Page 56 of A Mistake of Worth
“I’m sorry,” Henri said quickly, hearing how it sounded. “I just meant—”
“Stop.” Michael’s voice was firm but gentle. “Don’t apologize. I want to know everything about you, Henri. Every rule, every restriction, everything that shaped you, so I can give you everything you deserve.” He kissed him, then set several cream-cheese rolls on Henri’s plate on purpose.
Michael held his gaze, steady and warm.
Henri couldn’t hold it. His chest tightened. He didn’t deserve this. Not the kiss. Not the patience. Not food chosen for him, like he was worth feeding.
Trash, said the old voice.A problem to manage. A mess to hide. Too much. Not enough. Breakable. Already broken.
He stared at the plate. The rice was too white. The salmon too clean. His hands felt borrowed. If he asked for things, people got hurt. If he needed, people paid. Be quiet. Useful. Small.
His pulse climbed. Soy sauce burned his tongue. The room narrowed at the edges. If Michael knew all of it, he would—
A low vibration stirred inside him.
The plug buzzed to life—soft at first, a steady thrum that found the point just behind his pubic bone. The current climbed his spine and cut the thought in two. Henri folded over the counter with a small, startled gasp, fingers biting the marble.Heat pooled low. His cock hardened like his body remembered a language his brain had dropped.
“Breathe,” Michael said, fingers carding through Henri’s hair. “With me.”
Henri dragged air in. The pulse eased. He let it out. The thrum pressed a little more. Breath and sensation linked until the static thinned.
The voice that called him trash receded under the hum and Michael’s steady hand. He blinked up. Michael was watching him. Not checking for mistakes—watching him.
“Good,” Michael murmured, sure and quiet. He lifted his phone so Henri could see the screen. “We’re eating lunch. Together. Just us.”
Henri’s hands clenched the stool, knees shaking. He nodded. “Yes… yes, okay.”
Michael thumbed the app; the vibration eased to a background purr. He picked up a roll and tapped it lightly against Henri’s lower lip. “Open.” Henri obeyed. “Chew.” Michael counted under his breath—one, two, three—and smiled when Henri swallowed. He pressed a glass of water into Henri’s hand. “Drink.” A napkin. “Wipe.” His thumb chased a dot of soy from Henri’s mouth, and he sucked it clean, eyes on Henri the whole time. “Good.”
The hum stayed low.
They finished the food in small, ordinary movements—sushi, water, breath—Michael feeding him the last bite.
Henri turned to him, trembling. “Please, Michael. I’ve been good. I ate everything. Please let me cum.”
Michael dragged a finger down Henri’s sternum, slow enough to make his lungs forget their job. “Before that,” he said lightly, “tell me three things you can feel right now.”
Henri blinked. “The stool. Your hand. The—” his hips twitched “—the plug.”
“Good.” Michael’s mouth curved. “Two things you can taste.”
“Soy. Fish.”
“And one thing you want.”
Henri’s throat worked. “You.”
The vibration climbed a notch; Henri’s breath broke. Michael leaned in, lips brushing his temple. “Better. Now use your words.”
“I want to cum,” Henri whispered. “Please.”
“Closer.” Michael’s thumb eased over a nipple; the hum pulsed in answer. “What are you asking me for?”
“Permission,” Henri said, shivering. “Yours.”
Michael’s eyes warmed, pleased. “There you are.” He tipped the phone again; the vibration bumped and held, pulling a helpless sound from Henri’s chest. “Stay here with me, baby. In your body. Then we’ll see what you’ve earned.”
“I need it. Need you,” Henri said, the plea clean now—no static, only want.
