Page 17 of A Mistake of Worth
Henri obeyed without thinking, his body responding to that quiet command. The weight of the jacket slipped from his shoulders, and he heard Michael toss it onto a nearby chair.
Henri’s muscles tensed as he automatically moved to retrieve the jacket. Marc would be livid at such careless treatment of designer clothing, expecting it to be properly folded or hung, but Michael caught his arm, dragging him back with gentle insistence.
Michael caught his arm, pulling him back gently. “Leave it.”
Henri nodded, dizzy from the permission to let something be messy.
“Good boy,” Michael said, cupping Henri’s cheek. The praise held no hidden barbs, no cruel undertones. Henri leaned into it, his walls crumbling.
“Have you showered?” Michael asked, fingers teasing Henri’s shirt hem.
“Not since arriving this morning,” Henri admitted.
“Let’s fix that.” Michael guided him to the bed’s edge, kneeling to remove Henri’s shoes and socks. The intimacy jolted Henri—Marc would never kneel, never undress him with care.
Marc had torn the clothes from him. Cut them off his body with a knife and scissors… but never this deliberate undressing. Michael’s hands were steady and sure, almost reverent. The casual domesticity of it made Henri’s chest tight.
Michael stood, toeing off his own shoes and socks before his hands slipped under Henri’s shirt, sliding up his abs before lifting the fabric over his head. The shirt joined the jacket on the chair, followed quickly by Michael’s own.
Henri’s pulse raced as Michael undid his belt. Each piece of clothing fell under Michael’s appreciative gaze. “Beautiful,” Michael murmured, hands gliding down Henri’s sides. “Fucking beautiful.”
The praise made Henri’s head spin. Michael pulled him to his feet, fingers brushing the bruises on Henri’s hips. Henri tensed, snapped from his haze.
Michael’s smirk was knowing. “Someone likes it rough,” he said, fingers tracing the marks.
Henri forced a laugh, trying to ignore how desperately he wished those bruises had come from Michael. “What can I say? I enjoy a good time.”
“Seeing anyone seriously?” Michael’s breath was hot against his ear.
“No,” Henri said quickly. It wasn’t a lie—Marc wasn’t a relationship.
“Good.” Michael’s voice was a dark vow. “I don’t share.”
Michael guided Henri into the spacious shower, reaching past him to adjust the temperature. Henri’s breath caught when Michael reached for his shampoo, surprise flickering through him. No one had washed his hair since his mother, decades ago.
“What are you doing?” Henri asked, voice soft, uncertain.
Michael’s lips curved, eyes warm. “Taking care of you. I want to.” His fingers worked the shampoo into Henri’s scalp, gentle but firm, each stroke unraveling Henri’s tension.
Henri’s eyes widened. He knew couples did this—shared these intimate, caring acts. But he never had. Never thought he would. The tenderness was foreign, overwhelming. As Michael massaged his temples, his neck, an unexpected moan slipped through Henri’s teeth.
Michael’s gaze darkened, reverent. “Fuck, I love that sound from you.”
Henri flushed, his cock thickening at the praise in Michael’s voice. The reverence made his chest ache, desire curling low in his belly.
The conditioner followed, Michael’s hands just as careful. Henri leaned against Michael’s chest, surrendering to this strange gentleness. Michael’s lips grazed his neck as he lathered a loofah.
Henri tensed as Michael’s soapy hands moved down his back, knowing what he’d find. Michael’s fingers paused over the raised welts striping Henri’s shoulders and spine, marks he couldn’t reach with cream after arriving.
“Someone really likes it rough,” Michael murmured, voice thick with approval. His touch stayed gentle, tracing the welts with reverence.
When Michael’s fingers ghosted over his entrance, Henri caught his wrists, heat flooding his cheeks. “Wait,” he managed. “I-I need to...”
The memory slammed into him—sixteen, pinned face-down, that lingering, searing pain. Marc’s voice:“Disgusting. From now on, you will be clean and prepared for me. I won’t tolerate filth again.”
Shame had seared into Henri’s bones. Preparation was private, hidden, because it was filthy.
Michael’s teeth grazed his neck, followed by a slow, deliberate sucking that made Henri gasp. “This is what I want to do,” Michael murmured against the fresh mark. “Shouldn’t you be clean everywhere for me?”
