But he’s got that little smile on his face again. And I look happy. Happier than I’ve felt in months.
Logan reaches for the lube again. “Spread your legs and bend over, sweetheart.”
Words that would be guaranteed to get me hard, if I wasn’t caged. Which I guess explains why he put the cage on me first.
I do as he says and the lube and the metal plug are cool against my hole. I exhale as he pushes the plug slowly inside me. A wave of heat rushes through my body. I cannot wait for him to fuck me.
“I can’t wait to fuck you, baby boy.” It’s like Logan heard my thoughts, echoing them back at me. He spreads my cheeks apart and taps the ring of the plug so that it jostles inside me. It lights my nerve endings up and I go up on my toes a little.
Then he strokes a hand over my ass cheek and I tense a little in anticipation. If he spanks me, I am going to come, regardless of the cage.
He doesn’t, though. One more caress and he says, “Breakfast first. Put some clothes on and come downstairs.”
He leaves and I splash some water on my face to cool down. I put on the clothes Logan left for me on the dresser—my jeans and another of his long-sleeved wool shirts. Guess I should have brought some clothes with me. But how was I to know I’d end up spending the entire weekend here?
If I’m honest, I mostly expected Logan to pat me on the shoulder and send me home. Sure, there’s always been this spark between us, but I hadn’t really expected him to act on it.
I glance at the big bed in the middle of the room, which Logan made at some point when I was in the bathroom. It still feels a little weird to be in his bedroom, especially alone. Everything about it is just so…Logan.
It’s neat as a pin and organized like everything else in his house. Feeling a little like an intruder and a little like a stalkery serial killer looking for a trophy, I peek in his big, walk-in closet. There’s a line of business suits hanging on thick wooden hangers, mostly black, charcoal gray, or navy blue, but there are a couple of tan suits and a blue and cream seersucker that I saw him in when Lance brought me to some cousin’s wedding last year.
His dress shirts hang on an upper rod. There are a lot of white shirts but also pink and pale blue and lavender, some with pinstripes and checks. The rack of ties hanging next to the shirts is an explosion of colors and patterns. I run my hand along them and the silk slips through my fingers like water.
And now instead of imagining I’m a serial killer choosing a trophy, I’m imagining Logan dressed for work, in one of the charcoal suits, standing next to a big mahogany desk, looking at me with that little smile on his face. He loosens his tie—maybe this blue one with the tiny white flowers on it—and I brush the silk along the inside of my wrist. Maybe he’d tie my hands together with it.
Heat pools at the base of my dick, but there’s nowhere for it to go. The thudding pressure of blood stalled because of the cage makes me feel lightheaded and floaty.
“Silas!” Logan calls from downstairs and I remember where I’m supposed to be.
Eighteen
Logan
Silas is a little flushed when he gets downstairs, but settles on what I’m now starting to think of as his stool at the kitchen island, and takes the cup of coffee I hand him with a sweet smile. I slice some mushrooms, dice a bell pepper and half an onion, and chop a couple of tomatoes for an omelette. He scarfs it down with gratifying speed.
Damn, it’s good to watch my boy eating the breakfast I made for him. Even if Silas is only my boy for the weekend. We still have the rest of the day together.
I’m trying to decide when to bring up his post-Lance plans and how I can help when I notice that he’s staring out the sliding glass door that leads out to the patio.
“What are you thinking about, sweetheart?”
Silas swivels his head around to look at me like he’s been caught doing something naughty. He’s been tapping his fingers lightly on the table next to his plate, and his hand darts into his lap.
“Oh, um. Sorry, I was just…” He hums something under his breath and then shakes his head like he’s dislodging something in his brain. “I just had an idea for one of the songs in Act Two. I don’t want to lose it, is all.”
“Write it down, then,” I suggest.
“Wish I had my laptop,” he mutters under his breath as he pushes back from the table to find his phone. “Or my keyboard.”
“Use the piano downstairs.” The lower level of my house is a large space with an entertainment center, some workout equipment for when I’m here and don’t have access to my regular gym, and a baby grand piano that I bought years ago when Lance briefly took piano lessons. Silas is the only one who’s played it in ages.
He pauses at the kitchen doorway. “But we’re supposed to be…” He blushes a delightful pink. I love his mixture of shyness and enthusiastic filthiness.
“We’ve got the whole day ahead of us, baby. If you want to work on your musical for a while, you should.”
“You don’t mind? I mean, I want to be with you. I just can’t get this bit out of my head.” He hums a few bars of something that sounds hauntingly melodic. “See, I’ve been using C major for Jocasta’s lament, but if I change it to A minor, it might sound better. A little darker, but still hopeful, you know?”
I know very little about music composition, but I nod. “Go on, then, sweetheart. Do you want to take the plug out or the cage off while you’re working?”
