Well, there’s your answer, isn’t it? You gave him what he needed, and it doesn’t mean a goddamned thing.
A cold, sick feeling gnawed at him. This was . . . this wasn’t something he could stomach. As a submissive, James laid it all out, surrendering and baring himself in every way, trusting his Dom to push those vulnerable limits and then bring him back, safe and intact. Nick had been emphatic about aftercare, about easing James back to terra firma, but what about Cal? Shouldn’t he have had the same right to walk away at the end of the night without feeling like this? Like he’d been the one to surrender, bare himself, make himself vulnerable, only to be shut out and sent away, as unneeded and unwanted as the used-up condom?
Cal forced back the ache in his throat. He needed a drink. A distraction. Damn it, he needed James to welcome him into that big bed and hold him, but that wasn’t going to happen, so he didn’t even let himself fantasise about it. He paused in the hallway only long enough to step awkwardly into his shoes before he hurried downstairs and got the hell out of the main house. He still felt odd, concerned about the whole aftercare thing, but James was in bed, had water, and would likely just fall asleep. Cal had done everything Nick had taught him to do, and any attempt to do more would just be met with more rejection.
James would be fine. He wasn’t going on any late-night excursions, either. No fucking Market Garden.
And tomorrow was Cal’s day off, which meant he could have a drink to settle his queasy stomach.
Back in his cottage, he poured himself three fingers of whiskey and started the computer. There was no way in hell he could find words tonight, but he could leave the file open and the monitor on to guilt-trip himself about it. It would be a distraction, anyway. He hoped.
Tumbler in hand, he opened his email. His critique group had started the discussion of his literary novel-in-progress. With a sinking feeling, he quickly went through the emails, which ranged from “sorry, no time, real life is crazy” to the self-styled super-talent telling him “I’d keep that day job a while longer. This is pretentious shit.”
Bitch. Just because she’d published a couple short stories somewhere.
Normally, he’d have been okay to engage that woman, telling her that literary fiction didn’t necessarily follow the same rules as whatever writing workshop or cheap how-to book was sitting in her craw at the moment. But he didn’t. He simply didn’t have the energy to defend himself or his chapter.
He took a sip of whiskey. So strange; less than an hour ago, he’d been flying high, James had been in the stratosphere, and now everything had turned to shit.
What if James wanted a repeat?
He took another mouthful, warmth spreading in his throat and chest but somehow never quite reaching any of the places that had begun to feel cold and inert.
Ten years ago, he’d have written a poem in this state. He’d killed plenty of wine and pages and written hundreds of dreadful poems. The day they’d accepted him in the Birkbeck course, he’d sworn to himself to make an honest, serious go of it and had torn the lot up and thrown it out. New start and all that. He wouldn’t regress into writing more of that crap.
So what if James wanted more?
More sex, more humiliation, his inner voice clarified. Not that other thing, Cal, don’t be stupid.
Yeah, what then? Could he keep James out of Market Garden and his own damned heart out of it? He could be . . . a driver with benefits. Four-wheeled sex god and nothing more. He chuckled, but the sound hurt. The thought hurt like a son of a bitch, and somehow, he was close to tears and had no idea when that had happened.
He pressed the whiskey glass against his forehead and just focused on that cool contact. Concentrated on it like he could turn it into a focal point for all the bullshit running through his brain.
Physically, he was exhausted. Emotionally, he was wrung out in a way he’d never felt before. The alcohol wasn’t helping. Neither was the cold, or writing, or thinking.
The only option left besides breaking down was sleep.
But somehow, he didn’t think he’d be sleeping tonight.
Though his temples were throbbing from both the liquor and the lack of sleep, Cal got up early the next morning. It was his day off, which meant he didn’t need to be anywhere near James, so he got the hell away from the house and went into the city.
He had his laptop with him, and was bound and determined to find a quiet place to write. Or at least to stare at a blinking cursor and try to convince himself to write. The world he lived in sucked at the moment, and all he wanted to do was dive into another one for a while.
He went to a coffee shop just around the corner from Charing Cross station, one he’d been to a few hundred times. The place wasn’t terribly crowded, and once he had a cup of coffee and a pastry in hand, he found a table in the corner with a power outlet underneath it.
Laptop open. Document open. Cursor blinking.