Page 26 of A Mistake of Worth
Marc’s voice poured through the phone. “God, look at you. Already twitching. Can’t even take a toy without falling apart. Pathetic.”
Michael caught Henri’s eye. The moment locked them together across the room, cutting through Marc’s words. Slowly, deliberately, Michael slid his hand over his own cock, stroking himself with silent reverence. Then he mouthed,Look at me.
Henri’s chin trembled. He nodded.
His hand twitched, drifting toward his own cock, but Marc’s sharp snarl made him freeze. “Don’t you dare. This isn’t for you.”
Henri dropped his hands back to the mattress. But he didn’t look away from Michael.
Michael kept stroking himself, slow and sure, never breaking eye contact.Beautiful, he mouthed.Perfect. Mine.
Henri’s breath hitched.
Marc’s voice droned on. Degradation, command, control. But Michael refused to hear it. Instead, he filled the space between them with unspoken praise.You’re doing so well. I’m here. You’re safe.
The toy buzzed louder, more insistent. Henri’s hips jerked, his back arching with effort and shame and something else, something deeper. He was trembling now, not just with stimulation, but with restraint.
Still, he didn’t break eye contact.
Michael mouthed,You’re strong. Come for me.
Henri broke with a silent sob, his body convulsing as he came. His tears spilled freely, chest heaving, but still he watched Michael. He didn’t look away.
Michael let go with a growl, stroking himself through the edge and spilling across his fist. He mouthed,Good boy,just as Henri shivered and flushed at the words.
The call ended abruptly. Marc’s angry voice cut off. The sudden silence was deafening.
Michael immediately reached for the phone, verifying the screen had gone dark, the connection fully severed.
Then he moved to Henri’s side, reaching for the toy, but Henri caught his wrist.
“Wait,” he whispered. “It won’t stop until he’s done. He’s angry I... that I finished so quickly.”
Michael’s hand hovered, fury lashing through him at the idea that Henri’s pleasure, his release, was considered a punishable offense. That someone had taken something so intimate and turned it into a weapon.
But he said nothing.
Instead, Michael sat beside Henri and wrapped them both in the heavy hotel comforter, drawing the edges tight around their bodies. One hand stroked slow, grounding circles over Henri’s chest; the other smoothed damp strands of hair from his forehead.
Henri shook in his arms, overworked nerves fraying under the assault. Involuntary twitches ran through his thighs. The tight clench of his jaw showed his determination not to make a sound, but tears still fell, silent and unchecked, streaking down his cheeks and across Michael’s bare skin.
Michael pressed his lips to Henri’s temple, holding him closer. The idea that Henri was being punished for climaxing, for responding to his own body, for needing, boiled something dark in his chest. Rage, yes. But also helplessness.
Then Henri’s phone chimed again. The sound made Henri flinch.
Michael leaned over and checked the message. “He wants a picture,” Michael said flatly. “Of the toy. Still inside you.”
Henri let out a small, defeated exhale. “Of course he does.”
Henri moved, sluggish and mechanical, as though this was just one more thing to endure. He shifted his hips slightly, adjusted the blanket, and took the photo with a trembling hand. The shutter sounded loud in the silence. A second later, he hit send.
Marc’s response came seconds later.
Good.
Michael pulled him back to his chest, burying his face in Henri’s damp curls. “I hate him,” he whispered.
Henri didn’t respond. He just nodded against Michael’s chest, lashes wet, expression blank. Time slipped, dragged, stretched painfully long as they waited. Michael kept holding him, kept murmuring wordless comforts, fingers tracing slow paths down his side.
