“Keats, stop where you’re at.”
He halted, the response automatic, but he wasn’t sure why he was doing it.
“I need you to hear this. What I said didn’t come out right. I’m not making fun of you. Of course you don’t know how it works because you’ve never done any of it. You don’t have to be afraid to ask me any kind of question. I’ll answer it.” He let out a long breath. “Or . . .
”
Footsteps sounded behind him. Keats stared down at the ground in front of him, his heart beating hard in his chest as Colby stopped right behind him.
“Or I’ll show you. If that’s what you want,” Colby finished.
Keats closed his eyes, some weird combination of panic and anticipation welling in him. But he didn’t dare move.
“Is it what you want?” Colby asked, his voice barely audible.
I don’t know. The words hovered in Keats’s head but wouldn’t move past his lips. Maybe. Yes . . .
Long, silent seconds stretched, and when Keats didn’t move away, Colby seemed to take that as an answer.
“Lace your fingers behind your head and keep them that way unless I tell you otherwise,” Colby said, the undercurrent of authority that always lingered in his voice brimming to the surface. “You want this to stop, you say red. Do you understand?”
Keats was convinced his heart was about to jump out of his mouth and onto the floor. He managed a nod.
“No, I need to hear you say you understand.”
Keats forced his tongue to work. “I understand. Red makes it stop.”
“Put your back against the wall.”
Keats felt himself going into some strange version of autopilot. He closed his eyes and turned, pressing his back against the wall across from the doorway to Colby’s bedroom.
“First,” Colby said, his voice close, “does this position cause any pain in your ribs?”
Mentally, Keats did a quick scan of his injuries. He was sore everywhere still, but having his hands behind his head didn’t make anything hurt worse. “No.”
“Good. I’m going to take a shower,” he said, catching Keats off guard. “This isn’t a decision to make on impulse or because your dick is hard. If you’re still here in this position when I get back, I’ll give you your first lesson. Do you understand?”
“Yes,” Keats said, his throat trying to close.
“And Keats,” Colby said, so close to Keats’s ear that he startled. “Know that if you’re still here when I get back, I’m not going to let you keep your eyes closed. You won’t be able to get away with pretending it’s some girl touching you.”
“You’re trying to freak me out,” he said, finally managing to open his eyes.
Colby’s mouth went lopsided, but there was wicked intent lingering in his eyes. “First thing to learn, Keats, what gets me off is not about fucking someone’s body, though that’s a nice part of it. If you want this, know that my end goal isn’t to get in your pants.” He pressed his fingertip to Keats’s brow then tapped. “It’s to get in here and fuck you from the inside out.”
With that, he patted Keats’s cheek and went into the bedroom, shutting the door behind him and leaving Keats standing there in the hallway.
And for the first time, Keats was truly terrified.
Giving up his body in a new way he could probably handle. It was just sex after all—gay, straight, or in between. Bodies on bodies. Physical release.
But letting someone in his head . . .
He lowered his arms to his side and did what he did best—he bailed.
TWENTY-ONE
Colby knew what he’d find when he opened his door, so he wasn’t surprised to see an empty hallway. He’d scared Keats. He’d meant to. He could tell himself it was for Keats’s own good because the kid wasn’t ready, but Colby wasn’t much for lying to himself. The move had been his own panic manifesting. He’d planned to get on his knees right there in the hallway and show Keats that even someone as dominant as him, the stereotypical “man’s man” or whatever Keats saw him as, could get a guy off and take pleasure in it.