5. Michael #3
He kissed Henri’s temple, then slid a hand between them, wrapping steady fingers around Henri’s cock. His grip was gentle, his strokes unhurried.
“Imagine it’s me inside you,” he whispered into Henri’s ear.
Henri gasped, his body shuddering. The blush deepened on his chest and cheeks, the flush of arousal curling around something warmer. Trust.
Michael kissed him, slow and possessive, until Henri melted into it. The toy was still buzzing, buried deep inside, but Henri didn’t flinch now. He arched into Michael’s hand, moaning softly against his mouth, letting go in a way he hadn’t been able to with Marc’s eyes on him.
Then, finally, the toy stopped.
Henri’s body sagged, trembling from the inside out. His chest heaved against Michael’s.
Michael broke the kiss, breath unsteady, and reached between Henri’s legs. He eased the toy out with slow, careful hands. Henri whimpered at the motion, muscles twitching and clenching in small, involuntary spasms.
Michael stared at the thing in his hand—cold, obscene, wrong in every way—and threw it hard across the room. The crack against the wall was sharp and final.
Henri gave a wet, shaking laugh that ended on a breathless sob. “God,” he managed, collapsing back against the pillows. “That felt amazing.”
His body went limp in Michael’s arms, all tension finally gone. He was flushed, raw, and wrecked.
Michael cupped the back of Henri’s neck, thumb brushing the damp skin there. “You okay?” he asked quietly, tracing slow, grounding lines down his spine.
Henri nodded, turning his face into Michael’s throat. His breath came slow and steady now. “Yes,” he whispered. “Now I am.”
He lifted his head, eyes still wet but focused. “Please,” he said, voice cracking a little. “Fuck me.”
Michael slid down the bed, settling between Henri’s thighs, and ran both hands along his hips. The skin there was hot beneath his palms, still trembling. “Tell me if anything hurts.”
Henri nodded, jaw tight, breath catching when Michael lined up and began to press in. Slow. Careful. He guided himself deeper until he was fully sheathed, giving Henri time to adjust, watching every flicker of his face.
Henri exhaled with a soft sound that was almost a sob. “It’s okay,” he said, fingers curling against Michael’s shoulders. “I’m okay.”
Michael stayed still for a moment longer, just breathing with him, feeling Henri’s heartbeat stutter and then find rhythm again beneath his chest. When Henri’s hips tilted, seeking more, Michael moved.
It wasn’t frantic, just steady and real. Flesh against flesh. No audience. No control but what they chose together.
Henri clung to him, nails pressing lightly into his skin as the pace built. His body opened, movements meeting Michael’s with quiet urgency. The air filled with the sound of their breathing, the slick slide of skin, the low, rough noises neither tried to hold back.
Henri’s head fell back. “Please,” he gasped, the word no longer desperate but full of want. “Don’t stop.”
Michael buried his face against Henri’s neck and obeyed, thrusts growing deeper, more deliberate. Each motion drove the last of the tension out of Henri’s body. The tremors changed—pleasure, not panic.
When Henri came, it was sudden and full-bodied, a cry torn straight from his throat. He clenched hard around Michael, shaking, and Michael held him through it, fucking him slowly through the aftershocks until Henri went slack beneath him.
Michael followed with a low groan, pressing deep and staying there, every muscle in his body strung tight as release ripped through him. The heat spread slow and thick inside Henri, grounding him both in the same breathless quiet.
They stayed like that for a long time. Just breathing. Michael’s forehead rested against Henri’s, their skin damp and sticky, their bodies still joined.
When Michael finally pulled back, he did it carefully, keeping one arm around Henri’s waist. Henri swayed, unsteady, but didn’t pull away.
Michael brushed a kiss over his hairline and drew him upright until they were both sitting, bodies still pressed together. No words. No rush. Just touch and the quiet between heartbeats.
When Henri’s breathing steadied, Michael shifted and rose from the bed, guiding Henri up with him. Henri followed without resistance, pliant in his hands. Their skin brushed as they moved, the faint tremor in Henri’s legs a reminder of everything his body had endured.
“Come on,” Michael murmured. “Let’s wash off.”
He kept a steady hand at the small of Henri’s back as they crossed the room, steps slow, unhurried.
The carpet gave way to cool tile, and Henri shivered at the change in temperature.
Michael reached past him to turn on the shower, adjusting the handle until the water ran warm and soft.
Steam began to curl upward, fogging the glass and filling the space with warm, moist air.
Michael reached for his hand. “Come here.”
Henri stepped in without protest, and Michael followed, guiding them both beneath the spray.
This wasn’t about washing off sex. It was about erasing Marc, about rinsing away everything that still clung to Henri’s skin.
Michael moved slowly, reverently. He lathered soap between his palms and worked it over Henri’s back, shoulders, and arms. Gentle but thorough. No demands. No rush.
Henri leaned into him, breath evening out. Quiet surrender.
Michael tilted Henri’s chin up, brushing wet hair from his forehead, letting the water cascade down his chest. He dropped a kiss there, just above Henri’s heart, then rested his forehead briefly against it.
When the soap was gone, when there was nothing left of Marc but memory, Michael reached for the towel. He wrapped Henri in it first, drying him as though he were something precious. Henri didn’t hide. Just let it happen.
Michael toweled off in silence, then lifted Henri effortlessly, setting him on the bathroom counter. “Stay here,” he said, the command as much for Henri’s comfort as it was for his own.
And then he stepped into the bedroom to strip the bed and make space for something new.
He could feel Henri watching him as he moved around the bed with quiet efficiency, pulling fresh linens from the cabinet beside the dresser.
“How did you know those were there?” Henri’s voice carried softly from the bathroom.
Michael glanced up with a half-smile. “Made a mess of enough hotel rooms to know where they keep the extras.”
A knock at the door interrupted his bed-making. Henri wrapped himself in a robe and answered it, returning with a small package in his hands. He sank into the chair beside the bed, staring at the package with hollow eyes. They both knew what it contained. Marc’s “more suitable” toy.
Michael crossed the room, gently taking the package from Henri’s unresisting fingers, and set it aside.
“We’ll deal with that later,” he said, though his jaw clenched at the thought.
He stared at Henri sitting in that chair, still wrapped in the hotel robe, staring at nothing.
The hollow look in his eyes, the defeated slump of his shoulders.
It was wrong. Everything about this sterile hotel room felt wrong now.
The place where Marc had orchestrated Henri’s humiliation, where he’d forced Henri to perform.
Michael couldn’t leave him here. Henri would spend the night alone, probably replaying every degrading moment, convinced he deserved it.
No. Not happening.
Michael made a decision. “Get dressed,” he said, abandoning the half-made bed and reaching for his own clothes. “Pack your things.”
“What?” Henri asked, but Michael was already pulling on his pants.
“Pack,” Michael repeated, more firmly this time as he opened his phone and pulled up a car service app. He glanced up to find Henri still standing there, confusion etched on his features. “Now, please.”
Henri moved to comply, though his movements were uncertain. “Why am I packing?”
“Because you’re coming back to my flat in Camden Town,” Michael said, affecting an exaggerated British accent on the word ‘flat.’ The absurd accent drew a small smile from Henri. Exactly what Michael had hoped for.
Henri shook his head, smile fading. “I don’t understand.”
Michael crossed to him, pulling him into his arms. “I don’t want you here alone. Not when he knows where you are.”
“You’re being ridiculous,” Henri protested weakly.
Michael silenced him with a kiss, pouring everything he couldn’t yet say into it. When he pulled back, Henri’s eyes were wide. “Too bad. I’m going to be ridiculous. Now, change,” Michael directed.
He helped Henri finish packing while the younger man swiftly dressed in fresh clothes.
He watched, frowning, as Henri carefully placed the toy Michael had lobbed across the room earlier in what was clearly a dedicated container in his luggage.
Michael grabbed the new package from Marc and tossed it carelessly into the same bag, earning a reproachful look from Henri.
Michael shrugged in response. He didn’t fully understand the dynamic between Henri and Marc yet, but it was clear Marc held some kind of power over Henri that compelled absolute obedience.
They finished gathering Henri’s belongings from the dresser drawers just as Michael’s phone buzzed with the car service notification. Without discussion, Michael grabbed Henri’s luggage and strode toward the door, leaving Henri no choice but to follow.
The Dorchester’s elegant entrance was quiet at this late hour as they exited into the muggy night. Their car was waiting, a sleek black sedan idling at the curb. Michael placed Henri’s luggage in the trunk before sliding into the backseat beside him.
Once Michael confirmed on the center console that they were ready, the self-driving car pulled away from the curb with a quiet hum.
After a few minutes of driving through London’s still-busy streets, Michael turned to Henri. “Do you have any plans tomorrow? Sunday?”
“No,” Henri replied softly. “My first meeting isn’t until Monday.”
Michael took Henri’s hand, interlacing their fingers and squeezing gently. “Good.”
The car slowed as they turned onto Chester Terrace, and the streetlights cast alternating patterns of light and shadow across Henri’s face.
As they pulled up to the curb, Henri peered out the window at the imposing Georgian townhouse before them.
Four stories of pristine white stucco with black iron railings and perfectly manicured topiary flanking the entrance.
Henri let out a soft laugh. “This is hardly Camden Town.”
“Close enough,” Michael shrugged.
“I doubt Londoners would agree,” Henri said, though his tone was light. “This looks as though it belongs in Belgravia, not anywhere near Camden.”
“Geography was never my strong suit,” Michael said with a grin. “Besides, it’s north of the river. That counts for something.”
The car came to a complete stop, and Michael stepped out first, moving around to Henri’s side to open his door. He retrieved Henri’s luggage from the trunk while confirming the ride’s end on the car’s console, watching as the sleek sedan pulled away into the night.
“Come on,” Michael said, guiding Henri up the wide stone steps to the imposing front door. “Let me show you around.”
They entered the dimly lit foyer, and Henri’s soft intake of breath told Michael everything about what he was seeing. The soaring ceilings, the marble floors, the crystal chandelier casting prismatic light across cream-colored walls.
“Quick tour,” Michael said, flicking on lights as they moved through the space. “It’s one of the smaller ones. Only five bedrooms, four baths. And before you say anything about all this marble,” he gestured at the gleaming surfaces, “I bought it this way. Wasn’t about to live through renovations.”
Henri’s lips twitched. “I didn’t say anything.”
“No, but I saw that look.” Michael led him upstairs. “There’s an amazing view of Regent’s Park in daylight.”
The master bedroom was a study in contrasts. Deep burgundy carpet and accent wall standing out against the remaining white walls, matched by heavy burgundy drapes. The king-sized bed, however, was colorful chaos.
Henri’s pointed look made Michael waggle his finger. “Don’t judge. I don’t like strangers in my business, so no cleaners, and I don’t mind mismatched bedding.”
Henri’s laugh was genuine as Michael set down his luggage and moved to a perfectly organized drawer, pulling out two pairs of soft cotton sleep pants.
“I have my own,” Henri protested when Michael handed him a pair.
“I know.” Michael’s voice dropped lower. “But I’d rather have you in my clothes.”
Henri took the pants, running his fingers over the fabric. His eyes stayed fixed on them as he spoke. “I usually have to sleep naked...”
Michael’s jaw tightened. “You can sleep however you want here, Henri. Naked, clothed, whatever makes you comfortable. The choice is yours.”
Henri stayed quiet for a long moment, still touching the soft cotton. Finally, he looked up and met Michael’s eyes. “I think I’d like to try these.”
“Good,” Michael said simply. “Bathroom’s right there.”
Henri nodded and disappeared behind the en-suite door. Michael changed into his own pair, the familiar fabric settling comfortably against his skin.
When Henri emerged a few minutes later, the sleep pants hung slightly loose on his leaner frame, riding low on his hips. Something about seeing Henri in his clothes made warmth settle deep in Michael’s chest.
“These are really soft,” Henri said, running his hand down his thigh.
Michael smiled. “You like them?”
Henri nodded. “Yeah. I’ve never had anything this comfortable.”
The simple admission hit Michael harder than it should have. Such a basic comfort, soft clothes to sleep in, and Henri had been denied even that. He pulled Henri onto the bed, arranging them so Henri’s back was pressed against his chest.
“Fair warning, I’m a cuddler,” he murmured, wrapping an arm around Henri’s waist. “Feel free to elbow me if I start accidentally smothering you in my sleep.”
Henri’s laugh was soft. “I promise to defend myself if necessary.”
The simple domesticity of holding Henri, of having him safe in Michael’s bed, made something in his chest tighten. He pressed a kiss to the nape of Henri’s neck and settled in for the night, keeping his protective hold even as sleep began to claim them both.