Page 30 of Collared

“They are the real entertainment,” Maël explains. Without sparing them another glance, he strides past them, and I try to ignore the lusty stares they throw at us in our wake toward the exit.

When we are outside and back in the cool night, I’m only half surprised to see a black Mercedes and a bald, middle-aged man in a tux nods politely at Maël.

“Let me take you back to the castle.”

“Thank you Eugène.” Maël grabs me by my neck, then carefully guides me to the opened door of the backseat. When I sit down a zap of pain shudders through my cold and tense ass, making me wince.

“I’ll run you a bath when we get back,” Maël murmurs, then throws a casual arm around my shoulder and pulls me close.

The ride back can’t take more than fifteen minutes of staggering through the loose sand and winding roads of the forest, but it’s enough to lull me into a state of drowsiness. I barely register that we finally get onto more solid ground as we head for the driveway up to the castle, but I do notice the moment the car stops. I notice it, but my eyes just won’t flutter open. I’m too tired.

“Allez, mon petit,” he whispers, and when I can only let out a pathetic whine, he lets out a soft chuckle, then picks me up and cradles me in his arms. “Let’s get you somewhere warm.”

11

MAËL

“Is this your place?” Thurel’s gaze widens when he enters my shared dorm. His hazelnut eyes take in every centimeter of the black and white features that portray the apartment I share with my cousin and best friend. A huge, black leather couch stands in the middle of our communal living area, framed by glass side tables and a white, glossy coffee table that stands on an equally white, fluffy rug. The alabaster walls are decorated with black framed posters of some of the most famous artists France has had over the past decades—Serge Gainsbourg and Brigitte Bardot.

“Hmm.” Keeping him cradled in my arms, I slowly make my way to my personal wing.

“My shared room is nothing like this,” he pouts. “You even have a kitchen?”

“I wouldn’t call it a kitchen, but yeah, it has a fridge.”

He snorts. “That fridge is bigger than the one we have at home.” It is a big fridge, truth be told. One of those immense, ‘70’s fridges my best friend was adamant on having.

“We have literally a quarter of what you guys have. Wait, nooo—” I open another door, revealing a spacious bathroom with a tub, and he turns around in my grip, looking every bit the delectable guy he is. Hazelnut eyes that radiate wonder, his pouty lips slightly frowning. “You’re not going to tell me that this is your private bathroom, right?” I smirk, and Thurel glowers. “That’s so unfair.”

Dropping him down onto yet another white, fluffy rug, I start peeling off his school uniform. “But it’s practical, not even you can deny that. Especially in moments like these.” He lets me get to work. First goes the navy blue jacket, followed by the crisp white shirt, before I make quick work of the buttons of his pants. And all the while Thurel is still babbling, limbs absentmindedly bending into the way I want to give me space.

“I really wanted to have a single room when I got here, but they told me they didn’t have one. Turns out that was a lie, I met another student—no, two—who have single rooms since I have been here. That Pascal guy sure has his favorites, and apparently I’m not one of them.”

Sliding his pants over his sculpted, long legs, I grumble, “Hell no, you’re not his favorite. You’re mine.” Okay, that comes out a little possessive, and judging by Thurel’s soft grin, he knows it too. Leaving him in nothing but his boxer briefs, I move to the tub and turn on the faucet, dribble a bit of eucalyptus oil in the running water while checking the temperature.

“Yeah, well, maybe, but—” When I turn over my shoulder, I catch his flushed cheeks. So fucking sweet. He clears his throat, turning away. “Can I use your toilet?”

I nudge my head toward the only other closed door. “Sure. Right over there.”

“Thanks.” He practically jogs away, locking the door behind him.

I take the moment of silence to fill it up with the flicking sound of my lighter, bathing the dim light under a golden sprinkle of candlelight.

“Jazz or classical?” I ask. From behind the door, a toilet flushes, then Thurel clicks the door open.

“Sorry?” He frowns.

“Jazz or classical?”

“Jazz is a nice change. Mamie—” he coughs the rest of his phrase away, blushing up to the tips of his ears.

“Yes?” I drawl, choosing a playlist on my phone. “What about her?”

“Nothing,” comes the muffled answer.

I look up with a frown. “Oh, you thought I don’t know about her? Or about your parents, who passed away in a car accident when you were very young?” Circling my arms around his chest, I let my fingers dig into his skin as I pull him back and flush against me, my nose pressing against his temple. His chestnut strands tickle my neck when I lean in, brushing my mouth over his. Flutters shoot through my stomach at the featherlight touch, despite my body being tired of the earlier exertion. There’s no way that I can get it up again. Right?

This touch is not meant to be sexual though. It’s…strangely intimate, with the way I have bowed my front alongside the curves of his nape. We fit from head to toe, like the perfect match.

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