Page 29 of On Your Knees

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.