Bound and Determined (37 page)

olives two weeks ago.”

Gary sighed and went to the refrigerator again. “I didn't forget.”

“Wonderful,” Owen said blandly, accepting a small plastic container from

Gary. “And to lay this subject to rest once and for all, since I'm sure there are

much more exciting topics to discuss, Sterling and I are together, as you can

see, and I'm very happy about it. Please tell me you have radicchio?”

Sterling gripped the knife he held tightly, processing the careful,

noncommittal words. Owen was a private kind of man; maybe he didn't want to

share his feelings with his friends, no matter how close they were, but would it

have killed him to just laugh and say something reassuring?

He kind of lost track of the conversation then, focusing instead on slicing

carrots and bell peppers into perfect matchsticks because it was better than

thinking about what Owen did or didn't feel. As he was finishing, he discovered

that everyone had stopped talking and gone quiet, which was disconcerting.

“Sorry—did I miss something?”

“We asked if you were okay,” Gary said. “Owen, maybe you should let him

have a drink. Just a little one?”

“No, I'm fine,” Sterling said. “I was just, you know, thinking.” Which was

exactly what he
hadn't
been doing, but it wasn't like anyone was going to catch

him in the lie.

“It can be hard,” Jake said quietly. “Family stuff. Do you want to talk

about it?”

Sterling shook his head, then shrugged. “I don't know. It's—like, what is

there to say? My father's an asshole, and I'm happy to be here and not there. I

just wish my mom and sister could get away from him too. But he's okay to

them.”

Gary came closer, took Sterling's chin gently in his hand, and turned his

face toward the light. “He's not okay to you, though. You can press charges,

you know. We have a friend who's a lawyer—do you want me to give her a call

tomorrow, get a little advice?” His voice was warm with sympathy.

It was too intimate—Sterling couldn't do anything but shake his head

again, just slightly.

“If you change your mind—”

Owen hadn't moved from the counter where he was preparing the salad,

but his voice cut through the quiet air, laced with the authority that never

failed to make Sterling's heart beat just a little faster. “Gary.” Gary moved his

hand away from Sterling's face and turned to Owen, who smiled at him. “What

Sterling needs is some food. The poor boy's starving.”

“Well, of course, he is,” Jake said a shade too heartily. “We're not eating

for a while yet, but I've got some divine smoked salmon to nibble on and a loaf

of that rye bread from Frank's Bakery…”

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157

Jake started to whisk plates out of a cupboard and assemble a snack that

Sterling wasn't sure he was going to be able to eat. His stomach was empty,

yes, but it was also churning—too much emotion, too much—

Owen walked over to him, and Sterling's world began to settle when

Owen's hand slid around the back of his neck, a familiar weight. The kiss that

followed, Owen shielding him from view—not that Jake and Gary were

looking—helped even more.

“You're going to be okay,” Owen said softly. “I'm right here.” He patted

Sterling's cheek. “Now come and eat something.”

* * * * *

porch of Owen's house, waiting as Owen unlocked the door.

The day had passed in a haze of amazing food and detailed conversation

that had at times been so shockingly honest that it had left Sterling dry

mouthed. He'd shared things he'd never said out loud before, with Owen's hand

on the back of his neck lending him strength. Now he felt blissful; when Owen

said, “Get undressed and kneel by my chair, please,” a ball of warmth started

in his stomach—anticipation—and he was quick to obey.

“This isn't what I thought I'd have waiting for me when I got home

tonight,” Owen said, his hand playing with Sterling's hair, smoothing it,

tugging it. He'd brushed it once after a walk, when the wind had left it tangled,

with Sterling kneeling between his legs, his eyes closed, suffused with the same

sense of well-being he got after a spanking. “If I had a Christmas wish list, a

beautiful sub for me to spank before bed would have been right at the top of it.”

He tipped Sterling's face up, two fingers under his chin. “No—not just any sub.

You. My boy. My Sterling.”

A sound of gratitude escaped Sterling, pushing its way past his lips and

coming out as a moan. He stared into Owen's eyes and lovingly traced every

millimeter of Owen's face—the strong nose, the slight indent above his upper

lip, the lush curve of the lower. There were so many things he wanted to say:

thank you, please spank me
. And the most important one, the one he knew

Owen wasn't ready to hear, a fact that didn't make it any less true.

He thought that if he loved Owen, and if he told Owen that, it would be

the final nail in the coffin, the last thing about him that hadn't been boring.

And once he was boring, Owen wouldn't want him anymore.

So instead, Sterling closed his eyes and licked his lips and waited for

Owen to tell him what to do next.

“We didn't get each other gifts,” Owen said. Sterling had wanted to,

nothing fancy, just
something
, but Owen had told him not to and made it a

direct order when Sterling had tried to argue. “You can consider this spanking

a gift to me, if you want to. I'm going to enjoy it very much.” He traced the

shape of Sterling's mouth with his finger, the slow drag sending an ache of

longing through Sterling. “And so are you,” Owen added with a faint smile. “I'm

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going to do this upstairs. You have five minutes to brush your teeth, and then I

want to find you kneeling by my bed.”

Five minutes was plenty of time, but Sterling hurried anyway—he was still

swallowing traces of mint when his knees touched down on the plush rug at

Owen's bedside. The air felt chilly against his bare skin, but his cock didn't

seem to care at all, standing at attention as he yearned for the sting of Owen's

palm on his ass. Well, he assumed it was going to be Owen's hand that hit him

and not something else. Owen had used a hairbrush on him once, on a day

when he'd been unusually uncooperative, and it had been a good thing the

following day was Sunday because there'd been no way he'd have been able to

sit in one of the unforgiving classroom chairs. Traces of purpled bruises had

lingered on his ass for more than a week.

Owen was taking his time downstairs, probably locking up and turning

out the lights. Sterling's suitcase, which he'd finally brought in from the car,

was over against the wall, unopened. It was a reminder Sterling didn't

particularly want, a reminder that he was a temporary fixture here, not a

permanent resident.

He reminded himself that Owen had called him 'his.' That helped, a little.

The sound of Owen walking up the stairs made him swallow convulsively.

God, he loved this moment—still waiting, but knowing that it was soon going to

be over and he was going to get what he needed. He closed his eyes, striving for

the calmness that usually only Owen's hand on him could bring. It wouldn't

come; he couldn't do this alone.

He needed Owen.

Owen went into the bathroom, and Sterling kept his eyes closed,

unbearably wound up now, as he listened to the muffled sounds of water

running at intervals. When Owen finally came into the bedroom and closed the

door, he opened his eyes and bit down hard on his lip to stifle a sound that

would have come too close to a sob. He heard a drawer slide open and Owen

rummage around inside it, searching for something that Sterling knew would

be used on him—
for
him.

“You're so ready for this,” Owen said, approving, admiring—he was, wasn't

he? Sterling needed that from Owen as much as the pain and the control.

“Even from here I can see that, but you're too tense. I need you relaxed.”

Owen walked over to stand behind Sterling. “I'm going to use both of these

on you, and my hand, and I'm going to decide in what order and how many

times.” A hairbrush made of black, glossy wood, and a small, leather-backed

paddle, about twice the size of the brush, were placed on the bed in front of

Sterling. He stared at them until they swam in front of his eyes. They would

hurt, but he wanted to know how the paddle would feel with a curiosity that

burned as much as his ass would. There were other things that Owen could

use on him; he'd shown Sterling some of them: the flogger, soft, thick strands

of leather; the crop, promising a wicked sizzle of pain that had gotten Sterling

so hard looking at it that his cock had been wet-tipped, leaking, bare seconds

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159

later. Shown him and then put them away with a “later” that had left Sterling

with nothing to do but wait, anticipate.

“But it's Christmas,” Owen said, his hand coming to rest on Sterling's

shoulder, “and I'm very pleased with you. So you can choose something else for

me to use at the end, when you're crying, begging, writhing over my lap, your

ass so red, so hot. I'll decide how much more you can take, but you can choose

what delivers those final strokes, and you can come when I've given them to

you.” The crop and the flogger joined the brush and the paddle on the bed.

Knowing that he'd be allowed to come at the end of this was the frosting

on the Christmas cake as far as Sterling was concerned, not that he wouldn't

have loved it even if Owen had left him high and dry. He nodded and said the

words he knew Owen liked to hear. “Yes, Owen.”

“I think the chair will be more comfortable for this,” Owen said

thoughtfully. “Bring it here, please.”

Sterling stood up and went to get the old-fashioned wooden chair, its seat

padded with a floral design, from where it sat against the wall near the closet.

Sometimes Owen sat in it when he was putting on his shoes in the morning,

and sometimes he liked to sit in it when Sterling was draped across his lap, ass

ready and willing.

“Yes, right there.” Owen sat down and gestured at his thighs, and Sterling

bent immediately into position, finding the most comfortable spot he could.

None of them were
really
comfortable, but he'd learned the experience would be

better if it didn't include the aching wrists and ankles that came along with

supporting too much of his weight.

It was agony to be perched there, waiting for the first blow to fall. The

chair was next to the bed, so Owen could reach the toys he'd brought out;

there was no way for Sterling to know which of them would be used first unless

Owen told him in advance.

It was Owen's hand first, the equivalent, Sterling supposed, of stretching

before running laps, not that Owen couldn't get him just where he wanted to go

using nothing more than that. As Owen had once pointed out dryly, though, it

could get painful for his hand, which wasn't the object of the exercise.

The slaps came down, raindrops on thirsty earth, his skin welcoming each

one. If he lived with Owen he'd get spanked every day, maybe—and
that

would've been at the top of his wish list, even if he knew there was no way it

could happen. Not that students didn't rent rooms in people's houses, and

Owen definitely had enough space; the basement was finished, with a small

bathroom roughed in, waiting for the fittings. Owen had told him that his

parents had planned to divide the space into a living room and bedroom for

their frequent visitors, some of whom stayed for weeks at a time.

Middle of his ass, top of his thighs; harder now, his skin sensitized so that

each blow hurt more, and he was making noise, guttural sounds, letting the

pain wash through him and carry away all the negative shit that the last few

days had given him.

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There was a pause then, Owen rubbing his palm gently over Sterling's

sore ass and his lower back. “Good,” Owen said. “That's my good boy. Now I'm

going to move on, and I'd like you to count fifteen blows, please.”

He was always so polite, Sterling thought as he waited for the next tool.

Would it be the hairbrush, hard-edged and unyielding? Or the paddle? Did he

have a preference, or would it be the same in the end?