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Thom brought me there one afternoon after practice.

“Strip,” he said.

I obeyed.

He watched me with those starved green eyes, and when I was naked, he stepped closer and ran his hands over my body, feeling every muscle.

“Ye’ve got a beautiful body, Ashford,” he murmured. “Shame ye don’t know what tae do with it yet.”

What followed was an education.

Thom stripped and lay back on a narrow cot Julian had stolen from the school and dragged out here for something to sit on. He spread his legs. “Come here,” he demanded.

I knelt between his thighs, my hands shaking.

He took my hand and squeezed the cold clear gel all over my fingers to make them slick. Then he guided my fingers to the hole between his legs.

“Put it in,” he said. “Slow. One finger first.”

I did.

He hissed, his body tensing, and then he relaxed around me.

“Now curl yer finger,” he instructed. “Feel for a spot that’s—ah, there. That’s it. That’s the prostate. Remember that.”

I nodded, my throat dry.

He added a second finger, then a third, guiding me through the motions, teaching me how to stretch him, how to make him moan. And then he rolled over onto his hands and knees, looking back at me over his shoulder.

“Put it in,” he said, his voice rough. “I want ye inside me, Luc. Please.”

I’d never heard him say please before.

I positioned myself behind him, my hands shaking as I pressed up against him and pushed. Nothing happened.

“Fuck’s sake, Luc. Harder,” he commanded.

I pushed harder, and the sensation was overwhelming. Heat and tightness and pleasure so intense I thought I might black out.

“Fuck,” I gasped.

“Slow,” Thom said, his hands now braced against the stone wall. “Start slow. Let me get used to ye.”

I obeyed, moving carefully, and he guided me through it, telling me when to speed up, when to pull almost all the way out, when to slam back in. It was the single greatest pleasure I’d ever felt.

When I came, I pulled out instinctively, and a rush of cum ran down his inner thigh. Thom just reached for his pants and pulled them up, not bothering to clean himself off.

I stared at him, amazed by his carelessness.

“Is there anyone else?” I asked.

He winked. “Not yet.”

I realized, standing there in the dim light of the cottage, that I didn’t care. I didn’t have feelings for Thom. Not real ones. This was about experience. About escape. About learning how to use my body in ways that made me feel powerful instead of trapped. It was a distraction from the suffocating expectations of St. Silas, from my father’s voice in my head, from the crushing weight of being a disappointment.

It was enough. For a while, it was enough.

Now, images of Cameron flash through my mind like a montage I can’t stop.