Page 30 of Fitch

He was the perfect boy.

He was also at Nolan’s house when I turned up unannounced, and he was the last person I expected to see. The jealousy that burned me when I assumed he and Nolan had—the idea that Nolan had touched my boy burned red hot through me. He was mine. My boy, no one else’s.

Then the realisation that he was a rent boy—a boy to anyone who paid for him—doused me like a bucket of ice-cold water.

Reality and emotions I hadn’t been prepared for collided spectacularly.

Terribly.

Emotions there would be ramifications and consequences for, I was well aware.

And yet . . .

And yet I was powerless to resist him.

I need you to show me that you know what’s best for me.That’s what he’d said, and any attempts at me going home without him were nil.

I prided myself on keeping my emotions in check. It’s what I did. It’s how I lived, in my job and in my personal life. Control the narrative, reduce the damage.

It’s what made me a damn good lawyer.

People called me cold and ruthless, but that wasn’t the case. Not really. I could compartmentalise and remove the emotions. It certainly strained my attempts at relationships, but it was a self-defence measure.

Control the narrative, reduce the damage.

Except I wasn’t that way with Fitch. He was controlling me, and for the first time ever, I was ready to let him.

When he looked at me with those big sorry eyes and pouty lips and begged me to show him how I knew what was best for him...

God help me.

It didn’t help that he was sitting on my lap in the confines of my car, his tiny arse perched nicely against my crotch.

So yes, I gave in.

I let him win.

I took him back to my place and showed him exactly what was good for him. Once last night, and again before work this morning.

And I still wanted more of him.

I wantedallof him.

I could suddenly see why Nolan took two days off work to stay home and fuck his boy non-stop.

His boy . . .

There was something about him too. Something familiar, but not really. Maybe I’d seen him hanging around with Fitch outside club 180. That was, after all, where I’d first met Fitch.

But his eyes . . .

Dark, haunted.

Familiar.

Gail came into my office, her arms full of files. “Judge Barnhardt moved the arraignment date in the Oldfield case,” she said, dumping the files on my desk.

Fuck.

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