“You don’t mean that.”
Colin scowled at Diwa, out of principle. But he knew he wasn’t going to leave this house tonight because of the alpha currently sprawled beside him with one warm hand spread flat against Colin’s stomach.
Diwa’s palm closed around Colin’s foot and drew it into his lap, peeling the non-compression sock off with his other hand and dropping it over the side of the sofa. He did the same with the other foot. Then he pressed both thumbs into the arch of Colin’s left foot and pushed.
Colin’s breath left him in a low moan.
The pressure was firm and slow, Diwa’s thumbs working in a long stroke from the ball of his foot down to the heel, finding the tight knot of muscle that six hours on his feet had wound into a fist. Colin’s toes curled against Diwa’s thigh. The second pass went deeper, and another moan escaped Colin.
“You’re all knots.” Diwa’s voice had gone lower. His thumbs circled the arch, pressing into the fascia.
He let his head fall sideways against the armrest and stared at the ceiling. The plaster was smooth and perfectly finished, without a single crack or bubble, because Diwa’s contractors had done a proper job. Diwa’s thumbs found the space between the tendons on the top of his foot and pressed there, and Colin’s eyes closed.
He’d spent his adult life on his feet hauling mop buckets and vacuum cleaners up flights of stairs that never seemed to end. His feet had carried him through every one of those yearswithout complaint, and he’d never once had anybody to put their hands on them afterwards like this.
Diwa switched to the right foot, and the first press of his thumbs into the arch pulled a sigh out of Colin. His shoulders dropped. The ache in his lower back loosened as though the tension had been running a circuit from his spine down through his calves and into the soles of his feet, and Diwa had found the off switch.
Then his mobile buzzed against his hip and drew him out of it.
Colin opened one eye. The screen was lit up with Stephen’s name, and the small photo beside it, Stephen at twenty-two, squinting into the sun at Southend, ice cream in hand, glowed up at him from the cushion.
He thumbed the answer icon and brought his mobile up to his ear. “Evening, love.”
“Daddy! I’m not interrupting, am I? I just wanted to check in before the weekend. Ryland’s taken the car to his mum’s tomorrow so I can’t pop round, but I thought we could do Sunday lunch if you’re free? I was thinking that Italian place on the Broadway. The one with the garlic bread you like.”
“Sunday’s good.”
Diwa had not stopped his massaging. If anything, Diwa’s thumbs had slowed down, deepening the pressure with deliberate focus.
“Brilliant. Oh, and I spoke to Lysander today. He’s got a new tattoo, daddy, but don’t worry, it’s just a small one. It’s a little drawing of Geoffrey on his forearm. He sent a photo and it’s actually quite sweet, it’s got these little — hang on, I’ll send it to you.”
Diwa’s thumb now traced a long slow line from Colin’s heel to the ball of his foot, pressing into the arch with a pressure thatsent heat up the inside of Colin’s calf. Colin bit down on the inside of his cheek.
“So anyway,” Stephen was saying, “I told him it was nice, because what else are you going to say? It’s on there now, isn’t it? And at least it’s not someone’s name. If he’d come home with someone’s name on him I’d have had words.”
“Mm.” Colin’s contribution to this conversation was getting thinner by the second.
“Are you all right, daddy? You sound a bit distant.”
“I’m fine, love. Just tired. I’ve had a long day.”
Diwa looked up at him. His dark eyes caught the light from the television, and the corner of his mouth curled upward. Without breaking eye contact, he lifted Colin’s foot, turned his head, and pressed his mouth to the arch.
The kiss was soft and warm and landed on the exact spot where Diwa’s thumbs had been working, and Colin’s exclamation had to be converted very quickly into a cough.
“Daddy?”
“I’m fine.”
Diwa’s lips curved against the sole of Colin’s foot. His eyes hadn’t left Colin’s face. “You like that, do you?” he murmured, his voice low, but not inaudible. Not for hypervigilant Stephen.
Stephen’s voice went sharp. “Is someone with you?”
“No.”
“I heard a voice.”
“That’s the telly, love.”
