Page 23 of At His Wife's Behest

Connor watched him escape up the stairs, not missing the backward glance at the top. He smiled to himself, eager to see where the week took them.

Kellan collapsed on the bed, lifting one hand to brush against his lips, still swollen from the kiss. He fought a smile, his stomach in knots. Lust whispered naughty things in his mind, demanding he rush to Connor’s bedroom and see where another kiss mighttake them. Fear kept him where he was. He rose, pulled back the bedding, and slipped under the covers.

As exhausted as he was, he couldn’t sleep. Not with thoughts of the man sharing the house with him running rampant. He heard Connor pass his door and move down the hall.Must be sleeping in the room Emma and I shared last time.

He had a location. He had desire and what appeared to be a willing partner.

What he didn’t have was nerve.

His inner voice was fed up.Just get up and go in there. You saw the look in his eyes.

And what if I’m wrong?

You’re not wrong.

Kellan ignored the angry voice in his head. He rolled to his side and attempted sleep—and failed. An hour passed, his body aching and cock hardening as he replayed the kiss over and over again in his mind, along with images of Connor in his little swim brief. Reaching under his pants, he stroked his shaft, closing his eyes and imagining it was Connor’s hand.

Silently, he brought himself to the edge, as he’d done time and time again to seek relief from his self-imposed solitude. If he’d been stronger, he’d have lived a life of freedom. But he wasn’t strong. Never had been.

His father’s voice whispered in his mind, telling him he was weak. His erection retreated short of release. Hewasweak. Too weak to walk away when he should’ve. Too weak to be the man he wanted to be.

Too weak to love whomever he wanted.

“You’re pathetic,” he whispered to himself, the sting of tears coming to the backs of his eyes. Another of his father’s many complaints—how emotional he could be. He wore his feelings on his sleeve, unable to shutter the easy flow. Years of beatings hadn’t made him stop, no matter how hard his father had tried. No matter how badly he wanted to protect himself from more of the same.

After an hour of silently berating himself, sleep finally claimed him.

5

Connor was up with the sun, which was absolutely not his usual MO. He was habitually late to work, no matter how much he wanted to get there on time. After traveling, his sleep schedule was screwed. He hated to think what it would be like when he returned home but he could deal with that when it came. He intended to fully enjoy Italy and live in the moment.

Upon arriving downstairs, he scented coffee and groaned with joy. Fully expecting Kellan, he found Ana Maria puttering around the kitchen. A small tray of pastry sat on the island, as well as a bowl of cut fruit. She caught him sneaking a pastry and smiled.“Buongiorno.”

“Buongiorno,”he repeated before taking a bite. He groaned again, the pastry melting over his tongue.

Ana Maria chuckled.

“Caffé,” she said, pointing to an ancient looking set of brass pots stacked one upon the other. “Cena,” she paused shaking her head.“Supperis in fridge.”

“Grazie,” he murmured.

“Prego,” she replied, drying her hands in her apron. She waved. “I come back tomorrow. Ciao.”

“Ciao.”

Connor poured himself a cup and snagged a bit of fruit to go along with the rest of his pastry. Before he was done, Kellan appeared.

“You’ve been busy.”

“Not me,” Connor replied. “Ana Maria is a saint.”

“Ahh, I didn’t know she would be coming again,” Kellan said, eyeing the display.

Connor took his plate and cup to the table they’d used the night before. “She left dinner in the fridge, too.”

“A saint, indeed.” Kellan bypassed the island and poured himself a cup of coffee. He took a seat at the table across from Connor, his gaze drifting outside.

“Not hungry?”

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