Page 120 of A Mistake of Worth
Marc moved back to the other chair and settled into it with languid ease, one leg crossed over the other. He watched with calculated patience, the picture of a man with all the time in the world.
“Do you need reminding of the consequences?” His voice was soft, dangerous. “Every day, every night, he’ll crawl and kneel and choke until there’s nothing left of him. Or...” He gestured lazily toward Henri’s spread body.
Michael’s stomach twisted. The choice was impossible. Touch Henri while he was gone, violate him in the worst way. Or leave him here to be destroyed slowly, piece by piece.
He stood on shaking legs, a third option crystallizing with desperate clarity. He would bring Henri back first.
Marc’s smile sharpened, satisfied, mistaking Michael’s movement for compliance.
Michael unfastened his belt with hands that didn’t feel like his own. The sound of the zipper filled the room. His cock sprang heavy into the air, flushed dark, slick at the tip. The arousal shamed him.
He crossed to Henri and bent low over him, pressing his body against his chest, burying his face against his throat. The scent of him hit, Henri’s skin, Henri’s sweat, Henri, and Michael shuddered.
Henri didn’t react. His head stayed angled away, body limp, breathing shallow. Gone.
Michael’s hand came up, fingers tracing the pattern he’d used every morning in London when Henri was still half-asleep and beautiful in the dawn light. Temple to cheekbone to jaw, gentle and deliberate, a touch Henri’s body knew even if his mind had fled.
“Get on with it,” Marc said from his chair, voice edged with impatience.
Michael ignored him, repeating the pattern. Temple to cheekbone to jaw. The same rhythm, the same pressure, the same path his fingers had traced a hundred times while Henri smiled sleepily up at him.
Henri went very still. Not the stillness of absence, but of attention suddenly caught.
Michael did it again, slower this time, more deliberate.
Henri’s head turned, no longer angled away. His nostrils flared, catching Michael’s scent. The soap he always used, the subtle cologne, the particular smell of his skin that Henri had buried his face in every night for three weeks.
Henri’s breathing changed. Quickened. His body shifted, no longer limp but tensing with recognition trying to surface through the dissociation.
Michael pressed closer, his lips finding Henri’s ear. He couldn’t speak, Marc’s rules still binding him to silence, but he breathed against Henri’s skin, let his presence speak for him.
Henri made a small sound, confused, his body trembling now with something other than fear. His lips moved, and Michael barely heard the whisper, so quiet it was almost nothing: “Michael?”
The blindfold stayed in place, but everything changed. Henri’s body came alive under Michael’s hands, no longer limp and absent. His hands reached up, finding Michael’s shoulders, gripping tight.
Michael kissed him then, hard and claiming, swallowing Henri’s quiet sob. Henri kissed back with fierce hunger, his body arching into Michael’s touch.
“Please,” Henri breathed against his mouth, the word barely audible.
Michael pushed into him, and Henri gasped, body welcoming him deeper. His legs wrapped around Michael’s waist, pulling him closer, his hands sliding up to tangle in Michael’s hair. Every movement deliberate, present, choosing this even without seeing, knowing Michael by touch and scent and the way he moved.
Michael moved in him with desperate intensity, hips driving harder than he meant, grief and rage and want tangled until he couldn’t tell one from the other. This wasn’t what he’d wanted for them. Not like this. Not with Marc watching. But Henri was here, truly here, clinging to him and gasping his name.
Henri came first, spilling hot between them, striping his stomach, a low moan torn from his throat. The sound shattered Michael. He groaned, shoved deep, and emptied inside him with a force that rattled his bones.
When he could breathe again, Michael looked down at Henri. The blindfold still covered his eyes, but his face was flushed, his breathing deep and steady.
Marc rose from his chair, stepped close, crouched beside them. His face was cold, controlled. “Who do you belong to?”
Silence stretched. Michael could feel Henri’s heart hammering against his chest, could feel the moment hanging, precarious.
Marc’s face darkened. “Say it.”
More silence. Henri’s breathing hitched once, twice. Michael held him tighter, willing him to have the strength for this final choice.
Henri’s lips parted. His voice came hoarse but steady, ringing through the room: “Michael.”
The word detonated in the silence.
