10. Ethan
TEN
Ethan
I’m in Levi’s room watching him sleep in the soft glow of a nightlight. I’ve set my chair near the bed so I can see his face to draw it. He’s beautiful in sleep. I feel calm watching him. I almost feel like I could sleep too.
But I don’t want to miss this.
And I wouldn’t be able to sleep, not really, not if I went to my own room. I would start thinking about what a bad idea this is. I know it won’t end well. But when I’m with Levi, talking to him, drawing him, eating with him, I mostly forget that fact.
I wish I could have drawn him earlier in the kitchen. I loved seeing him so aroused and so overwhelmed by it. He’s not used to it. And yet, he’s not afraid. He wasn’t even put off by the cock cage. He was curious about it.
I think he’s bold and even a little wild under his insecurities. He just needs to get used to his body. He needs to experience it.
He needs me to show him.
My cock throbs in its cage as I think about the things I want to do with him.
I want to do them now, but I won’t wake him.
He was so worn out after dinner, exhausted by all the emotions.
I sent him to bed. The lamp was on for a while.
He must have been reading. There’s a ratty, yellowed paperback on the nightstand, some fantasy novel that I’ve never heard of with a cover from the 70s or 80s.
Levi rolls over in his sleep. His back is to me now. I rise halfway from the chair to tug the sheet down and expose just a bit of his ass. I love that he sleeps naked. It tells me so much. He wants to be free.
I start a new sketch.
I spend about an hour on it, then I leave it on the chair. I leave the room in practiced silence. Levi never stirs.
From the hallway, I can see a light on in the kitchen, one that I didn’t leave that way. I walk toward it, annoyed but not really surprised.
Patrick, seated at the island, looks up from his phone at my approach.
I rarely see him in anything other than a suit these days, but he’s wearing jeans and a black T-shirt now.
He’s not here as my driver. His dark hair is messier than when he’s working, making him look more like his actual age of 42.
Between the gray at his temples, his stern, handsome face, and the invisible weight of a hard life, he usually looks closer to 50.
“You have my code for emergencies,” I remind him as I go to the cupboard for a glass.
When I pause in reaching for a tumbler, Patrick says firmly, “You can drink. It’s fine.”
I can practically feel my hackles rising. It’s not what he said because I know why he said it. It’s his tone. I hate when he uses that tone, like I need his permission.
Like he’s still my fucking Dom.
I keep my back to him while I get out the glass and the whiskey, pouring a double.
Then I turn to face him, resting my ass against the counter.
Patrick’s eyes drop to my crotch. I resist the urge to follow his gaze and check whether the cage shows against the gray material of my sweats.
It doesn’t matter whether it shows. Patrick knows it’s there.
He asks, “How long have you been wearing it?”
I sip my whiskey. I have no intention of answering him.
“You know how you get, Ethan, if you don’t allow yourself a break.”
My fingers tighten on the glass. This isn’t something Patrick and I do. We don’t talk about our history, and he doesn’t get to dictate my actions, not anymore.
Patrick relents. I see it in his eyes, the way he makes himself let it go.
It’s not easy for him, but he knows my limits.
He’s always respected them. He’s never even touched me, not directly, not sexually.
That’s why I trust him. That’s why I don’t tell him to get the fuck out even though I want to.
He says, “I’m worried about you. About this. He’s here, isn’t he?”
“It’s under control.”
“What is it about this kid, Ethan?”
“He’s not a kid. He’s twenty-four.”
That’s about all I know, facts-wise, about Levi. Nothing else came up in my online search.
“He’s inexperienced,” Patrick argues. “You’ve never gone for that before.”
“He’s different.”
Patrick sighs and gets up from his seat. He walks into the kitchen and opens the cupboard, getting out a glass. I’ve already put the whiskey away because he doesn’t need to be looking at a bottle. His eyes linger on my drink for just a second before he fills his glass at the sink.
He’s testing me, standing this close. He wants to know how close I am to my edge. Or maybe he wants me to know, since there’s nothing he can do about it. He has no power over me, not anymore.
Our dynamic has changed a lot in the ten years that we’ve known each other, but the memory of that first night still likes to reach out and touch me with cold fingers. I feel that cold touch now as Patrick tests me.
I don’t remember all of it. That’s part of what haunts me.
Patrick has never told me exactly what I did that night at the club, when I was twenty-one.
I know I lost it with the guy I was … with.
I know Patrick stepped in. I know I spent three days in his shitty apartment in Brooklyn.
Then I spent three years with him in charge.
When I met Patrick, my control was breaking like an old, rotting dam. He rebuilt it with pressure releases. He taught me to use it. He knew I couldn’t ever be a sub, so he taught me to be a Dom. First over myself, then over others.
I don’t know why he helped me. He gave me so much and took nothing. He saved my life.
Later, I saved his.
Patrick is an alcoholic.
The signs were always there. I kind of knew even in the beginning, but he had it under control, mostly, and I wasn’t in a place, then, to be anything for him.
But after we went our separate ways, he spiraled. I think Patrick was holding his shit together to help me, and when I didn’t need his help anymore, he didn’t have a motivation to save himself.
When I found him again, four years ago, he was in a really bad place. He didn’t want my help. He didn’t want to go to rehab. He said some really shitty things.
He’s sober now, but I suspect that the past still reaches out and touches him with cold fingers too.
So being around each other is good for both of us, but also bad. We’ve seen the worst of each other. We can’t shock each other.
So Patrick isn’t shocked about Levi. Patrick is the one who kept the car running that night of the charity dinner because he knew I would go back. He didn’t try to stop me then, and he’s not here to stop me now. But he’s not happy either.
“Where is this gonna go?” he finally asks. “In the end.”
My heart gives a heavy thump. I confess, “I don’t know.”
Patrick stares at his water like he wants it to turn into wine. His first year was really hard. I forced him into rehab twice.
He’s been sober now for three years. He’s been my driver for two. He didn’t want to be. He was so fucking scared of relapsing, of hurting me, but that’s why I made him do it. I knew he would never hurt me. I trust him.
That’s why I just told him the truth.
And that’s why he tells me the truth too. He speaks quietly but with a heavy tone. “I think he’s gonna hurt you.”
“I think so too.”
Patrick’s eyes lift to mine. His are just as dark. He is dark. But his darkness doesn’t fit right with mine. It never has.
“He’s triggering your masochism and sadism at the same time. That’s dangerous, Ethan, for you and for him.”
I don’t say anything, and Patrick doesn’t expect me to. We both know I’m a masochist, but it’s not something we talk about. I don’t like that he even said it. It makes me feel dirty and angry.
Patrick sighs. “Sorry. I’m tired. I’m worried.”
“You’re not my Dom, Patrick.”
“No, but I am your friend.”
It’s true. Patrick is my friend. He’s my only friend, the only one I’ve ever had. But there’s a limit to what I can be with him. I feel the restriction in myself as we stand here together. I feel the restriction in him too.
It’s different with Levi.
I don’t understand exactly how or why. I don’t want to. I don’t care. It doesn’t matter.
Even the consequences don’t matter. This is happening, and I don’t want Patrick involved in it.
I want him to leave so I can think about everything I want to do with Levi tomorrow, everything I want him to experience. I might even sleep a little, to get ready. Tomorrow is going to be a long day for both of us.
Patrick sighs again and pushes off from the counter where he’s been leaning. He might not fit with me, but he does know me well. He knows I’m done talking.
He pours out his water because he didn’t really want it. He just wanted to hold the glass. I take the glass from him to catch his attention. I’m his friend too, even if I’m annoyed with him right now.
He understands why I took the glass, what I’m asking.
“I’m fine,” he says, but his eyes don’t really connect with mine.
“I won’t need you tomorrow,” I tell him.
Patrick nods. He understands that too. He needs to go to a meeting. He needs to talk to his sponsor.
He walks out of the kitchen. We don’t say goodnight. We’re long past formalities, and though we don’t tell all our truths, we don’t tell lies either. Patrick will not have a good night, and neither will I.
The difference is, I don’t want to. I want to enjoy my misery as my dick throbs in the cage while I plan tomorrow. I want to lie in bed and feel the way my back burns from the healing lash marks. I want to sleep so I can wake frustrated and aching and ready to punish Levi for it.