Page 95 of The Associate
But Gael was only gone for a moment. He returned, a simple plastic bottle of lotion in his hand. The relief that flooded Samuel was so potent it brought a fresh prick of tears to his eyes. He hadn’t been abandoned.
Gael sat on the edge of the bed, the mattress dipping with his weight. He squeezed a dollop of cool lotion into his palm, rubbing his hands together to warm it. Then, with a touch so gentle it was almost a whisper, he began to apply it to Samuel’s heated, tender skin.
The lotion was cool, soothing. Gael’s palms were broad and warm, kneading the sore muscles with a care that felt devotional in its tenderness. He worked in slow, circular motions, covering every inch of punished flesh, every welt and flush of color, with the balm.
And that’s when the tears came.
They welled up silently at first, spilling over his lashes to track hot paths down his temples and into his hair. Then a sob caught in his chest, and another. He wasn’t crying from the hurt. The pain was a distant memory, transformed by this kindness. He was crying from the tenderness itself. From the shock of being handled with such care after being so thoroughly dominated. From the sheer, incomprehensible gift of not being left alone in the aftermath.
A memory, sharp as a shard of glass, bloomed in his mind: The cold, sterile smell of a medic’s room at The Hills. The bite of cheap, stinging antiseptic being dabbed roughly onto the lashes on his back. The counselor’s detached, monotone voice:“It shall pass. The flesh must be purified so the spirit may follow.”
The memory tried to pull him under, to drag him back into that cold room with the clinical light and the feeling of being a contaminated object.
But Gael was there.
His hand never stopped its gentle, rhythmic motion. His other hand came up to brush the tears from Samuel’s cheek.
“Stay with me,” he murmured, his voice a low, steady anchor in the rising tide of the past. “You’re here. With me. I’ve got you.”
The words were a lifeline. The touch was a tether. The past had the memory, but Gael had the present. Samuel clung to it, his sobs subsiding into shaky hiccups as he fought his way back, focusing on the feel of the lotion, the smell of Gael’s skin, the solid reality of the bed beneath him.
Exhaustion, deeper than any he had ever known, settled into his bones. The emotional whiplash of the day had emptied him completely.
Gael finished applying the lotion, wiping his hands on a towel. Then he lay down beside Samuel on the narrow bed, gathering him close, tucking Samuel’s head under his chin. He wrapped his arms around him, a living fortress against the world and the ghosts within it.
Enveloped in that warmth, that safety, that unshakeable presence, Samuel’s breathing finally evened out. The last of the tension bled from his muscles. The ghosts receded, silenced by the steady beat of a heart against his ear.
He fell asleep quickly. And for the first time in longer than he could remember, he did not dream.
Chapter 24
Gael
Gael blinked, the world resolving in soft, late-afternoon shadows. The room was quiet, the city’s hum a distant, muffled thing beyond the windows. The air smelled of leather, of warm skin, and of a subtle scent that was not his own.
He frowned.
He never slept. Not after. Not with anyone.
It was a rule, unspoken but ironclad. Aftercare was a ritual, a clinical process of grounding, of reassurance, of checking in. It was an act of responsibility, often tender, sometimes quiet, but always performed from a place of conscious control. Once it was complete, once the submissive was settled, wrapped in a blanket, sipping water, returned to themselves, he would leave. He would go to his own room, his own space, and the door would close. The vulnerability of sleep, the uncontrolled surrender of it, was a line he did not cross. The few times when he had blurred that boundary, had ended in complications, in misplaced expectations, in a bitter aftertaste of emotional clutter he had no patience for.
The last time had been such a profound error in judgment it had solidified the rule into law.
And yet.
Here he was.
The weight on his chest was a solid, warm pressure. He turned his head on the pillow slowly.
Samuel was asleep, his head a gentle weight in the hollow of Gael’s shoulder. One arm was flung across Gael’s stomach, the hand loosely curled. In sleep, all the anxious lines had been smoothed from his face. The constant, watchful tension that pinched his brows and tightened his mouth was gone. He looked… peaceful. Calm.Young.The harsh afternoon light, filtered through sheer curtains, gilded the fine, pale hairs on his temple, the sweep of dark lashes against his cheek.
Pretty.
The word formed in Gael’s mind, unbidden and utterly insufficient. It was too soft, too trivial, for the stark, disarming beauty of the sight. But it was the only one that fit.
His gaze drifted lower, a slow, possessive inventory. The duvet had slipped down to beneath Samuel’s waist. That pale, smooth ass was exposed, the skin flushed a tender, rosy, pink from their earlier session. Lower still, one of Samuel’s thighs was thrown haphazardly over Gael’s legs.
The pale, milky curve of that thigh lay directly against him. Samuel’s knee pressed against the hardening length of Gael’s cock, still confined within his trousers.
