Page 37 of Rock Bottom

I groaned and my face flushed hot for an entirely different reason. I was hoping he’d forget about seeing that, but not Dante. He was never going to let that go. Not that I wanted him to.

I was surprisingly into the idea of mixing helplessness and pleasure, especially since my only real experience with helplessness had been terrifying. Maybe being held prisoner and tortured had broken something in my brain, crossed some wires, or fucked me up beyond all recognition. I didn’t know. But I wanted that, had wanted it with someone ever since I’d come back.

And it scared me that I did. It scared me enough that I hadn’t been with anyone since, afraid that my own fantasies might trigger a flashback. It was safer for me to be alone.

I didn’t know what was different about Dante, but he felt…safer. I’d initially resisted the strange pull between us, but it was too late to deny it now. I wanted to see where it went, even if I was afraid.

As Dante busied himself in the kitchen, I couldn’t help but picture the scene he’d vaguely described, my arms and legs bound while he did as he pleased with the vibrator, teasing me wherever and however he chose. He would know the precise amount of control to exert, the perfect blend of pain and pleasure that would leave me begging for more. The man certainly had a dirty mind and was probably no stranger to kinky sex.

I sighed and scowled down at the new tent in my trousers and the blanket. “You could at least bloody wait until we’re not dying to get excited. Damn thing,” I grumbled at my cock and turned over, intending to be asleep by the time Dante returned.

The best thing for Church was rest and fluids, but I kept an eye on him. By mid-afternoon, most of the red marks on his skin had faded, and he seemed to be feeling well enough to tell me off. In the most posh way possible, he demanded I leave his side long enough for him to have some privacy because I was “driving him bloody bonkers.”

I opened his drawer and tossed him the vibrator on my way out with a wink. “Don’t think of England this time, kitten. Think of me.”

The thump on the closed door behind me wasn’t him throwing the vibrator at me. It couldn’t be. That thing was way too expensive to aim at my beautiful face.

With nothing left to do, I found myself back upstairs playing tunes for Oscar to pass the time. He sat on the bed next to me, swaying as I played Pink Floyd’s “Wish You Were Here” before switching over to my acoustic guitar to play Fleetwood Mac’s “The Chain”. Apparently, Oscar knew the words to the chorus of that well enough that he decided to sing along.

After the song was over, I elbowed him and said, “You’ve got a pretty decent voice. You ever think of singing?”

“I used to want to be a musician, but…” He shrugged.

“A musician? What’d you play?”

“Guitar,” he said, and then quickly added. “But I’m nowhere near as good as you.”

“Really? That’s awesome, man.” I bumped his shoulder lightly with a fist. “Hey, you wouldn’t want to jam a little, would you?”

Oscar’s eyes widened. “What? Me? Really?”

I shrugged. “Yeah, why not?”

“I don’t know.” He fidgeted with his fingers and lowered his head. “I’m really out of practice.”

“Fuck that. You don’t have to be perfect to enjoy playing.” I got up and went to grab two of my guitars, bringing one over to him.

The way his face lit up, you’d think I’d just handed him a love letter. He looked up at me, eyes wide, mouth agape. “I…I can’t.”

“I insist.” I pushed the old guitar into his hands and sat down across from him with the other. “Play me something.”

“Oh, I don’t know…”

“Come on, man. Anything. I don’t even care what.”

“Okay, okay. I do remember one song. But I can’t guarantee it’ll be any good.” Oscar blew out a breath and moved his fingers up the string. The next thing I knew, he was playing the opening riff to “Sweet Child ‘o’ Mine”.

I shifted my guitar, coming in to play the harmony. “Keep going!”

He smiled, nodded, and we kept on playing. He wasn’t the greatest, but it was a simple song, one of the first I’d learned to play, and he kept up with me, even when I started singing. That was more than could be said for a lot of amateur guitarists. When we hit the solo after the second verse, I let him have it and he played right through to the end.

“Shit, man. You’re pretty good,” I said once we’d finished playing.

He flushed. “Oh, stop.”

“Nah, I mean it. You ever think of playing professionally?”

Oscar shrugged. “Nah. I just dabble. You should hear my friend. He’s in a real band. Actually, they’re playing tomorrow night at Tappy’s. That’s why I took tomorrow off.”

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