Chapter 8

Walking into his own loft was usually a soothing experience. But not today. Every flaw, its unsuitability for the boy he’d insisted on carrying up the three flights to his fourth-floor door, hit him squarely with Wren standing next to him in the expansive living area. Too dark, too cold, too much that the boy would feel compelled to take care of. A chair still pushed back from the library table, the coffee mug he’d left in the sink, the pot inexplicably still on, filled with old coffee.

At least removing the temptation should be fairly simple.

He pointed to the sofa. “Sit.”

Wren’s fingers stilled on his opposite wrist. He moved like water flowing down a mountain streambed, unerringly toward his destination. The unselfconscious grace of his movements, when given a direct order, was remarkable. As if everything in him were hardwired to submission.

Tightness at the base of his spine, an uncomfortable awareness of his own body, jerked him out of contemplation of Wren’s graceful form, the slope of thighs as they met a gently swaying posterior. He held the kettle under the faucet as he flicked on the gas burner to occupy himself. The hiss filled the too quiet loft. He stared into the middle distance, not really knowing why he was putting the kettle on.

What does Wren like?

He never ate in the bar with the other submissives, apparently preferring to come and go unseen from his duties in Jared’s loft before ensconcing himself back in Noah’s guest bedroom where he did… Whatever twenty-five-year olds did to pass the time. Not video games, Wren avoided electronics—he’d never even seen him pull out a phone—but there had been a specific request for books from Noah which were different from the man’s usual tastes.

After flicking the tap off, he put the kettle on the stove. Sweets didn’t seem to be to the boy’s liking. He’d foregone cake at Noah’s wedding. So not cocoa. Maybe herbed tea would be good. Caffeine wouldn’t be, but something soothing, a mug to hold in his hands would keep him from making a worry stone of that damned string.

“Do you prefer chamomile or peppermint tea?” Glancing over his shoulder he awaited the boy’s response.

Perched on the couch like a bird ready to fly at the first sign of trouble, Wren frowned as if he’d been asked for the answer to the meaning of life. “My aunt liked mint tea. I used to make it for her sometimes and she’d drink it while she watched me place bets online. She said it was her lucky tea. Though how tea could affect probability, I never could figure out. But some people…” He trailed off, his eyes meeting Jared’s raised brow gaze. “Um. Noah likes chamomile when he’s sick? So, maybe that? Except if you don’t have honey it’s all right, but he likes honey. That we agree on, except I like mine from a local place because it tastes like vanilla.”

Jared licked his lips, opened his mouth to tell the boy that the ten-minute monologue on tea wasn’t necessary, but that bit at the end had him reconsidering. If it took the boy that long to get to a bit of personal information, he’d deal with the chatter, as long as the process produced results.

“Tea with honey, then.” Grabbing two black stoneware mugs, he decided against asking Wren if he would prefer a china cup.

God only knew what stream of consciousness babbling that request would prompt, but he knew he didn’t have the wherewithal to keep track. No wonder Noah had issued strict speech restrictions when Wren had first arrived. Carrying a cup for each of them, he set them on the low table and considered Wren. The bandage taped to his forehead was partially obscured by the matted bangs. Something he’d fix as soon as he had Noah’s boy settled.

“Sit back, relax. I won’t bite.” He smiled, but had a feeling the tight expression held little comfort.

Wren darted a glance to the door. “I’ll be okay by myself. I don’t want to be any trouble, and it’s not like I haven’t taken care of myself when Noah hasn’t been home—”

Palm pressed over warm flesh, moist lips going still under Jared’s hand nearly made him forget what he’d been about to say. Blood pulsed low and hard, entering his dick like a punch. He pressed into the discomfort, forcing Wren back against the cushions, needing to control something, if only the boy’s mouth. “You’ll stay where I want you. Go where I tell you, when I tell you. Understood?”

Eyes wide, Wren nodded.

One knee on the couch, he fought the urge to move his palm over flared nostrils, to drink in the moment of fear that would follow. Struggles that would tighten lithe muscles beneath his hands until the boy sagged and he parted his fingers to let him inhale cold, precious, perfect breaths.

Jared dropped his hand, moving to the other end of the sofa, his “Drink up your tea, boy,” a little too gruff.

Without hesitation, Wren lifted the cup. Took a full mouthful of the scalding beverage. Then continued to drink.

Horror spiked through him at the way the boy followed his orders to the letter. He jerked forward, knocking the mug clear of Wren’s fingers before he could take another mouthful. “Fuck, boy. Do you have any sense in your head?”

Wren’s already red face turned blotchy as his eyes filled with tears. The mug rolled across the Oriental carpet, spreading a dark stain over the crimson and cream pattern. Wren scrambled after it, a distressed cry escaping his lips. Standing, Jared moved to the stain and covered it with his boot, so his foot filled the boy’s view.

On all fours, Wren froze, breaths coming quicker. Slowly sat back on his knees, in wait position, his arms behind his back, gaze lowered.

“Hm.” Tapping two fingers under the boy’s chin, Jared compelled him to lift his head. “Open.”

Brown eyes darkened and pink lips parted.

Cupping Wren’s chin, Jared pulled out his penlight, then bent to peer in his mouth. “Show me.”

As Wren stuck out the pert length of his glistening tongue, Jared shone the light, examining for blisters. There was no apparent damage other than overly red oral mucosa.

“Let’s see if we can make you think twice about abusing yourself, boy.” He straightened, issuing the hand command for stay. Leaving Wren there, Jared went to the kitchen to collect six ice cubes in a cup. Returned, pointing to the couch. “Up.”

Wren scrambled up.

Jared sat, pulling him into his lap, one arm around his shoulders, and tipped the boy’s head back to gently extend his neck. “Open.”

Sweet lips parted, the boy’s submission to him absolutely beautiful. No reservations. He’d have to be more careful with the gift in the future—there was little self-preservation instinct in this one. A diamond in the rough that could be polished to exquisite brightness if handled correctly.

Trailing the ice over the tiny dent at the middle of a lush lower lip, he smiled when Wren shifted on his lap, the round softness of his bottom an invitation he did his best to ignore. Ice chilled his fingers, cold water running down his wrist to dampen his shirt cuff as he pressed the cube in the boy’s mouth and withdrew it in a rhythmic motion. Water dribbled down that rounded chin, a tempting trail that suggested dirtier uses.

“Hold it in your mouth. Don’t swallow.”

Full lips puckered into a compliant pout, Wren’s cheeks hollowed, drawing the cube from his fingers.

Taking the next cube, Jared used his other hand to unbutton the boy’s trousers. Palming the ice, he slid his oh so naked fingers past the constriction of elastic and cloth, pushed aside the length of hard flesh to grasp a handful of beautifully firm balls, and pressed the ice against the underside of Wren’s sac.

“Three swallows. Six cubes. We’ll continue until they’re all melted.”

Head tossing minutely, Wren whimpered as more water dribbled down his chin.

The ice melted, turning to a shard, and he withdrew his hand to pluck the next cube from the glass. “Open. Don’t swallow.”

Wren wiggled against him, opening his mouth, keeping his head tipped back to contain the melted ice water.

Jared pressed the next cube between his lips, then tapped his chin to close them.

The next chunk, he slid between softly fuzzed ass cheeks and pressed against a compliant hole.

Wren opened to him without his having to ask, and he murmured his “Such a good boy” against his ear as he pushed the ice inside. “You’ll never hurt yourself, so stupidly, unthinkingly again, will you?”

A minute shake of Wren’s head, sorrowful brown eyes telling him everything he needed to know. The lesson was getting through.