Page 60 of Waiting for a Prince
Mark bobbed his head, matching Sam’s movements, tugging gently on Sam’s balls, his own low moans and whimpers mingling with Sam’s.
When he came, Sam let out a groan, his back arched as he pulsed into Mark’s mouth, his fingers grabbing onto Mark’s hair. He trembled as Mark crawled up his body and pinned him to the mattress while they kissed, the taste of him still on Mark’s lips.
Mark broke the kiss and pulled back a little. “Now that’s what I call a great start to the day.”
“Don’t I get to return the favour?”
Mark’s eyes gleamed. “Day ain’t over yet.”
Mark handed Sam his ice cream, and they sat on a wooden bench above Blackgang Chine, gazing out at the coast toward Freshwater. Mark could hear the excited screams of kids in the theme park below, and the roar of the motorbikes that went to and fro past the lookout spot. There wasn’t a cloud in the sky. A warm breeze stirred his hair.
Sometimes September can be amazing.
His morning had been amazing, that was certain. And he wouldn’t have taken much convincing to spend the rest of his day in bed, but he had Sam to think about. Sam might have claimed to be feeling one hundred percent, but Mark had a feeling that was Sam letting his dick do the talking.
Besides, there was a conversation coming. Mark could feel it brewing.
He was just working out how to begin it.
He pointed up the hill to their right. “Have you ever walked up to the Pepperpot?”
Sam flushed. “I have a confession. I’m one of those islanders who rarely set foot anywhere past Shanklin.”
Mark chuckled. “I’ve met a few of those. You know what the Pepperpot is, right?”
Sam bit his lip. “Maybe?”
He laughed. “Long story short, a nobleman stole booze from a wrecked ship near here. The cargo was destined for some monks in France. To atone for his sin, he built a lighthouse with an oratory for a priest to tend to the light and pray for wrecked sailors.”
Sam blinked. “A lighthouse? All the way up there? That’d be no use at all. The ships would never see it.”
Mark let out a wry chuckle. “Uh-huh. And then they built St. Catherine’s outside Niton, which does a much better job. But the Pepperpot still stands. Not bad considering they built it in 1314.” He took a lick of his chocolate ice cream.
There was no talking while they ate, and that was fine by Mark.
That conversation would be for when they were done.
Sam popped the bottom of his wafer cone into his mouth with a satisfied sigh.
“That was delicious.” He glanced at Mark. “So what’s next? I know we said we’d go to Brook village, but we don’t have to. I’m happy just to spend the day with you.”
Mark took a deep breath. “There’s something we need to discuss.”
Sam stilled. “That sounds serious.”
“It’s meant to be. Now, I know you don’t want to talk about Rebecca, but I’ve been meaning to say this since you told me what had been going on.” When Sam swallowed, his face tight, Mark placed his hand on Sam’s knee. “How about I talk, and you listen?”
Sam stared at him, his eyes dark with pain.
“It’s called Intimate Partner Violence. Everyone assumes women are the sole victims, which can make it difficult for male victims to be believed by others. Sometimes it’s difficult for men to believe it when they’re told they are the victims of partner violence.”
Sam’s breathing caught, his chest heaving.
“Society doesn’t seem to recognize this violence against men, and that’s why men are unwilling to report their situation or seek help.” Mark gazed at the coastline. “There’s a huge stigma attached to this. Men think it makes them less masculine. Theythink no one will believe them. They’re afraid they’ll be assumed to be the abuser and end up under arrest. They also fear people will assume the woman is the real victim, acting in self-defence or retaliation for the abuse they’ve suffered.”
Sam’s gaze was locked on his clasped hands in his lap.
“It isn’t very common, but it happens. It’s difficult to quote figures because so few men report it or even admit it’s going on. Maybe they’re scared of ridicule or embarrassment. It’s a taboo subject that’s often trivialized or even ignored. Andthatmakes it even more difficult to know just how common it is. There’s plenty of support out there for female victims—that can’t be said for males.” Mark hooked his leg over the bench, straddling it. “I think that about covers it.” He looked Sam in the eye. “You’re not alone. You have nothing to be ashamed of. Rebecca was the one with the problem, not you.”
