Page 19 of Reckless

“Very good.”

His shoulders slackened a little at the praise. Interesting.

“May I touch you?” I asked.

“Uhhh…like…?”

“My hand on your back,” I clarified.

“Sure.” He still sounded uncertain.

I placed my palm at the small of his back. His shirt was warm and slightly damp. His muscles bunched under my touch, then gradually relaxed.

“Bend over the desk, please.” I exerted a small amount of pressure and felt him start to bend at the waist. But he stopped.

“I don’t…” He cleared his throat. “There’s still people out there.”

“There are,” I agreed. And waited.

“I don’t think I want to do this here.” He hadn’t taken his hands off his head. Hadn’t straightened all the way either.

“Alright,” I said softly. “You can put your arms down.”

He did it slowly and turned to face me just as slowly. He met my eye for a moment, then stared at the floor.

“Thank you for telling me,” I said.

His gaze lifted again, something close to outrage in it. He glanced away, muttering, “You sure say ‘thank you’ a lot.”

“I was raised to be polite.” I was mildly amused, and more than a little worried that I’d fucked up. “I said thank you because this is an important rule.” I watched him closely for signs that he might like following rules as much as I liked setting them. His spine stiffened, just a little. “If you’re ever uncomfortable with anything we do, just tell me.”

He gave a short nod. “’kay.”

I glanced towards the door. “We should head back out there.”

“Later?” The word came out of him hoarse, clotted. He coughed. “Could we…could we meet up later?”

I offered a slight smile as something in me lifted. “Certainly.”

Another nod.

We were standing so close. I reached out and set my hand on the small of his back again. And then I heard the smallest, most perfect hitch in his breathing. Felt that warmth again, the promise of how good it would feel to run my hands over bare skin. I gave him a light rub, then let my hand fall to my side.

“Later,” I promised softly.

Chapter 7

ROBBIE

It wasn’t that I’d hated the idea of letting Alastair do whatever to me in the back of the old church. In fact, there was something about it—the thought of someone overhearing us or wondering why Alastair and I had been back there so long—that helped scratch the itch I was always trying to reach. That edge of fear, that slight metallic tang in my mouth, the sense that I was putting my future in the hands of fate.

Trouble was, I craved it as long as I didn’t have to be myself, as long as I could get lost so completely in sensation that I ceased to have an identity. But to bend over a desk for Alastair with half the island milling on the other side of the door, and to know, with way too much clarity, that I was Robbie Finch, and that this was the church I’d been coming to every Saturday night since I was born, and these were the people I had to get on with if I wanted to keep living on Dauntless…

I couldn’t do it.

Couldn’t do what Alastair wanted.

Who would I be if I went to Alastair’s place tonight?