Page 93 of The Associate
Before Samuel could process the enormity of that promise, the world pivoted. Strong hands gripped his shoulders, turning him around. Suddenly, his back was pressed to Gael’s solid chest, his own face staring out at the empty living room.
Gael’s hands began to move.
They started at Samuel’s wrists, sliding up the tender skin of his inner arms with a slow, maddening gentleness. Every nerve ending there sang, raising a forest of goosebumps in their wake.
The touch was hypnotic. Samuel’s eyes fluttered closed. His head, heavy with confusion and a dawning, desperate want, fell back against Gael’s shoulder with a soft thud.
“Yes…” Gael’s whisper was a hot breath against the shell of his ear. “Relax… just feel…”
The hands reached his shoulders, kneading the tense muscles briefly before moving to the front. They slid down Samuel’s chest, palms flat against the soft cotton of his t-shirt, following the contours of his ribs, the dip of his sternum.
Samuel’s breath hitched, stuttering in his throat. The touch was everywhere and nowhere, a tantalizing ghost through the fabric.
Then the hands reached the hem of his shirt. Fingers hooked into the material. There was a pause, a question in the stillness.
Samuel’s need answered for him. His arms rose of their own volition, straight up, a gesture of utter surrender. He wassuddenly, violently desperate for the shirt to be gone, for that touch to be on his skin, real and undeniable.
Gael pulled the shirt up and over his head in one smooth motion. The sound of the soft cotton hitting the floor was obscenely loud. The cool air of the apartment whispered over his bare torso, but he barely felt it. His skin was alight, humming.
Gael’s hands returned, landing flat on his stomach. The touch was electric, skin on skin. One hand drifted upwards, tracing a slow, circling path until his thumb brushed over Samuel’s left nipple. The sensation was a bolt of pure, sharp pleasure. Samuel gasped, arching his back, pressing his chest into the teasing touch, a silent plea for more.
The other hand continued its southward journey. Fingers found the button of his jeans. The metallic snick of it opening was a tiny sound in the quiet room.
A flash of panic, bright and instinctual, burst in his chest.
Wrong. Sick. Sin.
The old warnings shrieked for a fraction of a second.
They were silenced instantly as Gael’s mouth descended on his neck. A claiming bite, right over the pounding pulse at the junction of his neck and shoulder. The sharp, bright pain was a perfect counterpoint to the building pleasure.
Samuel cried out, a ragged sound, and turned his head to the side, offering more of his throat, an invitation written in the arch of his spine. Gael took the offering, his mouth searing a path, sucking a mark into the sensitive skin until Samuel saw stars behind his closed eyelids, his mind going blank and white with sensation.
His jeans and underwear were pushed down in one firm motion, pooling around his ankles like fallen flags. The chill of the air on his bare legs and ass was a distant observation. His entire universe had condensed to the mouth on his neck, the hand on his chest, and the roaring inferno in his blood.
Then, the world upended again.
A powerful shove between his shoulder blades sent him stumbling forward. He threw his hands out, catching himself on the high, padded back of the sofa, his body bent at the waist. His eyes flew open, shock scrambling his thoughts.
What?
Before the question could form, the first blow landed.
A sharp, crisp, open-handed slap across the curve of his right buttock.
The sound was a startling crack in the silent apartment.
Samuel froze. Every muscle in his body locked. His mind went utterly, completely blank. His heart gave a single, hard, painful thud against his ribs. He felt the impact blossom; a stinging, hot flower of sensation that spread across his skin. It wasn’t the deep, bruising pain of the lash from his memories. This was… bright. Surface. Startling.
What is going on?his mind whispered, dazed and disconnected.
The second slap came, a mirror image on his left cheek. Another bloom of heat.
“Oh!” The sound escaped him, high with surprise, with confusion.
This was… this was wrong. This was punishment. Pain was punishment. Pain was for sinners, for the wicked, for the boywho kissed another boy in the dark. Pain was the language of his shame, the currency of his worthlessness. He had to stop this. He had to…
He was hard.
