Page 45 of Down in Flames

There was a whisper of movement behind him. Michael braced himself against the door, hands on either side of West's head, stopping him cold. He didn't touch him, but he stood so close that his heat seeped through West's shirt and began to work on his aches. It felt so good. All he wanted was to lean back against that broad chest and let Michael's strength hold him up. He dared to believe Michael might even allow it, angry as he was.

He'd always been gentle with West, but it was his anger that kept West's knees locked and his head down. It crawled over his skin like a living thing, pricking at instincts buried so deep in his hindbrain they felt like they belonged to someone else. He trusted Michael with his life. He knew he'd never hurt him. But something about the hot breath on the back of his neck reminded him that Michael could put a bullet through a dying animal without flinching. He'd been a soldier once, after all, and he never talked about it. He must have hurt a lot of people.

"How bad is it?" Michael asked in a low voice, and then, before West could do more than open his mouth, he warned, "Don't lie to me, West."

"I don't lie to you." Not exactly. Not often, anyway. Not about anything that could hurt him.

Damn, now he was lying to himself.

Cynical laughter brushed the shell of his ear. "Maybe. Maybe not. But you sure don't tell the truth."

"That doesn't make a lick of sense," West protested, but he felt like a jerk as soon as the words were out of his mouth. He knew exactly what he meant. He was an expert at half-truths, and so far, Michael was the only person in his life who'd ever clued in on it. Playing dumb was an insult to them both.

“How bad is it?” Michael repeated patiently, still not touching him. His arms were so taut that West could see a tremor running through them. “If you can’t handle me tonight, you need to tell me now.”

West dropped his forehead against the door and squeezed his eyes shut.

"I'm wrecked," he admitted reluctantly. Michael stiffened and began to draw back. West panicked and clutched him hard by the wrists, trapping him and blurting out, "But I'd have to be dead before I sent you away."

Michael was quiet for so long that he worried nothing good was coming, but then he pressed in close behind West and murmured, "Unlock the door."

Somehow, West managed to not break the key off in the lock. His damp palms slipped twice on the knob before he got it open. He stumbled over the threshold and slammed the door into the opposite wall, sending a plastic picture frame crashing to the floor. He didn't care. It was just a stock photo from some website. He'd ordered it when he got the place because he figured that was the grown-up thing to do, but he'd never cared much about decorating. This apartment wasn't home; it was just some place he slept. Home was out at the Triple M, and it had been for a very long time.

Michael took his time closing and locking the door behind them. He hadn't taken off his hat or boots, and something about it made him feel unapproachable, like he was wearing a suit of armor. His eyes were cool, cold blue. Not even a hint of the warmth that West had come to depend on.

"Strip."

West's eyebrows shot toward the roof. "What?" he asked.

“Take off your clothes, West.”

There was steel in Michael’s voice, a lot like the way he’d sounded when he’d had Sutter by the throat. It felt wrong. Everything was off balance. But he didn’t have a choice. He’d meant what he said: he’d have to be dead before he turned Michael Whittaker away.

His hands shook on the snap of his jeans.

“No. Start with your shirt first.”

West licked his dry lips and said teasingly, “You could come over here and do it yourself.”

Michael didn’t bother replying. He just stood there, perfectly at ease, waiting to be obeyed. And damn him, West did. His dick was already stiffening inside his jeans as he popped the row of buttons on his flannel one by one. He didn’t try to get cute and draw it out. He just peeled the fabric off his shoulders as quickly as he could and tossed the shirt aside.

Michael’s eyes flickered over his chest and stomach, lingering on his shoulders and ribs, before he commanded, “Turn around.”

“I don’t think—”

“No, you damn well don’t.” The leash slipped just a fraction, and his fury nearly got loose. “Turn around.”

West shivered and obeyed. Behind him, Michael sucked in a quick breath. West stuffed his hands in his jeans pockets and hung his head, feeling chilled to the bone. He hadn’t looked at his back yet, but he figured he knew what to expect: red patches and a swamp of muddy-looking bruises already blossoming from shoulders to waistband. He waited for a question, a touch, something to break the tension building in the pit of his stomach, but instead, Michael only said, “Now your pants.”

It was easier with his back turned. He didn’t have to choose between the humiliation of looking into Michael’s cold expression or dropping his gaze like a coward. He didn’t like this. It felt like he’d become something less in Michael’s eyes, like an object or a pet who needed a dose of discipline. But his cock had never been harder. Tears of frustration sprang to his eyes, and he bit his lip as he swiftly unbuckled and dropped his denim to the floor. His erection sprang free, slapping against his lower belly, and he held his breath.

The thermostat was always cranked low when he was away, and it was freezing. Goosebumps cropped up across his entire body in waves, and the queasy feeling in his belly twisted tighter and tighter.

“Bend over.”

That was too much. He had his pride. He wasn’t some twink hookup for Michael and his kinky wife.

“Michael—” He started to turn around, but the pain in Michael’s voice stopped him dead.

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