing.
