Chapter 21 #3
Gael took a slow breath, the taste of the flat whiskey clinging to his tongue.
He had known the boy was submissive. He’d seen the natural, graceful surrender in the line of his spine the first time he’d told him to kneel.
He’d recognized the spark of attraction.
He’d even, after the mugging, seen the faint, terrible lattice of old scars on his back and filed that information away under ‘trauma, unspecified.’
But tonight, the picture had shifted, the lens twisting into a sharper, more alarming focus.
Samuel was… untouched. A virgin, in every sense that mattered.
The dates with women, the single “fine” kiss; they were the motions of a ghost going through the paces of a life that wasn’t his.
The real man, the one who trembled and wept and wanted with a terrifying, silent intensity, had been locked away, starving in the dark.
The last time Gael had dealt with a virgin, he’d been one himself.
A clumsy, furious teenager in a dorm room, all fumbling hands and bruising kisses, more about conquest than connection.
That was a lifetime ago, in a different universe.
The men he’d been with since, in clubs, in relationships, in the intricate, consensual transactions of The Crimson Knot, they’d known what they were about.
What was his role here?
Teacher?
The thought should have been a bucket of cold water. It should have doused the low, persistent heat that had been simmering in his blood since Samuel had walked through the door of his office for the first time.
Instead, it stoked the fire.
A vivid, unbidden image flashed: Samuel, bare and pliant beneath him, those wide, anxious eyes dark with a wonder that was entirely new.
Being the first to map that skin without shame, the first to coax those broken little sounds into cries of pleasure, the first to show him the staggering power of his own surrender.
The idea of it, of being Samuel’s sole, definitive entry into the world of pleasure, woke a possessiveness so profound it felt like a vice around his ribs.
He shifted in the chair, a sharp, frustrated movement. The soft wool of his trousers had become an unbearable friction. He was hard, achingly so. He scowled at his own reaction, a flush of anger warming the back of his neck. This was not the time. This was not the point.
It wasn’t just the virgin thing that bothered him. If it were merely inexperience, a blank slate, he might have found a way to rationalize the attraction as a project, a fascinating challenge. He’d mentored green submissives at the club, after all. He could mentor Samuel, too.
No. The deeper truth, the one he’d been too arrogant to see until tonight, was the starvation.
Samuel was touch-starved. Deeply, fundamentally parched.
Every one of those electrifying reactions Gael had cataloged with such clinical pride, the full-body shiver at a breath on his neck, the shattered whimper at a word of praise, the way he seemed to dissolve into a kiss as if it were the first sip of water after a decade in the desert, they weren’t just the beautiful reflexes of a submissive.
They were the convulsions of a dying man reaching for a mirage.
And Gael had been pleased. Intrigued. Aroused by the power of it.
The realization sat in his gut like a stone.
He’d missed it. He, who prided himself on reading people, on understanding the architecture of need, had been so captivated by the surface beauty of Samuel’s surrender that he’d failed to see the desperation underpinning it.
The need wasn’t for dominance, not purely.
It was for contact. For recognition. For the simple, terrifying validation of being wanted.
And what was he hiding? The scars were a clue, but clues were worthless without a narrative.
The terror around the subject of men wasn’t just usually fear of coming out.
It was something else. There was a story there, a locked room Samuel had thrown away the key to.
Gael had seen the shadow of its door tonight in the boy’s panicked, tear-filled eyes.
He should stop this.
The thought finally formed, clear and cold. It was the responsible thing. The ethical thing. Samuel was vulnerable in ways that went far beyond the power exchange of the club.
Gael set the whiskey glass down on the side table with a decisive click.
But even as he did, a colder, deeper sensation crawled through his chest at the idea of sending Samuel away. Of never seeing him kneel again. Of never pulling those broken, perfect sounds from his throat. Of leaving that hunger unanswered, of letting that room down the hall stay empty.
The feeling was swift and violent. It wasn’t lust. It was something darker, more territorial. A snarl in the blood.
He ignored it.
Samuel needed help. He needed guidance. A secure, controlled environment to explore everything he’d been denied.
Gael could provide that. He had the knowledge, the control, the resources.
He could be the steady hand that taught Samuel about his own body, about trust, about the difference between shame and surrender.
He could build him up, teach him his own worth. It would be a service. A mentorship.
And once he was done, once Sam became what he could be, confident and whole, then he would let him go.
The resolution felt clean in his mind. Noble, even. A plan.
He stood up from the armchair, his body unfolding from its long stillness.
The decision was made. He would be the teacher.
The safe harbor. He would guide Samuel through this, with patience and firmness, and when the boy was ready to stand on his own, he would release him. It was the right thing to do.
He took a step toward the hallway, his own bedroom. As he passed the spare bedroom, he didn’t look in. He kept his eyes forward, his posture straight.
But in the deepest, most honest part of his mind, a quiet, undeniable voice spoke the truth he was already working so hard to bury.
You’re lying to yourself.
He ignored that, too.