Fire & Ice (Extended Edition)

Chapter 2

Leander dreams in color. Bright, startling technicolor that bursts into life behind closed eyelids and sucks him down into his deepest, wildest, most desperately secret fantasies. Unlike out in the real world, these fantasies aren’t headlining a potent mix of sex and pain, dominance and submission. They aren’t a manifestation of Leander’s clawing attempts to keep hold of his sanity by wresting control of something— someone— in the bedroom.

No, these dreams are interminably soft, featuring one thing, and one thing only.

Green eyes. Freckles. Strong arms and a gentle smile, both wrapping Leander up in their warmth and carrying him away. In Leander’s dreams, the entire universe comes to an end and rebuilds from scratch—over and over, millennia upon millennia reduced to stardust and light, imploding and exploding, collapsing in on itself before rushing outwards once again, all on endless repeat. The only constant, the only thing that matters in any of it, is that he and Tripp are together, always together.

In Leander’s dreams, he can be honest. He can admit that he’s in love with his best friend, because in these dreams, Tripp loves him back. He holds Leander’s hand in public, rests a casual arm around his shoulder as they wait in line at the movies, offers to switch dinner plates when his order comes out looking like exactly what Leander didn’t realize he was hungry for.

Most importantly, he says so. He puts his lips next to Leander’s ear and whispers his affection softly, every chance he gets. He yells it across crowded rooms, wanting everyone to hear. In Leander’s dreams, everything is perfect.

Especially tonight. Tonight, the fantasies are so vivid, he can smell the natural scent of Tripp’s skin, the cologne he wears over it, and even the faint traces of spicy deodorant and silicone-based gel in his hair. It’s not just smell, either—his brain had decided that he can feel Tripp, too. Shifting in his arms, nuzzling into the hollow of his neck, pressing their bodies together completely from cheek to toe. Warmth and devotion flow freely between them, a perfectly synchronous pair. Like a key that fits a lock Leander didn’t even know he wanted to open.

It translates to one of the best nights of sleep Leander has ever experienced, and an unprecedented mindfuck when he opens his eyes and Tripp is actually there.

Abruptly wide awake, Leander shoves himself away from the other man so quickly that he nearly tumbles backward off the bed. Heavy sleeper that Tripp is, he barely notices, snorting a little and rolling over to snuffle into the pillow beneath his head. Leander sits stock still up by the headboard, barely breathing and with his legs curled underneath him, one hand fisted in his hair and the other in his mouth. His teeth create imprints on his index finger as he copes with a wave of shock and shame.

It’s not until Tripp is safely snoring away again that Leander allows himself to begin to relax and to try and regain his bearings.

The truth is, he’s not ready to see or interact with Tripp this morning, not yet. Not with his face still flushing red and his mind rushing like a mountain river in spring, overflowing with images from a night full of dreams like that.

There’s some kind of irony here, Leander’s sure of it. Most people feel embarrassment over boner-inducing, X-rated, pornographic dreams accidentally starring their best friends, but not Leander, he lives those outright. No, he has to be ashamed over romance. His mother always claimed he came off the assembly line with a crack; she’d be so proud to know how truly committed he remains to breaking the mold.

His plight might be funny, if it wasn’t so damn lonely and confusing.

Regardless of all that, though, it’s been a long time since Leander shared a bed with someone in this particular way. True, Tripp wasn’t wrong when he pointed out that they’ve slept together previously—but that was different. Two platonic friends, passing out fully-clothed on top of the blankets after polishing off an entire bottle of whiskey is a far cry from curling up naked together after one of their dicks was buried in the other’s ass.

And that’s solely considering his experiences with Tripp .

The only other person Leander’s shared a bed with in this way was Autumn, and doing so led directly to their undoing. Blurring the lines between aftercare and affection, Autumn could never properly separate the two, not in the way Leander wanted. Maybe that was unfair, but he couldn’t control the fact that he never developed feelings for her beyond the physical. It didn’t mean that she wasn’t a valuable friend, that he didn’t care immensely about her well-being, but Leander just couldn’t make himself fall in love.

Can anyone?

Now, here he is, making the same mistakes but in the reverse. That is ironic—he knows that for sure. Perhaps this is karma, perhaps it’s what Leander deserves after being so careless with Autumn's heart. Here he is, finally able to understand exactly what she was feeling, and it’s because he’s opening the door to have his own heart broken in precisely the same, terrible way.

Idiot, Leander chastises himself. He rubs both hands across his face before bracing them carefully on the side of the bed and standing up. The mattress barely moves (and Leander sends up a quick thank-you to whoever might be listening from above for that) before tip-toeing across the space on silent feet. As he moves, he skirts away from any floorboards that he knows will creak, easily making it out of the room without disturbing Tripp’s slumber.

Inside the attached bathroom, Leander slumps against the door with a sigh of relief, grateful for the reprieve and the moment of privacy. In truth, there’s nothing he wants more than to crawl back into bed beside Tripp and his warmth. To wrap arms around his slim waist and pull him close, to wake him with soft kisses to the back of his neck and a gentle hand cupping his cock.

Like lovers, Leander thinks. Like two people who might be falling in love.

He can’t do that, of course, and those inappropriate thoughts and desires he’s projecting onto Tripp are precisely the reason why. It’s harder to think, to remember those boundaries when Tripp is lying next to him, looking tragically innocent and peaceful in his sleep. So soft, so beautiful and perfect, willing to lay in Leander’s arms and—oh, hell. He has got to get his shit together.

In retrospect, the smartest thing Leander could possibly have done upon waking was precisely what he did: book it the hell out of that room before Tripp woke up. Boundaries and limits, Leander reiterates to himself. If he wants to keep this new dynamic with Tripp, he has to respect the fact that the man is not interested in a romantic relationship with him. That was made perfectly clear when they talked the night before their scene. It’s not as if Leander didn’t lay his cards on the table— after Autumn, how could he not? That’s just not a mistake you want to make twice.

But Tripp seemed to retreat emotionally when Leander spoke about how he struggled to connect with Autumn, how he never developed romantic feelings for her, how he longed for someone who understood, who he could finally be on the same level with. It’s true that there are times when Tripp looks at him a certain way, when he says various things and Leander wonders if he wasn’t clear enough, if perhaps Tripp didn’t get the memo, but ultimately, that’s wishful thinking and he knows it.

He has to stop holding out hope that Tripp will somehow magically develop feelings for him, because that mindset will only get them both hurt.

At the end of the day, this— this beautiful dominant and submissive relationship that Tripp, by some miracle, has consented to—is what he gets. Staying with Tripp last night was the right thing to do, of course. Risking drop isn’t worth it for either of them, but from here on out, Leander will have to be more careful. Tripp can stay over and sleep in the playroom bed whenever he likes, and Leander will just make it a point to relocate to his own room, once his sub has recovered and fallen asleep.

That is, if Tripp even wants to continue their new relationship going forward, something Leander can’t assume. All the more reason for him to be happy and grateful for whatever Tripp is willing to offer to begin with.

It’s enough. It has to be.

Turning his attention to his morning routine, Leander takes his time washing up. Meticulously brushing his teeth and styling his hair, he gives his face and body a quick, soapy wipe down before wandering naked into his actual bedroom to find some clean clothes. He ignores the empty bed standing cold and unused in the corner, and tries not to think about Tripp lying warm and pliant less than twenty feet away.

Rummaging through his dresser drawers, Leander remembers that he works tonight, so there’s no sense in wasting a nice outfit on today. If he’s being honest, once Tripp is gone, the only things scheduled on his docket are cleaning up around the apartment and mentally debriefing. His stomach twists when he inadvertently thinks about Tripp again, still sacked out peacefully, sated and unbothered. Determined to work through it, Leander ignores the tugging in his gut to return to the playroom bed.

Boundaries. T-shirt and boxer-briefs it is.

Out in the kitchen, he sets coffee brewing and cracks eggs into a pan, scrambling and seasoning them absently while he reviews the scene from the night before in his head. It truly was an excellent first encounter, and Leander feels good about his decision to go easy on Tripp, to start small and simple with something they both needed and could definitively handle.

Truthfully, touching Tripp for the first time—being granted full access to every part of his body, being handed complete control of his pleasure—was a lot for Leander, too. Being an experienced Dom makes a scene like that look simple on paper, but to add in the confusing emotions he’s battling towards Tripp himself? That changes the entire game, and Leander is at least self-aware enough to recognize and account for that.

Still, he’s pleased with his own performance, and Tripp seemed more than satisfied, as well. The fact that he’s still unconscious supports that theory: Leander knows first-hand that the man rarely manages more than four hours at a time, especially when he’s not in his own bed. Since they fell asleep around three a.m. and it’s fast approaching noon, that’s double what Tripp is used to getting.

If nothing else and at the barest minimum, it would appear that they did accomplish what they set out to do—blow off some steam, shed stress, and help each other unwind in order to achieve more quality rest and relaxation. That’s great, and it’s something for which Leander feels he can be proud. He just hopes that the tone he set was compelling enough for Tripp to be inspired to do it again.

An enthusiastic yawn from behind him has Leander whirling around, letting the hot pan he’s holding clatter noisily down onto the stovetop. It’s probably just as well, since the sight that greets him would’ve likely resulted in a loss of limb control, regardless. If ever there was a doubt in Leander’s mind that the submissive is the one with all the real power and control in a relationship, Tripp himself would clear up that confusion simply by existing.

“Tripp,” Leander exclaims, knowing full-well that it’s useless to try and pretend he’s not affected by a sleep-rumpled Tripp clad only in his boxers and his collar, standing easily in the middle of Leander’s kitchen like he belongs there.

“Stole your toothbrush, Sir,” Tripp says ruefully, shifting on his feet and rubbing at his forearms, like he thinks Leander might scold him and hasn’t entirely decided whether he wants that or not. It does things to Leander—has him crowding Tripp bodily up against the breakfast bar without a second thought.

This is allowed, he tells himself as Tripp’s hands find their way to his waist. Tripp is still wearing his collar. He’s still playing by the rules, and so am I.

Still, Leander knows he should check. Perhaps Tripp was only being cheeky in using the honorific, and doesn’t even realize that his collar is still on. Watching Tripp’s face carefully for any change in his expression, Leander ignores the way their chests are pressed together, the way his groin is already stirring with interest, and lifts his hand to slip fingers underneath the thin leather wrapped around Tripp’s neck.

“This truly looks lovely on you,” he remarks, enjoying the way Tripp blushes under his attention. “Did you mean to leave it on? In the future, I won’t ask. But seeing as how this is new for you...” Trailing off, Leander pulls his bottom lip in-between his teeth and peers up at Tripp with wide, innocent eyes. It’s a dirty move, and Tripp’s gaze goes predictably glassy upon receipt, which is satisfying.

“Oh, I meant to leave it on. Sir.”

That’s all the permission Leander needs. He reaches up to cup the back of Tripp’s head and pull him in for a searing kiss that’s more tongue and possession than anything else, but that’s how it needs to be for Leander right now. To his delight, Tripp melts in his arms, allowing his head to be tipped and pulled in whatever direction Leander likes, moaning and sighing as his body is manipulated.

It takes every last ounce of strength Leander has in him to pull away, but he does it, stepping back with a hand on Tripp’s bare chest and feeling thoroughly pleased with the way the man’s eyes remain closed long after his mouth is gone.

“Go and kneel by the couch,” he instructs. “You may take a pillow for your knees—the one on the side, there.” He watches as Tripp goes, noting the way his boxers have ridden up slightly in the back, really highlighting the striations of muscle in the man’s ass and thighs. Tripp is stunning from any angle, but walking away nearly nude turns him next-level, as far as Leander is concerned.

Ripping his gaze away, he turns back to the mess on the stove, grabbing a plate from the cabinet and transferring a sizable portion of eggs onto it. From inside the fridge, Leander retrieves a bowl of fruit salad, scooping out a hefty serving and piling it next to the eggs. He takes his time, pouring a cup of coffee and making it up the way he knows Tripp likes—black, one sugar—even though he personally prefers his coffee to resemble melted ice cream.

Once he’s satisfied with the meal, Leander rips a paper towel from the roll and grabs a fork from the drawer. Picking the items up alongside the plate and his mug, he makes his way over to a compliantly-kneeling Tripp. Sitting down on the couch with the food in his lap, Leander places the mug on the side table and meets Tripp’s gaze head-on.

He raises an eyebrow, making sure to take a moment and say out loud, “You don’t need to do this. If you like, you can remove that collar, make yourself a plate, and join me here on the couch. However—” Leander pauses, shifting his gaze to the array of fruit and selecting a juicy-looking blueberry, grasping it between his thumb and forefinger. Raising the berry to Tripp’s eye-level, he holds it out. “I don’t want to be unclear. I would very much like to feed you, exactly like this.”

Tripp’s face does several things very quickly, and Leander can tell that he’s thinking, which allows him hope that he isn’t pushing too hard. Hand-feeding was on Tripp’s list of “yellow” kinks—items that weren’t known to him specifically, but that he was open to trying. However, part of Leander’s job as the Dom is figuring out appropriate timing for such introductions to new things. They’ve only begun their exploration together within the last twenty-four hours, and equally, only decided to keep exploring within the last ten minutes.

It’s too much.

He’s about to give Tripp an out, to let him off the hook without consequence, when Tripp surprises him. Leander watches in abject fascination as Tripp leans forward, parting his lips and closing them around his fingertips, sucking the offered blueberry into his mouth in a much more erotic fashion than is strictly necessary. It leaves Leander wholly affected, cock stirring to life unbidden in-between his legs. Technically, this is his party—Tripp’s only doing what was asked of him, and yet, he’s so easy and free about it, the act could be mistaken for something he does every single day, by choice.

Not for the first time, Leander finds himself in awe of the man kneeling before him, and incredibly interested in pushing him to the edge of his limits. For now, he simply pops a strawberry in his own mouth and chews thoughtfully, trying to appear more together than he feels. After several bites of fruit—and Tripp learning that he can absolutely get away with using his tongue to swipe any juice dripping from his fingers—Leander starts gathering some eggs onto the fork and offering them to Tripp directly.

Interestingly enough, Tripp looks disappointed by the change in utensil, but Leander sticks to his guns and doesn’t sub out the fork for his fingers. Part of training Tripp in the lifestyle will be teaching him that he doesn’t always get to dictate the terms. That it isn’t a given for him to get whatever he wants, not if what he wants isn’t in line with what Leander needs . The reverse is true as well, of course—Leander’s not selfish.

While he adamantly refuses to feed Tripp eggs with his fingers, he does pause to allow him to drink, with Leander holding the mug, naturally. Tripp seems surprised to find the coffee made to his liking and he says so, dropping a delayed “Sir,” at the end of his remark, nearly forgetting. The interaction suggests to Leander that he should set up a punishment structure, just in case this continues to be an issue in the future. He files that away to muse over later.

“A good Dom puts his sub’s needs first,” Leander says, answering a question that Tripp doesn’t actually ask. The look Tripp gives him in return is full of both wide-eyed wonder and open appreciation, and Leander finds himself enjoying watching his friend discover what it’s like to be a submissive, to be Leander’s well-cared-for submissive.

“I’m entirely pleased you let me feed you, Tripp,” he says casually, moving the empty plate to the table and carding fingers through Tripp’s messy hair. “Selfishly, I’d love to keep you like this all day. You look incredible, and I’d love to see you on your knees with your head on my thigh while we watch TV, or let you warm my cock for as long as you can stand it before coming down your throat.”

Tripp’s pupils visibly expand as Leander talks, but he sits calmly with his hands folded in his lap— so patient, so perfect. Leander clears his throat before continuing, trying to hide how affected he is. “However, just this once, I think that we should debrief, instead. While it pains me to ask you to remove your collar, I think it’s for the best. I cannot put into words how much joy it brings me to see you wearing it, but for this conversation, we must be equals.”

Obediently, Tripp tips his head back, intending to allow Leander access to the clasp. “No,” Leander says gently, shaking his head in refusal. “You are solely in control of removing your collar. That’s very important to me. I can request for you to put it on or take it off, but to actually do so must be your choice. Especially right now, considering what I’m asking. Do you understand?”

Tripp looks Leander straight in the eyes and nods solemnly. “Yes, Sir,” he replies, and Leander’s heart clenches in his chest as Tripp fumbles with the buckle sitting over his Adam’s apple. For a moment, Leander worries that he won’t be able to undo it, but then it slips free and Tripp peels the leather from around his neck. The box is still sitting inside the catch-all bowl in the entryway, so Tripp returns the collar to it before taking a seat next to Leander on the couch.

“It’s weird,” Tripp says almost immediately, pulling a leg up and wrapping his arm around it protectively, which Leander finds immensely interesting. Tripp’s never been shy or ashamed of his body, so perhaps he’s feeling vulnerable. Leander will have to keep an eye on that—their interactions are supposed to improve Tripp’s self-esteem, not damage it.

Oblivious to his internal musings, Tripp continues talking, which is a good thing. “Not like I haven’t sat on your couch a million times before. Shouldn’t feel any different, right?”

With a shrug, Leander helps himself to a gulp of the remaining coffee before passing it over to Tripp. It’s cold and could use a refill, but Leander senses that Tripp needs something to do with his hands more than he needs a drink.

“I think it’s fine to feel however you do right now. Our dynamic has changed, it makes sense that your feelings towards me and being in my space may have shifted as well. There’s nothing wrong with that, but we should talk about it. The last thing I want is for that shift to impact our friendship, Tripp. Losing what we already have because of missteps surrounding sex and submission, that would be...” Leander trails off and shakes his head. “Unforgivable. Meaning, I would never forgive myself.”

Predictably, Tripp nods and then shoves his face into the mug, taking an exaggeratedly long sip while Leander waits patiently. He swallows when he surfaces, licking his tempting pink lips and flexing fidgety fingers across the curved ceramic. “Well, I hear you, but for whatever it’s worth, I had an awesome time and I wouldn’t take any of it back. Hell, you want my honest opinion on all this? Here it is.”

Tripp pauses, waiting for Leander to meet his gaze before laying out his thoughts. In typical Tripp style, no punches are pulled. “It helped. Did exactly what you said it would, and I want more. I liked getting out of my own head. I liked not knowing or having control over what was coming next. And I want…I want to do all the stuff we matched on, the things on the kinks list.” He stretches out a hand, beckons with his fingers like, come at me. “Bring it on, baby.”

“Really?” Leander speaks without thinking, but Tripp’s phrasing is both surprising and relieving—it hits him hard. Of course, he suspected that his friend enjoyed himself, considering the way he essentially passed out from the orgasm, but that was no guarantee he was in. No promise that he wouldn’t wake up and decide that being a submissive wasn’t for him, or that being with Leander wasn’t, either.

Despite what Tripp has said in the past about only being interested in exploring the scene with someone he trusts unconditionally, it’s no secret that the world is full of other Doms and Dommes. Most of whom would wait in a line for a shot at handling someone like Tripp.

Truthfully, a not-small part of Leander did wonder if Tripp wouldn’t simply use him to get his feet wet, to take the edge off of the terror that giving up control for the first time brings. A test-run, so to speak, before swiftly moving on. It’s a weight off of his shoulders—perhaps more than it should be—to hear directly from Tripp that, at least for now, this isn’t the case.

Wanting to appear genuine, Leander pivots his body to face Tripp more fully. It takes him a second or two digesting his friend’s concerned eyebrow raise before he realizes how his blurted-out reply must have been received. “I didn’t mean—” Leander cuts himself off with a sharp exhale, shaking his head before offering Tripp what he hopes is a reassuring smile.

He continues, “I’m very happy to hear you say that, because I also found our encounter to be extremely satisfying. I was hopeful you’d want to do it again, to continue our contract for as long as scening remains both enjoyable and beneficial for both of us.” In response, Tripp’s cheeks turn pink and he ducks his head, focusing on obtaining what has to be the absolute dregs of that coffee, but Leander doesn’t call him on it. He just waits, and when Tripp lowers the cup, Leander’s still staring, catching his eye and smiling encouragingly.

They look at each other dopily for nearly a full minute before Tripp clears his throat, puts his cup down, stands and stretches. It’s a lost cause—Leander’s unable to even pretend that he isn’t gawking at the way Tripp’s muscles move when his body changes position, and Tripp smirks openly when he notices. Wanting to regain the upper hand in the conversation, Leander stands up with him, carrying the dirty dishes over to the sink and refilling Tripp’s mug from the carafe.

“Are you off this weekend?” he asks, aiming for casual conversation, something closer to their usual dynamic.

“You know I am,” Tripp replies easily, trailing behind and leaning forward over the breakfast bar using his elbows, propping his chin in his hands.

Brat, Leander thinks, suppressing the urge to spank him, collared or not.

“We work the same rotation, sunshine.”

“I didn’t know if you picked up any OT,” Leander retorts, holding the mug out. “I’m not your keeper.” Tripp snorts and Leander tips his head to the side, one corner of his mouth inadvertently ticking up. “Poor choice of words?”

“Awesome choice of words,” Tripp declares, accepting the refreshed coffee with a wink before downing at least half of it in one go. “Depending on what our next scene is.” A thrill shoots down Leander’s spine at those words (and the images that whip tantalizingly through his mind to accompany them).

“About that,” Leander says carefully, not failing to notice the way Tripp’s eyes follow his fingers as they walk their way across the countertop. Perhaps Tripp is not the only one with anxiety soothed by keeping their hands busy.

“I have some thoughts. I believe that we’re on the same page regarding trying it all , and for starters, I would like to increase our next scene’s intensity level. I don’t want to do that if you have somewhere to be the next day, for safety reasons. I work tonight and then am off Friday through Sunday, back in on Sunday night. That would mean I’d be available to you for that entire time period, as well. There wouldn’t be any pressure for you to leave my apartment, and I could care for you, if necessary.”

The reaction Leander gets to that bit of long-windedness is unexpected, especially since Tripp has been so easygoing about everything thus far. On the other side of the counter, he fidgets, and a discontented noise finds its way out of his throat. It’s a bit unnerving, but Tripp holds up a hand to stave off Leander’s worry, which is unquestionably showing on his face.

“Okay, two things,” Tripp says suddenly, shoulders straightening. “One, all that sounds great. Whatever you want, buddy, I’m here for it. Seriously. But on the flip side, are we gonna…” Tripp motions clumsily with his hands, gesturing between their bodies as Leander cocks his head to the side, confused. Clearly exasperated, Tripp sighs and shakes his head, pinching the bridge of his nose between his thumb and index finger.

“All this talking , pal,” he blurts out. “You’re not gonna make me do this every time, are you? ‘Cause buddy, I gotta be honest, this analytical shit isn’t really my thing.”

Narrowing his eyes, Leander taps his lips thoughtfully with the pads of his fingers. It’s not as if he was intentionally trying to turn this into a roundtable discussion, just keep the flow of communication open between himself and his new sub. “Comprehensive debriefing is important in any Dom / sub relationship, but especially one like ours, where you are very new to this and we have our underlying friendship to consider.”

Tripp scratches at the back of his neck and shrugs, letting his arms drop and both of his hands clap loudly against his bare thighs when they do. “I know, Lee, I get that. I’m not saying that I don’t want you to check-in, I do. I appreciate the due diligence—I can tell how seriously you take this stuff and, you know, it makes me feel safe, or whatever. But the whole, not having to talk, it’s part of what I signed on for, and maybe I wasn’t clear enough about that. What I want is to hand the thinking, the decision-making, over to you. All of it. I want—fuck.”

Abruptly, Tripp turns away, dragging a hand over his face and allowing it to linger on his chin with the other planted firmly on his hip. The set of his shoulders and the dip of his head conveys self-disgust and embarrassment, which makes Leander feel terrible.

This is hard for him, Leander realizes. It genuinely never occurred to him that it would be, that this type of debriefing could be asking way too much of his emotionally-constipated friend. For Tripp, this conversation is apparently much closer to “feelings” territory than Leander would have placed it himself, in addition to likely hitting his shame buttons, specifically in regards to asking out loud for things that he wants and needs.

Tripp can’t separate the discussion from the act—not yet. They can work on that together, sure, but to jump in this way was a big miscalculation on Leander’s part. Thankfully, it’s been caught, and it’s an easy fix.

“I understand, Tripp,” he says quickly, reaching out to touch Tripp’s shoulder and getting shrugged off for his efforts. Instead of being offended, Leander softens his tone and tries to sound as reassuring and nonjudgmental as possible. He’s not entirely convinced that some of Tripp’s current attitude isn’t a form of drop, but more importantly, it’s not inconsistent with Tripp in general, and the trouble he has giving voice to his desires and emotions.

“I hear you,” he tries again. “These discussions, the planning—they’re all things you would prefer for me to handle and that’s fine. That’s perfectly fine, there’s nothing wrong with that at all. I didn’t—It didn’t occur to me that’s what you meant when we discussed debriefing originally.”

The tension infusing the hard lines of Tripp’s body begins to bleed and soften, and he glances over his shoulder like a petulant toddler who’s being offered candy, but thinks he might have to take a nap to cash in.

“Yeah?” he asks warily. “Just like that?”

“Our contract stipulates a check-in once per week. For many reasons, that’s not something I would feel comfortable eliminating completely, but I think a once-weekly chat is plenty for the time being. Anything else, we’ll play by ear. If there’s something I feel truly requires discussion, I’ll try to save it. Alternatively, if you ever change your mind and need to talk, the offer is always on the table. Take off your collar and say so, I will always listen.

“Aside from that, I will take full control of our new relationship dynamic going forward. I will tell you what to do and when to do it, including how much recovery time will be needed. If your schedule can’t accommodate my plans, you’ll need to inform me so that I can adjust, but that is the extent of the input I’ll ask from you.”

Having turned around again fully, Tripp’s face is visibly painted with relief. Leander only wishes he was still wearing his collar, so that he could comfort him physically. It’s achingly difficult to be so close to a Tripp that’s struggling and not be able to touch, but these boundaries are vital to what they’re building .

Still, something seems not quite right. As Leander watches, Tripp shivers a little. The apartment is not cold, which is concerning.

“Tripp,” Leander says carefully, not wanting to alarm him. “Would you like to go put your collar back on, at least for the time being?”

The effect is instantaneous—Tripp releases a haggard breath and nods, his eyes nearly going glassy before he turns away and Leander can no longer see them. Incredible, Leander thinks, strangely proud as he watches Tripp stride determinedly across the room. For a man who has never actually been a submissive before, his entire being positively screams with the need for it.

Not for the first time, Leander thinks that he and Tripp might be a lot more alike in that respect than he’d initially thought. His own need to take control is hard-wired into his personality, into who he is as a human . When he can’t, when he doesn’t have an outlet and a sub to care for, Leander feels lost at sea. Unfulfilled, like a boat with neither a mooring nor a captain at its helm. Watching Tripp, he can see that hunger, those desires of his own mirrored so perfectly in the man’s deep-seated yearning to submit, to be cared for. To have his needs looked after and the burden of choices and responsibility lifted completely from his shoulders for any period of time.

Perhaps Leander should have seen this coming, the way Tripp reacted just now, but in his defense, it’s been a long time since he’s encountered another person who is built from the ground up to either command or serve. This not-quite-earth-shattering revelation makes him feel drawn to Tripp even more strongly, like there’s something connecting them, two sides of the same coin. A perfect pair with an extremely special bond—they understand and compliment each other in ways that other people can’t begin to understand.

Of course, he can’t say any of this to Tripp, and not solely because his emotional state is slightly fragile at the moment. It’s too much, too soon, and may very well always remain something that Tripp isn’t ready to hear.

That’s fine.

Leander can do one better, anyway. He can fix this misstep with touch, since it’s very clearly what they both need right now. When Tripp returns with his collar in place, Leander takes him by the wrist and leads him over to the couch. Sinking into it, he pulls Tripp down on top of him without any hesitation. Leander relaxes back against the cushions, stretching his parted legs out in a vee to make room for Tripp’s body.

He’s unsurprised but pleased at how easily Tripp obeys the direction, allowing Leander to shift and maneuver his limbs until he’s comfortably placed. The end result has Tripp lying on his stomach and draped across Leander’s chest, head tucked deftly underneath his chin.

Once they’re settled, Leander flips the blanket he keeps folded on the back of the couch over both of them for warmth, though Tripp’s feet stick out the far end. He pushes his fingers through Tripp’s hair, scratches nails across his scalp, and soothes both hands down the length of his back. He resists the urge to verbally reassure Tripp about anything they discussed earlier, thinking that might not be the best way to assuage his bristly embarrassment, considering.

Tripp calms.

Not that he was overly worked up to begin with, at least not outwardly, but Leander’s been around the block with submissives, and he’s good at reading body language. The longer they lay together, the more relaxed Tripp becomes. His heartbeat slows, his breathing evens out, and his muscles unclench beneath Leander’s touch. It’s a beautiful response to an irritated submissive simply being held by their Dom, and Leander feels both proud and grateful. Any shadow of a doubt that doing this with Tripp is rewarding enough to be worth the struggle with his emotions all but dissipates—dust in the wind.

Later, when Tripp uncollars for good (for the day, anyway) and redresses in his own clothes, he leaves Leander warm and hopeful, flashing a bright smile over his shoulder. It’s nothing flashy or dramatic, just a squeeze to his shoulder and a “thanks, Lee,” but the way they part ensures that those feelings don’t fade, not in the least. Leander stands with his back to the apartment door for a very long time, smiling at nothing as he stares down an empty hallway, thinking about how damn lucky he is to have found a submissive like Tripp hiding inside his very best friend.

***

It’s five minutes past six in the evening and Leander has barely managed to punch his timesheet into the machine or drop his overnight bag in the bunk room when his phone starts lighting up with messages.

Ding. Ding. Ding. Ding. Ding.

Tripp: Whatcha doin?

Tripp: Lee

Tripp: Lee

Tripp: Lee

Tripp: Leeeeeeeeeeee

Against his better judgment and only because Tripp can’t see him, Leander smiles down at his message-flooded screen as he replies.

Leander: Bratty behavior will not be rewarded.

Tripp: Brat? Me? :-P

Tripp: C’mon, Lee, I’m bored. Entertain me. I know you’re not on a call, I’m sitting right next to the scanner.

Leander: I am not on a call, but that doesn’t mean I am without work to do. Go and annoy Gunnar, I need to do a rig check. Zavier has been playing this ridiculous game where he plants expired medications just to see if we’re actually looking at the dates.

Tripp: :( i’m bored

Tripp: how quick do you think you’ll regret choosing chores over me

Tripp: try not to think about my ass too much

Leander: you’re not funny

Tripp: I am objectively adorable

Leander: you’re distracting me, i have a very important job, as you know

Tripp: i’m worth it, baby. C’mon, talk dirty to me

Tripp: talk anything to me

Tripp: send me a dick pic

Leander: you know, it is true that we never talked about your lying to me yesterday. The way you ran and hid and spent an hour outside the ER, rather than risk you and I being alone together. If you’re this bored, we could certainly discuss that. At length, and in excruciating detail?

Tripp: uh i think i hear our tones gtg

It’s unnecessary to check the scanner to know that there are no tones and that Tripp is definitely not going on a call right now.

Closing his eyes, Leander locks his phone and slips it back into his pocket before taking a slow, deep breath, letting it back out while he prays for strength. He has to remind himself several times that Tripp is just being Tripp. In fact, that entire virtual interaction was completely on par with their usual relationship, long before any discussion of sex and submission came into play. If Tripp had asked for a dick pic two weeks ago, Leander would have shot back a photo of an anonymous, dismembered body part (courtesy of Google) without so much as a second thought.

The fact is, they aren’t in Dom / sub mode right now, and if he takes a step back, Leander can see that this is exactly how Tripp should be behaving. While it presses his buttons, that’s normal, and it shows that Tripp is adapting. That he’s not so affected or bothered by the shift in their relationship that it’s seeping into their usual back-and-forth banter.

It’s a good thing, Leander thinks.

“Meditating, boss?” Startled, Leander whirls around to find Marley leaning casually against the doorframe of the crew room. He moves towards her, heavy boots squeaking against the tile floor of the kitchen section of the common space, where he apparently forgot he was standing, in plain sight of anyone who might wander by. The whole room isn’t more than twenty feet by twenty feet, a functional space divided straight down the middle by the shift to carpet.

On the side that doesn’t host a full working kitchen (plus a table and chairs for eating), there’s a hodge-podge of mismatched couches and recliners, plus a coffee table and a TV mounted above a bookcase that mostly holds DVDs. The far wall of the room plays host to a long countertop, currently cluttered with an assortment of chargers and empty holsters meant for various pagers and radios, plus a hanging literature organizer functioning as mailboxes, each slot labeled with someone’s last name.

“Marley,” Leander exclaims, clapping a hand to his chest. “You startled me.”

His partner looks amused as she crosses the room to flop down on one of the ratty couches, bright red hair spilling artfully over the arm and swaying gently in the air. “‘Sup, El Capitán? You seem…” She squints and raises her hands the way a director framing a shot might, thumbs and index fingers creating a window. Scouring his demeanor with what can only be described as suspicion, she eventually shrugs and tucks both hands behind her head.

“ Something’s weird with you. You and Tripp, actually, now that I think about it. You know, he was supposed to meet me for drinks last night. Never showed, didn’t even text . Weird behavior from such a reliable guy, right? And now you, Captain Anal Retentive, are, what? Playing Candy Crush and getting zen in the kitchen, instead of checking your truck to make sure every gauze pad is in its place? What gives?”

Ignoring the lowkey insults, since he knows that coming from the equally anal-retentive Marley they’re actually compliments, Leander runs a hand through his hair and nods, starting for the door.

“You’re right, I should—”

“Don’t bother.” Marley cuts him off with a dismissive wave of her hand. “I did it already. Came in early to finish a chart from last night and jumped right into work when I finished. Changed the onboard oxygen, too. Oh—Zosia’s switching your expired drugs out, including your narcs, so you’ll just have to sign off on the new count when she’s done. I wouldn’t bother her, you know how she is with that stuff. All jokes aside, I think it is like meditation for her, you know?”

Nodding, Leander changes course, shuffling back into the crew room and sinking down into one of the recliners. He shifts to avoid the springs needling his ass and picks at the stuffing sticking out of the elderly chair’s arm, avoiding Marley’s shrewd gaze.

“So, you’re really not going to tell me?” She pouts obnoxiously and crosses her arms with a loud and pointed, “ Humph .”

“I’m really not going to tell you,” Leander replies evenly, fishing the remote out from under the cushion he’s sitting on and absently flipping through channels until he finds something suitably mindless. With any luck, it will serve to distract his partner and divert her endless curiosity. “And if you keep bothering me about it, I will assign you the entirety of the B.L.S. chart pile to Q.A. for the rest of the month.”

“Whoa, shots fired,” Marley replies, flipping onto her side and tipping her head up to affix Leander with what he’s sure she believes is a charming grin. “So, what I’m hearing is, it’s juicy.”

“Marley,” Leander warns.

“But—”

Whatever Marley’s going to say is miraculously interrupted by the house system activating above their heads. Claxons blare, tones drop over pagers, and a staticky voice comes across the building’s speakers as well as every device attached to belts and slung around shoulders in the vicinity. The feedback from his and Marley’s pagers catches on the house system and makes Leander cringe. He misses the beginning of the dispatch, at least until they both get fingers on the squelch buttons, quieting their mobile devices and making it possible to hear the overhead.

“...an MVA with entrapment, multiple victims, possible Class 5…”

That’s all Leander needs to hear before he’s off of the couch like a shot, followed closely behind by Marley as he charges into the ambulance bay, mind already working overtime. On a scene like this, Leander has to manage so many things—responding units, prioritization of patients by severity, allocation of resources—the list goes on and the situation is, by nature, constantly evolving. Should he have a helicopter on standby? Should he try to resuscitate a pulseless, entrapped person when two other human beings need his attention? Are there enough medical providers to go around?

Nature of the beast—none of those questions can be answered, not yet. Not until they arrive on the scene, or if a cop gets there first and provides a radio update.

As he and Marley make their way across the bay, Zosia pops out from the back of their truck and slams the doors behind her. “Drugs are good. Put your narcs back, didn’t have time to switch ‘em before the call came in. They’re expiring today, so use ‘em if you can! You wanna lead?”

“Yes,” Leander replies shortly, squeezing his Lieutenant’s arm in thanks as he moves past her towards the cab. “Echo?”

“Already in the truck.”

Of course, Leander realizes, internally facepalming. Both bay doors are open and Zosia’s truck engine is running. Marley fires theirs as Leander hops into the passenger seat and clocks Echo, buckled and ready to drive the other truck. She shifts into gear as Zosia climbs in beside her, flashing him a smile and a wave, and then they’re off. Echo’s face disappears swiftly from Leander’s peripheral vision as Marley pulls their ambulance forward.

On the way to the scene, Leander communicates with dispatch and learns that there are two victims already out of their vehicles, both up and walking, and an additional one who is reportedly unresponsive in the driver’s seat. While the police officer on scene doesn’t say so outright, Leander suspects from reading in-between the lines that the driver will not be a candidate for resuscitation. Based on that, he decides not to call for a third ambulance to join them.

It’s not yet seven in the evening on what turned out to be a rather temperate spring day. One that successfully tempted a fair number of locals out and about, called to enjoy the sustained respite from the cold winter still chasing them. It’s the same weather that had Tripp forgoing his long-sleeve tee at work the other night, and vaguely, Leander wonders if he made a better choice this evening.

Leander himself is wearing a sweatshirt with the City EMS logo on the breast, monochromatic navy from head-to-toe—it’s all navy, all the time here, minus the white lettering—and the same color t-shirt underneath. In a few hours, even that may not be warm enough.

The thing about spring days and the increased outdoor activity they bring, is that trauma inevitably comes with them. People—lay people—tend to view rain and snow and sleet as the harbingers of terrible motor vehicle accidents, but no, it’s the sun. The sun brings everyone out in force, crowds the roads, makes people feel innately safe and therefore act recklessly. The first nice days after a long, cold spell nearly always spell disaster on the roads and work for EMS. Motorcycles ripping carelessly around curves for the first time since fall. Elderly couples out for leisurely drives. Teenagers who earned their brand-new licenses over the winter and have been begging their mothers to let them borrow the car for months, finally cruising with the windows down and music up, laughing with friends, not paying attention.

As his ambulance pulls up to the scene and Leander registers the wreckage, he can almost feel the crash happening, replaying automatically in his mind’s eye. It’s not difficult to put the pieces together, not with how many vehicle accidents he’s seen in his career, and honestly, Leander isn’t sure that’s a good thing. It certainly doesn’t help him to sleep at night, when everything is said and done and the accident he wasn’t even in repeats over and over behind his eyelids.

The car sitting smashed and totaled, leaking fluids like a sieve into the middle of the roadway, would have been turning left. From the angle it’s pointed now, it had to have been coming out from a side street— there, Leander finds it—onto the main thoroughfare. This intersection (if you can call it that) is notorious—people have been lobbying for a stoplight here for years, to no avail. It’s at the bottom of a steep hill, one that has nowhere convenient for police to sit astride and monitor speed, and as such, people fly down it traveling up to twice the legal limit.

Inside his head, Leander imagines the car pulling out, driver looking left and then right, waiting patiently for a fast-moving vehicle to finish blowing down the hill. It’s probable that they forgot to recheck their left before ultimately pulling out into traffic.

The impact of the Ford F-150 that hit them would have been head-on, slamming directly into the totaled car’s driver-side door. Whoever was operating the truck would have had no time to react, no chance to brake or swerve. His mind supplies the sensory details as Leander’s eyes fall closed: the sickening crunch of metal-on-metal, the screeching of rubber tires against unmoving asphalt, the pop of airbags deploying violently—and it is violent.

Clouds of powder would have exploded over the car’s interior, coating the upholstery and invading the mouths and nostrils of any passengers unlucky enough to be riding along. The sharp scent of gasoline and the burning smell of the destroyed engine would have mixed with the copper tang of blood in the air and on tongues, bitter as it pooled with saliva and God knows what other bodily fluids.

The car would have spun, the people inside would have been jerked and jolted from side to side, thrown about like rag dolls even with their seatbelts on. Leander’s fingers tighten on his own thighs, envisioning—almost against his will—the force of the impact, the sound of glass shattering, the feel of it raining down over his face.

The smell he doesn’t have to imagine at all: it’s still lingering in the air. Stale and burning, a unique combination of oil and gas, smoke and fear. Most vehicle accidents smell exactly the same, just like this, and that produces a strange sense of deja vu each and every time Leander arrives at one.

Marley eases the truck’s brakes to a full stop just shy of the edge of the scene, not wanting to drive into the middle of the mess. For practical reasons, but also, should the event actually produce a fatality, the immediate area will require the state police to conduct accident reconstruction—best not to disturb the evidence telling the story, if possible.

Produce a fatality. What an odd, detached way to refer to the violent snuffing out of someone’s life. It’s so cold, so callous, and yet, that’s exactly what Leander has to be right now, so it’s apt. He has a job to do.

“Dispatch, Medic Three and Medic Four are on location.”

Fire is already here as well, an engine and a heavy rescue unit from two different stations, no Chief’s vehicle yet. Both of their trucks are parked so as to create a barrier between the accident scene and approaching traffic, shielding both the first responders and the victims. From memory, Leander knows that there are two firehouses close by in opposite directions down the road, and that one of them is Tripp’s. Despite that, Leander isn’t looking for him, not right now.

The responding fire units beat EMS by several minutes, and consequently, there are a handful of bunker-gear-wearing firefighters distractedly milling around. Two are peering into the totaled car and yelling for something—Leander can’t quite discern what that is over the ambient noise of trucks idling and traffic being redirected. Two more are crouched near the curb on the other side of the street, their helmets and gear blocking Leander’s view of what must be the ambulatory victims.

There’s a familiar face walking brusquely his way as he approaches the crash site. A petite blonde police officer who’s normally sporting an unshakeable smile and a terminally-sunny attitude, something Leander would welcome immensely on a scene like this. She’s likely come to give him report.

“Darla,” he greets her warmly, but Darla’s face remains taut and grim. Of all the ominous signs this scene boasts, that might be the most sobering.

“Captain,” she replies formally, and Leander’s stomach knots up in his abdomen. “Car full of teenagers, older brother taking his girlfriend and his sister on a ride to the mall.” She points over to where the two firefighters are crouched by the curb and jerks her chin. “Driver of the truck is fine, doesn’t want EMS to touch him. I have the girlfriend and the sister sitting down, they were both wandering around when I pulled up. Both are pretty shaken and bruised, younger one might be confused, hard to tell. Figured I’d leave that up to the professionals to decide.”

“And the brother?” Leander asks, already dreading the answer but still not entirely prepared for Darla to shake her head and pull her uniform hat off, placing it over her heart. “God bless him—I’m no medical professional,” she starts, “but even I know you don’t survive your head exploding all over the window like that.”

“Right,” Leander acknowledges, the breeze feeling that much cooler as it whips across his face. “Thank you, Darla.” He turns to his team, gathered a respectful step or two behind him, but nearly bouncing on the balls of their feet to jump into action.

He continues, “Zosia, see to the girls. Both of them need to be transported, regardless of injuries. It’ll be much better for their parents to get the news about the boy in the safety of the ER where there are resources to support them. Marley, Echo, grab collars and boards and use Fire to help secure and load them. None of you need to be near the car, and I expect you to keep the girls away, too. It sounds as if they probably haven’t realized what’s happened yet. I’ll pronounce and call for the coroner.”

There’s relief on everyone’s faces as they split off from their little huddle, hurrying to carry out Leander’s requests. Darla pats him on the arm, her face contrite and apologetic as he steps away towards the car. In his peripheral vision, the gold-plated “15” on the side of the engine glints dramatically in the dying evening light, making Leander squint.

Tripp is here somewhere, he remembers absently, now wishing more than anything that his friend was right here, by his side. But that’s a luxury and a comfort Leander just isn’t going to get today. As Tripp would say, “It’s ‘Big Girl Panties’ time.”

This is the worst part of the job, without question. This is the thing most of the EMTs and paramedics Leander knows have nightmares about. Before it happens, because of the fear, the anticipation of it, and then afterward for years , because of the scars it carves into your psyche. This type of situation represents the ultimate failure for a first responder—the victim they were too late to save, the person who is beyond their ability to help, even before they arrive on scene.

It’s never easy . No matter the victim’s age, gender, or the way in which they died, death is never painless to bear witness to. Some deaths are easier than others, of course. The ninety-year-old grandmother who dies peacefully in her sleep—Leander doesn’t know too many medics waking up in cold sweats over calls like that.

But this…Darla slipped him the victim’s license as he walked away—how she got it, Leander’s not willing to think too much about. The boy’s picture—vertically placed, since he’s under twenty-one—shows a floppy-haired teenager with a dorky smile and acne. The birth date printed to its right lets Leander know that he only turned eighteen a month ago.

Eighteen.

These firefighters are on the ball. As Leander nears the car, he recognizes his niece, Chloe, standing alongside Station Eleven’s Captain Reina Harrington. Reina gives him a solemn nod and tips her head towards Chloe, who’s holding a folded tarp and looks as serious as Leander’s ever seen her. They can’t tarp the car until they have a medical go-ahead, and that’s on him. Even though it’s obvious, even though everyone already knows, no one on this scene can decide that it’s officially over for this boy—no one except for Leander.

That reality weighs heavily on his shoulders, and he tries equally hard not to show it.

The actual physical assessment takes less than thirty seconds total, even counting the time it takes for Leander to climb into the passenger seat and lean over the boy’s skinny body. He places two fingers on the boy’s neck, because he has to. He presses his stethoscope to his unmoving chest, because he has to. Neither are necessary. If anything, Darla was downplaying the severity of the head trauma in her succinct description, and it’s one of the hardest things Leander’s ever had to look at, which is saying something.

Eighteen years, gone in the blink of an eye.

As he exits the still-smoking car, the whole scene seems to slow down and blur, voices going muffled and fading into the back of Leander’s mind as he forces himself to go through the motions. Together with Chloe and Reina, he pulls the bright blue tarp up and over the car so that gawking bystanders can’t see inside. Blue plastic waves in the wind and has to be weighed down by bags of sand in order to stay in place.

Leander turns away. The two survivors are already on backboards, secured to stretchers that are being loaded into each of the ambulances, and he follows, numb.

Using his portable radio, Leander requests the coroner. He speaks to Darla. He climbs into his ambulance and takes report on the shaken-up but mostly-uninjured little sister from Marley. They drive to the hospital in a hazy fog of red lights bouncing aimlessly through the deepening darkness outside the windows, sirens echoing off of towering buildings as they fly through the city unhindered.

He starts an IV. He asks the fourteen-year-old girl questions about her pain level, about what she remembers happening. He checks her vital signs, covers a shallow laceration on her arm, gives her an icepack for the blossoming bruise on the side of her face. When she questions him about her brother, Leander doesn’t lie, but he doesn’t tell her the truth, either.

“We should wait for your parents,” he suggests. “At the hospital, they’ll be there.”

Someone called them. Darla, probably—Leander thinks he remembers her saying as much.

He’s off the hook, anyway. The girl doesn’t push for a better answer. Either she already knows and wants to stay in denial for a little while longer, or more likely, she hit her head and isn’t completely capable of putting two plus two together right this second.

Leander calls report to the hospital and when they arrive, both his patient and Zosia’s are taken directly to the double trauma bay. Injury potential, is the reasoning. Death, same vehicle. He and Zosia orate their reports clearly and competently to a crowded trauma room full of gowned and gloved professionals before leaving both girls in good, capable hands. The Chaplain is already present, ready to help deliver the bad news alongside the doctors and nurses.

It’s cowardly, but Leander feels relieved to know that particular burden won’t be down to him. At least, not this time.

As he strips off his gloves and washes his hands, Marley pats his back and instructs him to “go get some air,” while she restocks their supplies. She knows him, knows how much he takes these sort of calls to heart, and considering the situation, it’s likely that she’s also extremely grateful he didn’t make her look inside the car. Somewhat mechanically, Leander thanks her and turns away, automatically flicking his badge at the sensor lock to key open the ER doors.

Outside in the ambulance bay, there’s a fire truck idling. The familiar gold “15” on the side looks colder since the sun has fully disappeared. Zosia must have taken one of their firefighters with her to help in the back, the engine is probably here to pick up whoever it was.

The air is chilly, the wind outright brisk, and Leander can’t help but reflect back on his earlier ponderings regarding the likelihood that his sweatshirt wouldn’t be warm enough tonight. He was right, but there’s nothing to do about it now.

He’s dazed. So much so that he doesn’t realize he’s been standing in the middle of the parking lot, staring blankly at the engine for several embarrassingly long minutes. It’s not until the side door opens and someone gets out that Leander even makes an attempt to blink himself back to reality.

Tripp, clad once again in only his bunker pants and a fucking t-shirt, hits the ground moving and strides towards him with a worried look on his face. Despite everything, Leander can’t help but smile at Tripp’s stubborn stupidity, his ridiculous predictability, and his lack of simple common sense. It’s inane, and Leander loves him for it.

“You look cold,” he comments smugly, but Tripp isn’t fooled, reaching out to grab Leander by the bicep and yank him into his chest, hugging him fiercely and clapping him firmly on the back, twice. Tears burst violently into the corners of Leander’s eyes, and he chokes and gasps a little while doing his best to force them back.

“I know,” Tripp says gruffly, rocking them both from side to side as Leander clings.

“I really need you,” he mutters, soft and rough, and Tripp gets it immediately, pulling back and holding him at arm’s length, but in a reassuring, possessive sort of way.

“You’ve got me,” he replies, looking Leander straight in the eyes. “I promise. Tomorrow night, soon as we get off shift, I’ll be there.” Tripp squeezes his shoulder while Leander works to put his emotions in check and his face back in order, searching for the right thing to say. Tripp is a miracle, and Leander already owes him so much. What would he have done if they hadn’t gone down this road? That’s not even something he’s capable of contemplating at the moment, so he shoves the thought away.

“Thank you,” he settles on saying, his voice coming out used and gritty. He swipes roughly at his eyes and nods. “Tomorrow, then.”

The fire engine revs and rumbles behind them, like someone has stepped on the gas without first releasing the brake. Clearly, the crew inside isn’t trying to be obnoxious or insensitive, but someone wants them to get a move on.

“Text me,” Tripp says, pointing a finger in Leander’s direction as he walks backward towards the waiting truck. With a last nod and a wave, Leander agrees, and lets him go.

When he returns to his own truck, parked carefully in-between the next set of white lines beside Zosia and Echo’s, the patient compartment is nearly back to its formerly pristine state. “Thank you, Marley,” Leander says quietly, thumbing through his paperwork and the patient demographic information that Marley has kindly retrieved from registration.

“Dude, I should be thanking you,” Marley quips, zipping up the first-in bag and plopping it on top of the stretcher for next time. “If you need—”

“I don’t,” Leander cuts her off quickly and then offers what he hopes reads as an appreciative look when she glares back at him disapprovingly. “I’m fine,” he assures her.

“Oookay, if you say so,” Marley concedes, shrugging as she hops down out of the truck and makes her way to the driver’s seat. Before Leander follows, he takes a second to poke his head into the back of Zosia’s rig, only to find Echo doing the same cleaning routine as Marley.

“Hey,” he says. “You should text Chloe. I don’t know how much she may have seen, but I thought she looked…” Leander trails off and presses his lips together. Echo will understand—she’s been dating his niece for over a year now and knows the interminably stubborn Chloe better than just about anyone. In some ways, the two of them remind Leander quite a lot of him and Tripp: complementary pieces that shouldn’t fit together, but somehow do.

Except, of course, for the fact that Chloe loves Echo back, and she shows it openly.

“Thanks for the heads up,” Echo replies sincerely, stopping what she’s doing to lean an elbow against the cabinets and eye Leander with concern. “And you? You don’t look so good.”

“I’m fine, ” Leander grumbles, ducking back out of the box and heading for his own truck. “Besides having to reassure everyone else that’s the case.”

“That’s what Chloe always says when she’s not fine,” Echo yells after him.

“It’s what everyone says when they’re not fine, Echo,” Leander shoots back, noncommittal and evasive as ever. He slides into the cab of the ambulance and motions for Marley to get going before Echo can so much as reply (or before Zosia can show up and pile on him, too). That’s the last thing he needs right now. He is fine. Or at least, he will be.

Tomorrow night.

***

Twenty-four hours stuck off and on in various enclosed spaces with three smart, intuitive women who are determined to make Leander talk about his feelings turns him itching and anxious in an entirely different way. By the time six p.m. rolls around the following evening and Leander’s shift ends, he’s feeling marginally less distraught about what he saw at the accident scene, but a lot more interested in getting the hell away from his well-intentioned co-workers. He gets it—they’re grateful he took one for the team, they want to support him, but none of them are any good at accepting that a roundtable discussion is simply not how Leander copes.

No matter what the experts claim, simply talking things out is not an effective tool for every person to deal with every kind of stress. Rehashing trauma in that way has always functioned in the reverse for Leander, causing him to feel worse. Unpacking what’s in the rearview tends to paint a vivid picture of all the things that were and are out of his control, placing the value of words and intention above action and outcome in all ways. It’s not something that’s ever made sense to him and it’s not a coping method he can relate to.

Working things out in a BDSM scene , though—a place where he controls the intention, the action, and the outcome—now, that’s useful. However twisted someone else may find it to be, in Leander’s mind, the importance of being able to see and feel his wins can’t be overstated, and that’s where being a Dom comes in. Talk can be valuable, of course, and there is a time and a place for it. But when it comes to processing and coping with trauma, talk simply doesn’t work for Leander, and insofar as he can tell, it doesn’t work for Tripp, either.

No one else needs to understand. They have each other for that.

As Leander is loading up his car to head home, he receives a text from Tripp advising that he’s coming straight over, the minute the clock chimes six. Do not pass go, do not collect two hundred dollars—or in this case, do not shower and change. Logistically speaking, Leander knows that he should probably tell him to go to his home and do all that, but put plainly, he simply doesn’t want to.

Since their brief encounter in the hospital parking lot the night before, he hasn’t seen Tripp at all, and they’ve barely spoken. Both of their shifts were busy, leaving little time for texting. The result is an anxious Leander who is quite desperate to get on with their plans, and in general, to have Tripp in his arms.

Besides , he reasons to himself, it’s well-within the sphere of their relationship for Leander to order Tripp—once he’s collared—to get cleaned up or to prep himself in whatever way he deems necessary. In fact, the idea of Tripp doing so in Leander’s own bathroom is an enticing thought all it’s own, not to mention, one that’s easily tacked onto the scene he has in mind.

Excited all over again (perhaps even more so now), Leander bids his co-workers a rushed goodbye, completely ignoring Marley’s suspicious line of questioning regarding why he’s suddenly smiling.

“Are you seeing Autumn again or something?!” She calls after him hopefully, her voice carrying loudly across the parking lot. But Leander just slides silently into his car, thrusting a hand out the window to wave at her as he pulls away. Marley doesn’t need any inadvertent clues about how close she’s accidentally wandered to the truth—knowing her, it’s only a matter of time until she figures it out.

Leander wonders if Tripp realizes as much, and how he’ll react when she inevitably does, because it’s almost certainly a ‘when,’ and not an ‘if.’

The drive home feels endless, though in actuality, it takes less than fifteen minutes. When Leander turns to maneuver his car into the parking area beneath his apartment complex, he notes Tripp’s Chevelle already parked in the visitor’s lot outside, and his extremities tingle with anticipation. Overnight bag slung over his shoulder, Leander takes the elevator from the garage up to his floor, beginning to slip into Dom-mode even before it dings his arrival and the doors slide open.

He’s still unprepared.

Leander’s breath catches in his chest because Tripp—Tripp looks even better than usual. Perhaps it’s all of the anticipation and the build-up, the coalescing stress and emotions piled high on top of something Leander already wanted and needed very badly over the last twenty-four hours, but he’s fairly certain he’s never seen such a welcoming sight.

Tripp is still in his t-shirt, of course, paired with his blue uniform pants and heavy black duty boots, essentially the same thing Leander is wearing. Except, Tripp looks like he’s modeling for a catalog, not coming off of a long work shift, and Leander probably has “just rolled out of bed” vibes. To be fair, he did—he took a nap from about four-thirty to six, and likely retains the crease lines on his cheek to prove it.

The way Tripp leans so casually against Leander’s door frame, arms folded across his chest as he absently scrolls his phone, is artful perfection. His toned biceps push against the fabric of his t-shirt and the hem rides up a little near his hip, exposing skin that Leander has to physically restrain himself from dropping to his knees to lick.

Was he always this thirsty over Tripp? Leander finds himself having to wonder, and the answer is a resounding, absolutely not . Of course, he’s been interested. He’s found Tripp impossibly attractive, even, but it appears that getting a taste of what actually having Tripp is like has sent him tumbling over a cliff, the edge of which he didn’t even know that he was standing on.

Cracking his neck, Leander ensures that he appears outwardly composed before approaching Tripp and sliding his key into the lock, which he does without a word. They both know why they’re here, and—for many reasons—it’s best that Tripp has access to his collar as quickly as possible.

Boundaries, Leander emphasizes to himself, for the hundredth or so time since their debriefing discussion yesterday morning. Excessive, perhaps, but important to him all the same.

As the door shuts behind them, he finds out swiftly that he has no reason to worry. The lock has barely clicked into place before Tripp is extricating the thin strip of leather from its box, threading it around his neck as Leander bends to put his bag on the floor. Doing his best to appear nonchalant (and not as if he thinks he might explode waiting for Tripp to give him the green light), Leander stands quietly with his fingers laced together behind his back.

Once again, Tripp doesn’t disappoint, heading directly for the playroom after flashing Leander a cheeky wink that he gladly lets slide—just this once—because he really is thrilled with Tripp and the complete lack of prompting he’s needed.

As he watches him go, Leander has the distinct feeling that he may need to remind himself from time to time that Tripp is not an experienced sub. He’s clearly something special—his demeanor, his attitude, and the easy way he slips into the role, the willingness to accept everything Leander asks of him—he could fool even the most experienced Dom. But that doesn’t mean that he knows his own limits, and Leander needs to maintain awareness of that.

He supposes they’ll find out, if those things carry over to some more intense scenes, and the mere suggestion of doing so has the hairs on his arm standing up wildly.

Remembering himself and his plan for the night, Leander clears his throat. Instantly, Tripp stops dead in his tracks. The swiftness of his response and the incredibly clear desire to please nearly result in Leander’s abandonment of the request on the tip of his tongue, and it would have—because he has very little restraint left in him tonight—but he does need a few minutes to prepare the room, so in the end, it’s easiest to follow through.

“Instead of heading to the playroom, you’re going to strip in the bathroom today. Leave your clothes in the hamper, then shower, clean up, and prepare yourself for me. There are enema kits underneath the sink, and lube in the top drawer of the vanity. In fact—wait one moment, please.”

Leander’s tone is clipped and efficient, and for the first time tonight, he sees Tripp falter a little, which is amusing. It’s good that he’s surprised and caught off-guard—scenes like this should be somewhat unpredictable for him, that’s what Tripp wants. As Leander moves past his sub, he drops a hand to Tripp’s lower back, allowing for a gentle caress, something grounding between them. Opening the door to the playroom, he heads over to the closest armoire and pulls the top drawer open, removing a still-packaged item from inside and handing it over.

“Clear?”

Tripp is still standing in the doorway, obedient as ever. Leander doesn’t miss the flush that colors his cheeks when he accepts the brand-new plug, but to his credit, his posture straightens and he flashes a wide, cocky smile.

“Yes, Sir,” he answers confidently. “Anything else, Sir?”

“No,” Leander replies with a roll of his eyes and a mild swat of his hand to Tripp’s ass as he passes. “Don’t be a brat.”

The door to the bathroom closes and Leander waits until the shower turns on, just on the off-chance that Tripp might need something. Satisfied that he’ll have a few minutes alone, he moves about the playroom, meticulously setting up and fussing over details.

Even though Tripp doesn’t wish to discuss or debrief on the daily, Leander’s already decided that he’s not willing to compromise on being the kind of Dom who doesn’t blindside his sub with something—or a combination of things—that he may not be interested in. Kink worksheets are all well and good, but for the most part, all scene participants should have a general idea of what’s coming on any given day, otherwise, there’s no ability to ensure ongoing consent.

Perhaps that concept will evolve as they grow to learn and trust each other more fully within these new roles. After they find and press their own limits, both together and individually, and once Leander feels confident in reading Tripp’s non-verbal cues. For now, though, they’re building a foundation, and he’s determined to ensure that it’s solid.

As such, when Tripp finally exits the bathroom, naked, damp, and fresh, his skin pink and his hair wet but re-styled, Leander is waiting for him with a plan. He has Led Zeppelin playing again, knowing that the familiar chords will put his sub at ease, although it’s much quieter tonight than last time—truly background music. Already stripped down to his boxers, Leander meets Tripp halfway across the room and cups his cheek, briefly considering dragging him in for a kiss but deciding at the last second that it would be too intimate under these circumstances. Instead, he reaches around and uses his fingertips to search for the base of the plug, humming approvingly when they brush along its curve.

“Lovely,” he approves. “Thank you, Tripp.”

“You’re so welcome, Sir,” Tripp replies quickly, and Leander preens.

“Truly, such a good boy,” he murmurs, placing a hand on Tripp’s shoulder and pushing down lightly in suggestion. “Kneel.”

Once Tripp is on the ground, Leander steps away towards the bed, where numerous supplies have been laid out. “Tonight, my goal is for you to learn to trust me with your pleasure. You already know, of course, that I am in control of your body, but unless you earn a punishment or we agree in advance on complete denial, I also want you to trust that I will always take care of you in the end. Do you believe me, Tripp?”

Raising his eyes from where they’ve been trained on the floor, Tripp nods. “Yes, Sir.”

“That’s good,” Leander says almost conversationally, nonchalant as he selects a slim vibrator, fresh out of its package, lifting it up from where it’s been sitting on the bed. Once he’s sure that Tripp’s eyes are tracking, he runs a loose fist over it, intentionally teasing.

“It’s good, because you won’t come tonight until you’re begging for it, until you’ve nearly given up on release. Your whole body will be screaming for deliverance, but only I get to decide when you’ve earned it. I’m going to tie you to this bed, blindfold you, tease you relentlessly, and fuck your mouth the way you wish I’d fuck your hole. Does that sound amenable?”

Biting back a smirk, Leander tips his head to the side and watches as Tripp’s mouth falls open slightly, his tongue darting out nervously to wet his lips before he sucks in a breath. “Y-yes, Sir,” he replies, fumbling over the words, which is very much the reaction Leander was hoping for. To his delight, Tripp remains kneeling with his hands behind his back, wide-eyed and unflinching as he awaits his next instructions.

Leander’s blood warms in his veins to see it, thinking about all the ways he can’t wait to positively ruin this man.

“Safeword, Tripp?”

“Halligan.”

“And are you using it?”

“No, Sir.”

Interesting . A much less cavalier response than the last time—Tripp is appropriately nervous now, and Leander is extremely pleased. “Stand. Lay on the bed, face-up, with your head just over the edge of the side I’m standing on—yes, exactly like that. Good boy.” Leander praises Tripp as he clamors to obey, appreciating the curve of his ass and the flex of the muscles in his back as he climbs onto the elevated mattress and works himself flat.

Part of this scene involves keeping Tripp on his toes by forcing him to hold his head up. He can allow it to fall back, of course, and it won’t even be particularly painful or much of a punishment if he does, but it won’t be comfortable, either. With nothing underneath to support it, Tripp will be constantly pulled to thinking about his head and neck, to the blood rushing in opposite directions and deciding whether to endure the strain or let it drop. It’s an additional mess of sensations that he’ll have to war with, in addition to the rest of the onslaught Leander is planning.

Once Tripp is in position, Leander tugs loose a cuff that’s attached to the post at the bottom of the bed, and another from the post at the top. He secures the first to Tripp’s left wrist and the second to his right. When that’s done, he adjusts each restraint length so that Tripp’s arms are extended straight out to the sides. They stretch parallel along the line of the bed, only an inch or so of mattress separating the tops of his arms from empty space.

“Comfortable?” Leander murmurs, slipping a finger beneath the bindings and assessing Tripp’s fingers to ensure that the cuffs are secure, but not so tight that function or circulation is impeded.

“I guess,” Tripp huffs, clearly just being difficult and not actually unsure, but Leander grabs him by the hair anyway.

“You guess? ” he growls. “Color, Tripp.”

“Green, Sir,” Tripp replies quickly, contrite as Leander raises his eyebrows and casts him a warning look. “I’m sorry, Sir.”

“Better,” Leander allows, before returning to his work.

It’s entertaining to watch Tripp wriggle in place, testing his restraints and simultaneously trying to figure out what to do with his head, although Leander tries his best not to show exactly how amused he is. Instead, he grabs the silk blindfold left out for this purpose and folds it slowly, intentionally, drawing out the moment. He patently ignores the way Tripp squirms below him, starting to show the budding signs of impatience.

Sweet, summer child.

When the fabric has been secured around Tripp’s eyes (and tested), Leander moves to the other side of the bed. There, he shoves a pillow underneath Tripp’s ass in order to elevate it for easier access, before securing both of his ankles in a similar fashion to his wrists. Satisfied, he steps back to survey his kingdom, a thoughtful hand stroking his chin.

Just seeing Tripp tied up and helpless, willingly putting himself at Leander’s mercy, does things to him. The feeling is far from unexpected and it isn’t wholly unfamiliar, but it’s also not exactly the same as his Dom experiences from the past. Sometimes with Autumn, Leander would work through an entire scene without so much as getting hard. Sometimes, he would get her off and completely forget about himself, because it was the control he was there for, first and foremost. The sex was always a bonus or a side-effect—and an unnecessary one, at that.

This, though. This is something different. Tripp’s body is interesting to Leander in ways that no one else’s has ever been. It produces sensations in his own being, awakens feelings and instincts he was never entirely sure he possessed. Just seeing Tripp naked— knowing that he’s allowed to have him, to take him, any way he might desire—not only has Leander hard in his boxers, it forces the blood to flow definitively away from his brain.

It’s very possible that lack of oxygen is making him hazy and silly, but just for a moment, Leander wonders why they’re bothering with all this other stuff when they could just be fucking.

Thankfully, he comes back to himself before he does something stupid. After all, that “other stuff,” is what Tripp is here for, and Leander needs to stay on track. This is where his own BDSM experience becomes salient, allowing him to easily pivot back to the task at hand, completely second-nature, as well as serving to keep him focused on what’s important. Leander can do this—he can definitely do this, he was made for it.

Climbing up onto the bed, Leander straddles one of Tripp’s thighs and runs a single finger down through the valley separating his pecs. Splayed out beneath him, Tripp shivers a little and pulls his bottom lip in-between his teeth.

“Color, Tripp?” Leander asks.

“Green, Sir,” Tripp replies breathlessly, biceps flexing as he inadvertently tugs on his restraints.

“Hmm,” is all Leander replies. Glancing over the remaining items he has laid out on the bed, Leander selects a small feather duster, flipping it over in his palm to tickle the soft end across Tripp’s bare skin. It has the intended effect—at first, it makes Tripp laugh, loosening him up a little, but after a minute or two, the too-light sensations have him squirming and sighing, murmuring about being ticklish.

Down on Tripp’s thigh, his shy-from-nerves, half-hard cock begins to plump up fully with the distraction. Leander doesn’t even need to touch it to get him all the way there, he just flicks the duster around Tripp’s various sensitive areas and grins at his own cleverness.

“I enjoy seeing you like this,” he tells Tripp, who exhales pointedly. “So docile and compliant. So open and beautiful. Your body,” he continues, leaning down to press a kiss to Tripp’s sternum, to let his open mouth drag greedily over Tripp’s firm abdomen, leaving a wet trail from his tongue and lips in its wake. “It’s stunning,” he tells Tripp’s belly button, “You are an incredible creature, so deserving of my affection, my attention.”

Unsurprisingly, Tripp grunts dismissively beneath him. Leander suspects that his face has turned fire engine-red, his lip probably close to bleeding from biting down hard enough to resist talking back. Amazingly, he does manage to keep his mouth shut and Leander rewards him, knowing full-well how hard that must have been for his self-deprecating sub.

“Good boy,” he says approvingly, before opening his mouth and taking Tripp’s erection in nearly to the root, swallowing firmly around him not once, but twice.

The muscles in Tripp’s thighs spring taut and he groans, not expecting the intense stimulation and therefore, not remotely ready for it. Leander pulls off with a wet pop, wipes his mouth, and says, “Don’t you dare come.” He sits back on his heels and watches with satisfaction as Tripp struggles and pants but wrests himself back under control rather impressively quickly. Running a hand up Tripp’s thigh, Leander decides that he’s ready to move forward.

“Don’t forget,” he reminds Tripp. “You may come only when I say so, but you may beg all you like. In fact, you must, if you want to obtain my permission.”

“Yes, Sir,” Tripp acknowledges, his words already breathy and wonderfully needy.

After obtaining the lube and the vibrator again, Leander gets his fingers around the base of Tripp’s plug and toys with it a little, working it against his rim. In and out, occasionally leaning forward to swirl his tongue over the crown of Tripp’s cock, just to be a tease. Tripp responds beautifully, sighing and moaning quietly, tugging at his restraints and wiggling his ass as best as he can. There’s no reason to admonish or encourage him to stay still—Leander’s rather enjoying how affected Tripp is, and besides, there’s quite literally nowhere for him to go.

The plug slips out and Leander sets it aside, slicking up his fingers and prodding Tripp’s hole himself, wanting to draw out the teasing before allowing him the vibrator. He slips two digits inside easily, sweeping them around until he locates Tripp’s prostate. A firm press of his fingers has the man arching right up off the bed—as much as he’s able—and Leander draws the moment out, entertained.

“That was impressive, for being tied up,” he teases, and Tripp moans, doing his best to rock down onto the fingers but getting absolutely nowhere. “Now, now,” Leander scolds. “Patience. Or, at least tell me what you want.”

“Want you , Lee,” Tripp moans throatily, and if Leander wasn’t hard before— fuck . His dick blurts precum onto his thigh and Leander blinks down at the mess in surprise, his hand automatically moving to provide some relieving pressure, unfamiliar with having such a strong reaction in a sexual situation.

“Sir,” he corrects Tripp, but his reaction is delayed and he’s almost remiss to issue it for the way ‘ Lee’ sounds coming out of Tripp’s sinful mouth. Despite his hesitation, he does lift Tripp’s leg to slap him on the ass, hoping that’ll be received as sufficient reproach. Tripp is… so much more distracting than Leander could have anticipated.

“ Sir,” Tripp moans, not missing a beat. “Sir, please, I need your fingers. Please touch me again, ple—” His rambling is cut off by another moan when Leander obliges—since he asked so nicely—pushing two fingers inside again and giving Tripp the pressure he’s asking for.

“You like that, hmm? That’s excellent news, because I have so much more to give you.” Without waiting for a reply, Leander swaps his fingers for the lubed-up vibrator, turning it on and angling the device so that it rests directly against Tripp’s prostate. At this point, Tripp’s cock is rock-hard and looking a little purple, practically begging for someone to touch it. Tripp clearly agrees, rocking his hips and squirming, desperate little noises spilling from his throat.

Pleased by what he’s created, Leander hops down off of the bed and watches for a moment, enjoying Tripp’s writhing and the sounds that are steadily increasing in both volume and need. He readjusts the vibrator’s depth when it slips, and eventually, rounds the bed to where Tripp’s neck is having the roughest time of all.

It’s clear from the tension in Tripp’s strong shoulders that keeping his head up is becoming a strain. He’s frequently letting it drop, which makes Leander’s timing all but perfect. Anticipation thrumming, he shucks his boxers and stands to Tripp’s left, at exactly the right height thanks to the elevated nature of the bed—one of the best design decisions he could’ve made regarding this room.

Reaching out to slide a bracing hand underneath the base of Tripp’s skull, the overstimulated sub can’t help but sigh in relief. He tries to relax into the soothing grasp, but Leander clicks his teeth in reproach. “Oh no, you don’t,” he says, carefully tipping Tripp’s head to the side and using his free hand to grasp his own cock, rubbing the tip across Tripp’s parted lips.

The sight is obscene. It looks almost nonconsensual, with Tripp stretched out and tied down, the blindfold covering his eyes, the way he’s sweating and tensing from the vibrator in his ass. He’s gorgeous, truly a work of art, and Leander is over the moon about every single detail. Not only the aesthetics, but the way the scene as a whole makes him feel— body hot and so aroused that he has to work to keep himself in check, in control. It’s way beyond what he’s used to, what he expected to feel, but in a truly spectacular manner that he wouldn’t change a bit.

Another dribble of precum leaks from his cock, and this time, Tripp’s tongue is darting out to taste, his mouth opening and neck straining to take Leander in, and who is he to deny such a perfect, desperate request? Except—he can’t. Leander’s so enthralled, he nearly forgets to pause and roll on a condom, remembering at the last possible second. Tripp looks disappointed, but he waits patiently.

As Tripp’s lips finally close around him, Leander releases a hum of satisfaction, allowing himself a long, quiet moment where he closes his eyes and just holds Tripp’s head, relishing the hot, wet heat enveloping him. With one hand grasping Tripp’s jaw, he can feel the muscles there relax, see the saliva drooling from Tripp’s mouth as he cautiously pushes all the way in, past his hard palate and into his throat.

To his credit, Tripp—shaking and clutching at the bedsheets with his fingertips—just breathes and takes it, moving air through his nose and letting Leander do whatever it is he wants.

That produces an incredible rush of power and emotion, and when Leander pulls out and Tripp gasps, he can’t resist crouching down immediately, fisting both hands into Tripp’s hair and kissing him passionately—thorough and deep, even as the man is still catching his breath.

“Perfect,” he mumbles, right into Tripp’s mouth. “You’re perfect.”

“Please,” Tripp rasps, as Leander kisses the corner of his mouth, his jaw, as he nips along his neck and reaches down between his legs to adjust the vibrator. Tripp’s body jerks violently beneath his chest when he does, and he cries out.

“Fuck, Sir, please, please,” he begs.

“Soon,” Leander replies, pressing his thumb into the soft flesh of Tripp’s chin and encouraging his mouth open again. He complies, of course, with tears in his eyes and a sob in his throat, and Leander slides back into his mouth, more gently this time. He doesn’t fuck Tripp’s face like he promised, or try to deepthroat him again, he just rocks there for several minutes, alternately reaching down to fix the vibrator and murmuring encouragement for Tripp to swallow or to use his tongue, which he does flawlessly on command.

When he pulls out again, Tripp has had enough, and Leander can see it this time. He recognizes all of the signs that this scene is nearing the point where it will tip for Tripp. That’s perfect, because he’s ready, too. Supporting Tripp’s neck, Leander removes the blindfold before hitting the quick releases for the restraints at his wrists, pushing him to a sitting position so that he can follow him up onto the bed and release his ankles, too.

Once free, he shoves Tripp down onto his back where he flops like a ragdoll, as glassy-eyed and pliant as Leander can imagine it’s possible to get. It’s an incredible, beautiful thing to see, and Leander soaks up every second of it.

“Gorgeous,” he murmurs, sliding both hands up the tender skin of Tripp’s thighs before pushing them apart to crawl in-between and pull the vibrator, tossing it aside. He elaborates on his praise to buy himself a couple of seconds.

“You are incredible, Tripp. Everything I hoped for and more.”

When Leander pushes inside his body, Tripp groans loudly in abject relief and reaches out to touch, retracting his hand just as quickly, unsure as to whether he’s allowed.

“Go on,” Leander encourages, thrusting shallowly. “Touch whatever you like, you’ve earned it.” To his surprise, Tripp immediately threads both arms around his neck, pulling him down so that his own legs are bent up nearly against his chest. He wants skin-on-skin, wants them to be as close as possible, and Leander knows he shouldn’t allow it, but can’t bring himself to deprive this version of Tripp anything.

Instead, he sets about fucking him hard, going fast and deep, making Tripp cry out and dig fingers into his shoulder blades with every thrust. “Please, Sir, please, please, please let me come, please , I—”

“You can come, Tripp,” Leander replies fervently, doing his best to shut Tripp up because it’s too much, for him, and oh—Leander realizes far too late that he should have fucked him with the blindfold on, because his eyes—

He is way too late to stop Tripp from finishing while looking straight up at him, eyes brimming with lust and longing, at least until they squeeze shut with pleasure, and isn’t that some kind of bizarre relief? Still, with Tripp clenching around him and the memory of the desire, the want, the trust in his green eyes, in his expression—Leander groans into Tripp’s shoulder as he spills inside of him, filling the condom and wishing it wasn’t between them.

He steals only a second to catch his breath in the warm, inviting crook of Tripp’s neck before sitting up, very aware that Tripp is sore and will need a significant amount of care and attention before they can collapse tonight. That’s obvious when Leander accidentally leans on his shoulder to sit up, and Tripp winces before blinking up at him, wide-eyed and unsure.

“Sir?” he asks timidly, and he’s very quiet, very un- Tripp-like, which makes Leander start, despite his exhaustion. “Was that...uh, okay?”

Despite himself and the fact that he knows Tripp is serious, Leander can’t help it—he bursts into laughter. Only for a moment, and then he reins it in. Cupping Tripp’s cheek and leaning down to kiss him softly, he smiles. “I don’t lie to my subs, Tripp,” he says. “When I told you that you were perfect, I meant it.” Tripp still looks unsure, so Leander sighs and takes his chin between his thumb and forefinger. “Do you believe that I would lie to you?” he asks sternly, and Tripp looks surprised.

“No,” he says, after a moment. “Of course not.”

Releasing him, Leander pats the side of his face. If only he could reassure Tripp with the truth, the fact that he’s never had a more satisfying, a more arousing sexual encounter in his life, but clearly, Tripp would not appreciate that. No, Leander needs to keep those feelings and revelations under wraps, but that doesn’t mean he can’t reassure Tripp as best he’s able.

“I’m extremely pleased with you, Tripp,” he says. “If you’ll roll over onto your stomach, I’m going to retrieve some juice and some lotion, and then I’ll be happy to show you how much.”

As Leander makes his way over to the armoire that houses his mini-fridge, he chances a glance over his shoulder and finds Tripp already on his stomach, watching. He flashes Leander a sleepy smile and then yawns, and Leander’s heart nearly stops.

Damn, but he is so, so fucked.