4. Henri
Chapter four
Henri
H enri stepped into the muggy London night, Michael’s arm settling around his shoulders. The weight should’ve made him flinch—Marc’s training had him braced for pain at every touch. Instead, he leaned into Michael’s warmth, a reckless need stirring deep in his chest.
He’d invited Michael Taylor to his suite. Henri Rohan, who had never chosen a lover on his own.
But Marc was an ocean away. For the first time, Henri was free from those cold eyes watching his every move.
Michael’s thumb traced lazy circles on his shoulder, shattering Henri’s spiraling thoughts. He glanced up, studying Michael’s profile under the amber street lamps. Brown hair in a sharp fade, longer on top, a trimmed beard softening his jaw. Warm brown eyes crinkled, hinting at easy laughter.
They matched in height, but Michael’s broad chest and shoulders spoke of raw strength, not Marc’s sculpted vanity. Henri was lean by comparison, toned but not built, nothing like Michael’s solid frame or Marc’s gym-obsessed body. Henri’s pulse quickened, drawn to the contrast.
“Penny for your thoughts?” Michael’s voice held quiet amusement.
Henri startled, caught staring. His society smile snapped into place. “Just enjoying the view.”
“Good.” Michael’s tone dropped, his grip tightening just enough to steal Henri’s breath. “Give me your phone.”
It wasn’t a request. Henri handed it over before his brain could catch up, unlocking it first. His body obeyed Michael’s authority without question.
Michael took the phone with calm confidence.
Henri’s heart stuttered. Years of Marc’s surveillance and control made him startle at the action, terrified of what might be found.
But Michael just pulled out his own phone, holding both devices close together, tapping his screen with practiced ease.
A soft chime sounded as the contact transferred.
Michael tapped Henri’s screen once more, then handed it back.
Henri stared at the new entry. Michael Taylor’s contact, complete with number. Dangerous. Stupid. Marc had access to his phone records, his messages. He could delete it later, before returning to PDC. Marc would never know.
Henri exhaled, grateful but rattled by how easily he’d surrendered control of something so personal. Michael’s hand slid to Henri’s nape, fingers threading through short hairs. A shiver raced down Henri’s spine, scattering his panic.
“You’re thinking too much,” Michael said, his subtle command peeling away Henri’s defenses. They passed Hyde Park, the air heavy with warm grass and late summer flowers.
Henri wanted to protest, to make some clever quip or flirtatious remark—anything to reclaim some semblance of his usual control. But Michael’s hand was warm against his neck, and he found himself leaning into the touch, his carefully constructed mask slipping despite his best efforts.
“London’s gone mad with this heat wave,” Michael commented. “Half my employees can’t focus because their flats don’t have proper AC. The Brits act like 80 degrees is the end times.”
A genuine laugh escaped Henri before he could catch it, the sound surprisingly light and unguarded. “Could you imagine summer in PDC without air conditioning? We’d have riots in the streets.”
“At least in the Second Cat,” Michael agreed, his thumb tracing idle circles at Henri’s nape. “Though I bet the Docks would just keep working through it. My place in Camden’s got central air. Couldn’t survive these London summers without it anymore.”
“Lucky for us,” Henri said, trying to ignore how Michael’s touch was making his skin tingle, “the Dorchester’s fully climate-controlled.”
Michael’s low chuckle held a predatory edge that made Henri’s pulse jump. “Good. Because I plan on getting you nice and sweaty.”
Heat flooded Henri’s cheeks, his cock twitching. He bit his lip, torn between arousal and caution. But Michael’s hand was still steady on his nape, and the warm night felt like freedom, and Henri leaned into the promise.
As they approached the Dorchester’s elegant entrance, Henri fumbled for his phone, trying to pull up the hotel app before they reached the elevator. His fingers weren’t quite steady enough to navigate the screens efficiently.
As they approached the Dorchester’s elegant entrance, Henri fumbled for his phone, pulling up the hotel app. His fingers weren’t quite steady as they reached the elevator.
He tapped his phone against the reader. The doors chimed open.
Michael’s hand moved to Henri’s waist as they stepped inside, his presence warm and solid at Henri’s back.
On the eighth floor, Henri tapped his phone against his suite’s reader. He tried to ignore how his hand trembled slightly as the lock clicked open with a soft whir.
Last chance to back out , his mind whispered. But Michael’s steady presence behind him, the warmth of his hand, the lingering scent of Dalmore whiskey—it all made Henri want to step forward instead of retreat.
The door clicked shut behind them, and Henri felt the weight of true privacy settle over him. No cameras. No microphones. No Marc. Just him and Michael in this sanctuary, where anything that happened could stay secret. The thought was both terrifying and intoxicating.
Michael’s hand slid from Henri’s waist to his lower back, guiding him further into the suite. “Take off my jacket,” he murmured, his voice low but firm.
Henri obeyed without thinking, his body responding to that quiet command. The weight of the jacket slipped from his shoulders, and he heard Michael toss it onto a nearby chair.
Henri’s muscles tensed as he automatically moved to retrieve the jacket. Marc would be livid at such careless treatment of designer clothing, expecting it to be properly folded or hung, but Michael caught his arm, dragging him back with gentle insistence.
Michael caught his arm, pulling him back gently. “Leave it.”
Henri nodded, dizzy from the permission to let something be messy.
“Good boy,” Michael said, cupping Henri’s cheek. The praise held no hidden barbs, no cruel undertones. Henri leaned into it, his walls crumbling.
“Have you showered?” Michael asked, fingers teasing Henri’s shirt hem.
“Not since arriving this morning,” Henri admitted.
“Let’s fix that.” Michael guided him to the bed’s edge, kneeling to remove Henri’s shoes and socks. The intimacy jolted Henri—Marc would never kneel, never undress him with care.
Marc had torn the clothes from him. Cut them off his body with a knife and scissors… but never this deliberate undressing. Michael’s hands were steady and sure, almost reverent. The casual domesticity of it made Henri’s chest tight.
Michael stood, toeing off his own shoes and socks before his hands slipped under Henri’s shirt, sliding up his abs before lifting the fabric over his head. The shirt joined the jacket on the chair, followed quickly by Michael’s own.
Henri’s pulse raced as Michael undid his belt. Each piece of clothing fell under Michael’s appreciative gaze. “Beautiful,” Michael murmured, hands gliding down Henri’s sides. “Fucking beautiful.”
The praise made Henri’s head spin. Michael pulled him to his feet, fingers brushing the bruises on Henri’s hips. Henri tensed, snapped from his haze.
Michael’s smirk was knowing. “Someone likes it rough,” he said, fingers tracing the marks.
Henri forced a laugh, trying to ignore how desperately he wished those bruises had come from Michael. “What can I say? I enjoy a good time.”
“Seeing anyone seriously?” Michael’s breath was hot against his ear.
“No,” Henri said quickly. It wasn’t a lie—Marc wasn’t a relationship.
“Good.” Michael’s voice was a dark vow. “I don’t share.”
Michael guided Henri into the spacious shower, reaching past him to adjust the temperature. Henri’s breath caught when Michael reached for his shampoo, surprise flickering through him. No one had washed his hair since his mother, decades ago.
“What are you doing?” Henri asked, voice soft, uncertain.
Michael’s lips curved, eyes warm. “Taking care of you. I want to.” His fingers worked the shampoo into Henri’s scalp, gentle but firm, each stroke unraveling Henri’s tension.
Henri’s eyes widened. He knew couples did this—shared these intimate, caring acts. But he never had. Never thought he would. The tenderness was foreign, overwhelming. As Michael massaged his temples, his neck, an unexpected moan slipped through Henri’s teeth.
Michael’s gaze darkened, reverent. “Fuck, I love that sound from you.”
Henri flushed, his cock thickening at the praise in Michael’s voice. The reverence made his chest ache, desire curling low in his belly.
The conditioner followed, Michael’s hands just as careful. Henri leaned against Michael’s chest, surrendering to this strange gentleness. Michael’s lips grazed his neck as he lathered a loofah.
Henri tensed as Michael’s soapy hands moved down his back, knowing what he’d find. Michael’s fingers paused over the raised welts striping Henri’s shoulders and spine, marks he couldn’t reach with cream after arriving.
“Someone really likes it rough,” Michael murmured, voice thick with approval. His touch stayed gentle, tracing the welts with reverence.
When Michael’s fingers ghosted over his entrance, Henri caught his wrists, heat flooding his cheeks. “Wait,” he managed. “I-I need to...”
The memory slammed into him—sixteen, pinned face-down, that lingering, searing pain. Marc’s voice: “Disgusting. From now on, you will be clean and prepared for me. I won’t tolerate filth again.”
Shame had seared into Henri’s bones. Preparation was private, hidden, because it was filthy.
Michael’s teeth grazed his neck, followed by a slow, deliberate sucking that made Henri gasp. “This is what I want to do,” Michael murmured against the fresh mark. “Shouldn’t you be clean everywhere for me?”
“I can do it,” Henri stuttered. “I know it’s disgusting, I’ll—”
“Stop.” Michael’s tone brooked no argument. “Nothing about this is disgusting. Nothing about you is disgusting.” His lips brushed Henri’s ear. “Let go of my wrists.”