Kingsley nodded. He would have been disappointed, but he’d hardly expected this to happen the moment he returned to school.
“Go back to bed,” Søren ordered. “Go to sleep.”
“Oui, monsieur,” Kingsley said, grinning against the wall.
Søren’s low laugh raised goose bumps that ran down the center of Kingsley’s spine. Søren pushed away from him slowly and he immediately missed the heat on his cool skin.
Turning around, he faced Søren. God…he’d grown even more beautiful over the summer. His hair looked to be about an inch longer, his eyes even grayer. Søren had abandoned the school uniform for a real suit that made him look like the man he’d become.
“I’m yours,” Kingsley whispered. He laid both palms on Søren’s chest. “You know that.”
Søren looked down at his hands.
“I know. I…” he began, and paused for a breath. “I didn’t mean to hurt you as much as I did.”
Kingsley smiled. “I liked that you hurt me.”
“Good. I have to hurt you.”
“Have to?” Kingsley met Søren’s eyes. The look in them…Kingsley didn’t understand it. What was it he saw there? Regret? No. Not shame. Not fear.
“I’m different.” Søren turned his head and stared down the dimly lit hallway. Shadows lurked in the corners. But was Søren looking at the shadows or something in them?
“No. Not different. Better,” Kingsley assured him. Søren smiled slightly and tore his gaze from the darkness at the edge of the corridor.
“I am. I can’t…”
Kingsley gasped as Søren suddenly slipped his hand down Kingsley’s boxers and wrapped his fingers around him.
“This,” Søren whispered, putting his mouth to Kingsley’s ear. “Unless I hurt you, unless I cause you pain, I can’t…”
And Kingsley understood. Søren couldn’t get aroused unless he inflicted pain. Everything made sense now. Søren’s remoteness, the wall of self-protection he built around himself, his aloofness that kept the other boys far away from him—all done on purpose to protect anyone who would get close to him. For to get close to Søren meant walking through fire, stepping on glass, crawling through hell.
Kingsley flexed his hips, pushing himself into Søren’s hand. He nearly came from that one movement alone. “Je comprende.”
Søren slowly released Kingsley and pulled his hand back, his eyes widened slightly as if in surprise. “You understand me,” he said. “But I don’t understand you. You aren’t afraid of this?”
Kingsley shrugged. “I told you, I’m French. Ever read the Marquis de Sade?” He grinned ear to ear and Søren’s smile widened.
“Sometimes I think I am him. I’ve read Machiavelli, too. The Prince. It is better to be feared than loved.”
Kingsley heard the sorrow in Søren’s voice, the longing for something he thought he couldn’t have.
“And…” Søren continued, “it’s safer to be feared than loved. At least where I’m concerned.” He smiled almost shyly and Kingsley suddenly understood it all—why Søren was so cold, so remote, why he could and did instill such fear in the hearts of everyone who came near him. He did it on purpose. He did it to keep them safe.
Reaching up, Kingsley laid his hands on Søren’s chest and felt his heart beating slowly, steadily.
“I don’t want to be safe,” Kingsley whispered.
“You don’t know what you’re saying, Kingsley.”
“I know exactly what I’m saying. You think you are broken. Non, you are perfect.” He said the words in French. So much easier to speak the truth in his native tongue.
“Would you choose to be like me, if you had the choice?”
“I do choose it. You regret what you are only because you think you must keep others away from you. It will not keep me away.”
“Always…” Søren glanced away again, glanced upward and sighed. “I’ve always wanted to believe God made me this way for a reason.”
“Je suis la raison.”
I am the reason.
Søren exhaled slowly. He ran a hand up Kingsley’s arm to his shoulder. Cupping the side of his neck, he brought his mouth down to Kingsley’s. Kingsley opened himself to the kiss and let Søren’s tongue touch his. Such a gentle kiss, so intimate yet careful.
“Ma raison d’être,” Søren whispered, and Kingsley shivered with need.
“You’re holding back. I can feel it.” Kingsley said the words into Søren’s lips.
“I have to hold back. Now at least. Or I’ll break you apart again.”
“I want that. I want you.”
Søren dropped another quick kiss on Kingsley’s lips. “Soon. I’ll find a way for us to be together. But I will hurt you again. I’m certain of it. You’ll have to help me keep from going too far.”
Kingsley gripped Søren’s shirt in both hands and tried to pull him closer. Two and a half months apart had left him in an agony of need. He couldn’t let Søren go. Not yet.
“I begged you to stop that night. I said ‘stop’ and ‘please’ and ‘no’ and you kept on. I didn’t want you to stop, but I don’t know what to do to make you stop if saying stop doesn’t work.”
“Go back to bed,” Søren ordered. “Go to sleep.”
“Oui, monsieur,” Kingsley said, grinning against the wall.
Søren’s low laugh raised goose bumps that ran down the center of Kingsley’s spine. Søren pushed away from him slowly and he immediately missed the heat on his cool skin.
Turning around, he faced Søren. God…he’d grown even more beautiful over the summer. His hair looked to be about an inch longer, his eyes even grayer. Søren had abandoned the school uniform for a real suit that made him look like the man he’d become.
“I’m yours,” Kingsley whispered. He laid both palms on Søren’s chest. “You know that.”
Søren looked down at his hands.
“I know. I…” he began, and paused for a breath. “I didn’t mean to hurt you as much as I did.”
Kingsley smiled. “I liked that you hurt me.”
“Good. I have to hurt you.”
“Have to?” Kingsley met Søren’s eyes. The look in them…Kingsley didn’t understand it. What was it he saw there? Regret? No. Not shame. Not fear.
“I’m different.” Søren turned his head and stared down the dimly lit hallway. Shadows lurked in the corners. But was Søren looking at the shadows or something in them?
“No. Not different. Better,” Kingsley assured him. Søren smiled slightly and tore his gaze from the darkness at the edge of the corridor.
“I am. I can’t…”
Kingsley gasped as Søren suddenly slipped his hand down Kingsley’s boxers and wrapped his fingers around him.
“This,” Søren whispered, putting his mouth to Kingsley’s ear. “Unless I hurt you, unless I cause you pain, I can’t…”
And Kingsley understood. Søren couldn’t get aroused unless he inflicted pain. Everything made sense now. Søren’s remoteness, the wall of self-protection he built around himself, his aloofness that kept the other boys far away from him—all done on purpose to protect anyone who would get close to him. For to get close to Søren meant walking through fire, stepping on glass, crawling through hell.
Kingsley flexed his hips, pushing himself into Søren’s hand. He nearly came from that one movement alone. “Je comprende.”
Søren slowly released Kingsley and pulled his hand back, his eyes widened slightly as if in surprise. “You understand me,” he said. “But I don’t understand you. You aren’t afraid of this?”
Kingsley shrugged. “I told you, I’m French. Ever read the Marquis de Sade?” He grinned ear to ear and Søren’s smile widened.
“Sometimes I think I am him. I’ve read Machiavelli, too. The Prince. It is better to be feared than loved.”
Kingsley heard the sorrow in Søren’s voice, the longing for something he thought he couldn’t have.
“And…” Søren continued, “it’s safer to be feared than loved. At least where I’m concerned.” He smiled almost shyly and Kingsley suddenly understood it all—why Søren was so cold, so remote, why he could and did instill such fear in the hearts of everyone who came near him. He did it on purpose. He did it to keep them safe.
Reaching up, Kingsley laid his hands on Søren’s chest and felt his heart beating slowly, steadily.
“I don’t want to be safe,” Kingsley whispered.
“You don’t know what you’re saying, Kingsley.”
“I know exactly what I’m saying. You think you are broken. Non, you are perfect.” He said the words in French. So much easier to speak the truth in his native tongue.
“Would you choose to be like me, if you had the choice?”
“I do choose it. You regret what you are only because you think you must keep others away from you. It will not keep me away.”
“Always…” Søren glanced away again, glanced upward and sighed. “I’ve always wanted to believe God made me this way for a reason.”
“Je suis la raison.”
I am the reason.
Søren exhaled slowly. He ran a hand up Kingsley’s arm to his shoulder. Cupping the side of his neck, he brought his mouth down to Kingsley’s. Kingsley opened himself to the kiss and let Søren’s tongue touch his. Such a gentle kiss, so intimate yet careful.
“Ma raison d’être,” Søren whispered, and Kingsley shivered with need.
“You’re holding back. I can feel it.” Kingsley said the words into Søren’s lips.
“I have to hold back. Now at least. Or I’ll break you apart again.”
“I want that. I want you.”
Søren dropped another quick kiss on Kingsley’s lips. “Soon. I’ll find a way for us to be together. But I will hurt you again. I’m certain of it. You’ll have to help me keep from going too far.”
Kingsley gripped Søren’s shirt in both hands and tried to pull him closer. Two and a half months apart had left him in an agony of need. He couldn’t let Søren go. Not yet.
“I begged you to stop that night. I said ‘stop’ and ‘please’ and ‘no’ and you kept on. I didn’t want you to stop, but I don’t know what to do to make you stop if saying stop doesn’t work.”
