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In the second dream, I screamed against his dick and he moaned, telling me it feels good. His boot nudged against my hard cock, a smirk stretching his lips. “This betrays you. Needy little slut, hard for your master.”
I sobbed, torn between pleasure and shame.
“This is where you belong,” he said in both dreams. So confident. So authoritative. So understanding. The shame always melts away then, just before he asks, “Isn’t it?”
I nod. Whimper. Move my hips to get my cock rubbed.
“That’s a good boy,” he tells me.
And both times, I woke up covered in cum.
It scares me, that I wake up like that, an ache in my chest as if I’m missing something important. It scares me that I can’t get myself to call them nightmares. It scares me that I’m hiding them from Dr. Singh and Matt and Maison.
“Is that what you want?” I ask Carter, my mind falling back to the soothing fact that he misses certain aspects of being a slave just like I do. If Carter—the perfect guy that everyone loves so damn much—wants kink in his future, it can’t possibly be that bad, right?
“I don’t know.”
“Does Travis want it?” I ask next, trying not to picture Nathan Roarke with a flogger or rope. Trying not to picture Carter at his feet. Me at his feet. Because Nathan Roarke and Travis aren’t the same. “I wasn’t sure if he’s kinky or not…”
“Oh, he wants it.” Carter’s laugh is soft. Fond. A little wistful. “But I think he’d give it up for me, if he had to.”
“Hm.” I curl in further on myself, wondering if I could do the same. If I could give up all of that if I fell in love with someone who didn’t want kink in their relationship. That small part of me that wants a future with Maison grows agitated, but I brush it off. Have you met Maison? I ask the little voice. He’s the definition of dominant. We don’t have to worry about that man not wanting to take the reins if we were to be with him, let’s be real.
But if he didn’t want it and I truly loved him, could I let it go?
“That’s because he loves you so much,” I point out to Carter, wanting to make him feel better in case he’s worried.
“What if that’s not enough, though?” he asks, sounding suddenly afraid. He looks at me with wide blue eyes that are so much like his brother’s it almost hurts. “What if us loving each other just isn’t enough to make it work?”
“Then it’s not.” I shrug like that wouldn’t shatter him. Like it wouldn’t shatter me in the same situation. Mostly because I’m not worried about him and Travis. As for me, I have a long way to go before it’s worth the energy of worrying. “But you’ll never find out if you don’t try.”
He sighs. “Yeah, I guess.”
He looks too upset now. Did I push him too hard? Fuck.
“Hold on.” I hop up, leaving him behind. Maison mentioned once that Carter is a tequila guy and I know for a fact that there’s a very good bottle of the stuff tucked away in the liquor cabinet. I snag it and head back, not bothering with glasses. It’s not that kind of night. I present the tequila to him when I return, grinning. “This shit is getting deep. We need tequila.”
He laughs, eyes bright. “Damnit, Nolan. I really didn’t want to like you.”
I grin. “Too damn bad.”
It’s not the tequila that makes me brave enough to do it. I didn’t drink enough to even really feel more than a slight buzz. It’s more the overwhelming worry. Maison has a tendency to beat himself up—sometimes literally—when he’s upset, and letting him hide after the day he had doesn’t sit right with me. Especially since he hadn’t had any time to recover from the previous round of hiding and beating himself up before this new one. After spending over an hour talking with Carter, I can’t get myself to turn in for the night before checking on the second half of the Beckett duo.
So, equipped with worry, water, and a protein bar, I head to Maison’s room.
It isn’t until after I knock that I realize there’s only a fifty percent chance I’m remembering the location of his room correctly. Luck must be on my side though because it’s Maison who opens the door with a grumpy look and a near-empty bottle of whiskey hanging from his fingers. His expression softens when he sees that it’s me, his voice low and raspy when he says, “Hey you.”
“Hey. I’ve been worried about you. Thought I’d come check in.”
He tries to wave the statement off with the hand holding the bottle, causing alcohol to slosh in the bottom of it. “Don’t need to worry ’bout me.”
“Yeah, I’m not buying that.”
“Nolan,” he says in exasperation, raking his fingers through his hair. “I don’t want you worryin’. Just—go, okay? Go ’way. Go to bed. ’S late.”
“Maison,” I say with a level of exasperation that at least matches his own, if not doubles it. “I’m too worried to deal with your bullshit. Move out of the way.”
He sputters, but when I step forward, he moves to avoid a collision. I take a few steps inside to make it clear I plan on staying before turning around and raising a brow at him. He stares at the door for a few seconds before closing it with a heavy sigh of defeat.
