Page 65 of Inferno

I feel like an old man in comparison. My own dick is still recovering from blowing my load in his tight ass, and yet his has barely softened after coming at least five or six times in the last hour.

For the first time in days, doubt fills my mind. This boy, my boy, is twenty-two, barely an adult. Since the day we met, I’ve ordered him around, used his body like it’s mine to direct, and even started to condition his behavior. He’s gone along with everything I’ve done, and I’m not sure if that’s because this iswhat he wants or because I’ve barely given him a choice with the way I’ve pursued him.

Have I fallen for him, or am I grooming him to behave the way I want him to?

Fuck.

No. No, I’m not doing to him what I did to Gabe. I haven’t moved him in—even though the idea of him living in that tiny basement storage room makes me feel ill. I haven’t told him to give up his job or insisted that I can take care of him and that all he needs is me.

I haven’t given him unreasonable rules or ever done anything that he hasn’t been one hundred percent onboard with. But didn’t I feel the same with my relationship with Gabe? Until he told me how unhappy, how stifled, and how abused he felt, I had no idea that I was even doing anything wrong.

I’ve been to therapy. I’m self-aware. I know how to balance being a Dom and being a boyfriend. Henry might be young, but he’s an adult who has been on his own for years. I’m not taking advantage of him.

Despite my silent assurances, doubt still squirms uncomfortably in my gut. Taking care of Henry and making sure he’s happy and healthy and cared for is my only priority. So instead of spreading his legs wide and slamming my cock back into him, I slowly release my hold on his cock and shuffle down the bed, standing and heading for the bathroom without looking back.

THIRTEEN

HENRY

Confused,I watch as Anders climbs out of bed and turns his back on me, walking into the bathroom without even glancing at me. Cold, confused fear makes goose bumps pebble over my skin, and for the first time since we came up to his room and he told me to strip, I feel awkward being naked.

Sucking in gulps of air, I try to regulate my breathing, feeling stupid for being so worked up when he just walked away like nothing important had happened. Did I do something wrong? He kissed me, then jerked me until I came. I don’t think I put my hands anywhere I shouldn’t have, but then I don’t know where it’d be normal to put my hands. Did I do something weird?

Is it weird that I’ve lost count of how many times I’ve come tonight?

He’s only come once—inside of me.

I’ve lost control of myself several times already, but I’m confident that the moment he steps back into the room and I see his perfectly chiseled body, I’ll be hard as a rock again.

Does he think I haven’t enjoyed myself? Is my dick constantly being hard an insult?

God, why don’t I know more about sex? Why don’t I have any gay friends to ask about this?

Anal sex is…mind-blowing. I expected it to hurt, and it did a little, but mainly it felt like a million orgasms rolling into one long one that started all over again every time he hit that spot inside of me.

I’m not a virgin anymore. I had sex. No, I had great sex, and now I might have ruined it, and I don’t know why.

The urge to move, to find my clothes and rush to the spare room I slept in the last time I was here, fills me, but as I push up, intent on leaving, Anders strides back into the bedroom, his expression dark and foreboding.

“What are you doing?” he snarls, turning angry eyes on my half-sat-up position.

“I was…” Anything I was going to say dissolves in the face of his anger.

“Were you going to leave?” he demands.

“I—”

Cutting me off before I can utter a word, he prowls toward me, looming over me like an angry demon. “You do not leave after sex. Ever. You don’t even move until I give you permission. Do you hear me, Boy?”

I nod.

“Words. Tell me you understand.”

“I understand,” I squeak.

“Lie back down.”

Flopping onto my back, I bury my fingers into the sheets, my knuckles turning white with how hard I’m gripping them.

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