Page 19 of Collin: Episodes 1-3
Someone, it smelled like Mr. Moreau, crouched down beside him. “Panic attack. You’re right.”
“Collin, do you know why you’re scared?”
Collin shuddered. “I told Damian. I told him. I told him.”
“What did you tell him?”
“He told me he couldn’t stop. That if he stopped he wasn’t strong enough to get back up again and start over.”
Collin lifted his head. Damian stood in the doorway, dressed in a suit, briefcase in one hand. All the fear came rushing back, up to Collin’s head, but it stopped, right below the base of his neck and rolled through him, as if Mr. Reevesworth’s crushing embrace wouldn’t let it fly loose.
Why can’t I be like Damian?
Cool. Collected. Successful Damian.
Tears burned in Collin’s eyes and rolled down his cheeks.
“Collin, do you want Richard to let you go?”
Collin shook his head. Inside Mr. Reevesworth’s crushing embrace, he wasn’t anything. But the minute the man let go, Collin would have to be Collin again.
“Collin, we’re going to move you to the bed, okay?” Mr. Moreau placed his palm on the side of Collin’s face. “Richard will still hold you, but we need to check you, and if Richard’s going to hold you like that, the bed is a better place. Understand?”
He didn’t, really. But he also didn’t want to use words. So he nodded.
Collin floated for a long time, his head on Mr. Reevesworth’s thigh, the man’s other leg pressed against his back. At some point, he’d been so tired, as if his heart had beat itself into exhaustion, he’d slumped down and rested there with at least five heavy blankets over his shoulders.
Maybe he’d even slept. He wasn’t sure. All he’d known was that the world had gone quiet. Just the sound of Mr. Reevesworth’s heartbeat under his ear.
“Collin.”
“Sir?” He blinked his eyes open.
“Drink, Collin.”
A straw appeared in front of Collin’s face. He wrapped his lips around it and drank. It tasted like juice and salt.
“Enough, Collin. Head down.”
“I—”
“Are you trying to worry again, Collin?”
“I—” Collin dropped his head on Mr. Reevesworth’s thigh. “I’m an adult, sir. This is—I shouldn’t?—”
“Collin, do you require additional assistance to lay aside your worries?”
Yes. The word hung in the air between them. Collin pressed his face into Mr. Reevesworth’s leg. If he closed his eyes hard enough, if he could hang in this moment of no sound, if he could just hold on to this warmth and the press of another body against his but not have to acknowledge it, not have to deal with the complications and implications.
A hand rested on his head and turned him so that his face met air. “Collin, do you know what power exchange is?”
“Yes, sir. I mean, a little, sir. But you’re married, sir. And I shouldn’t be here. I would never?—”
“My husband is sitting on a chair, near the door, watching us, Collin. One could hardly say that you are tempting me into untoward dalliances.”
Collin shivered and forced his eyes open. Mr. Moreau was sitting on a white chair, a book in his hand, near the door. He nodded at Collin and looked back down at his page.
“Power exchange is not, in and of itself, sexual, Collin. It can be. And I will not lie to you. I am sexual with men other than Émeric, as he well knows. He also consorts with those other than myself. All known to me. That is not what I am speaking to you of in this moment. Earlier, when you wanted me to hold you so you couldn’t move and it gave you rest—that was power exchange.”
