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Daniel’s hands were shaking, so he stuffed them in his pockets, stood shuffling in the doorway, and peeked up at the master through lowered eyes.

The master was in pajamas that would have made Daniel laugh if he weren’t so tense—green flannel covered in footballs, helmets, goalposts, and yard lines—sitting against the headboard and reading Nathaniel Bishops again. Or maybe still.

“Hey.” The master’s voice was light but strained, just as it had been at dinner. “So I leased this slave, guy named Daniel Halstrom? Brilliant, funny, sharp tongue, quick on his feet, puts everyone at ease in a heartbeat. You seen him? Maybe you could go get him for me; I think we’d get along great.”

“I—” Daniel realized he had no idea how to finish that sentence and shut his mouth before he got himself into even more trouble. He took a hesitant step forward, closed the door behind him; if things got ugly, he didn’t want Jane to have to hear it.

The master marked his place and put his book on the nightstand, never taking his eyes off Daniel. “You’re not going to tell me that man’s all an act, are you? Because I don’t believe it, I can’t believe that’s all some . . . front. I mean look at me; I’m like that on TV too. Am I so different here?”

Daniel shook his head, worked up the courage to take a few more steps toward the bed. “No, Master.” Except for the putting people at ease part. Daniel had quite possibly never been less at ease. But he couldn’t say that, so instead he offered, “That’s, that’s me. I mean, when I’m—” Relaxed. Unafraid. In my element. But he couldn’t say any of that either, of course, and didn’t know what he could possibly say in its place.

“Right. Which is why I figured—” The master clamped his mouth shut, grimaced. He looked almost . . . disappointed? Had he thought they’d be . . . what? Equals, somehow? That they’d sit in bed together and commiserate about the joys and tribulations of being public personalities at the top of their related fields? That they’d laugh and share stories and become best friends? Could he possibly be that delusional? Or was he just that clueless?

“Come here.” The master patted the bed. He looked more determined now than upset, and Daniel sat stiffly, dropping his eyes to his hands. He could feel the master’s gaze on him—face, shoulder, hips, hair.

“You gonna sleep in your new clothes?”

“No, Master,” Daniel said, understanding that it wasn’t a question. He stood, stripped quickly before he lost his nerve, folded the clothes on a nearby chair, and slid back into bed. He mirrored the master, sitting up against the headboard, covers pulled up to his waist. He was grateful for the blanket, felt a little less exposed that way, but still sat as close to the edge as he could without falling off.

The master sighed, clearly aggrieved, then stood to strip himself. Daniel fixed his eyes on the blanket as the master pulled off his top.

“No,” the master said. “Look at me.”

Inside, Daniel hedged, but his head turned by itself. His eyes trailed up the master’s broad chest, thick with hair just starting to gray, then down, following the master’s hands as they pulled off pants and boxers in one motion to reveal that formidable erection. Formidable everything—nothing about the master was small or delicate or weak.

Though reluctant to admit it, even to himself, Daniel suspected he’d have found that attractive under different circumstances. That he would’ve liked the master, commiserated and laughed with him, if they’d both been slaves. But they weren’t, were they.

He knew he should get up, touch the man, maybe drop to his knees and swallow him down. Maybe if he was good enough, he could get the master off before the man could even think about fucking him.

But what if he wasn’t good enough? In fact, he almost certainly wouldn’t be. He’d always viewed such pleasures as a gift, an act borne of—well, if not love, then at least deep affection. Could he perform without such feelings? If ordered, perhaps, but to offer? No. Besides, he had little experience and no formal training. The master would tire of his clumsiness, turn him over and . . .

And rip me open, and expect me to like it anyway.

The master left his clothes in a heap and climbed back into bed, pushing the covers away and leaving Daniel as exposed as he was. He lay back against two pillows, half-reclined, much closer to Daniel than he’d been before. His body angled toward Daniel ever so slightly, cock jutting toward Daniel’s hip.

Daniel couldn’t help but stare at it.

The master stared back.

“You seem a little slow,” the master said at length, then went silent again.

Daniel didn’t think that was some kind of hidden question, but it might have been a complaint, so he ventured, “I’m sorry, Master.”

The master just snorted and wrapped one giant hand around his giant dick.

Daniel’s eyes, wide and hot, raced back to his own lap.

“No,” the master growled. “No, damn it, look at me!”

Daniel swallowed audibly, trying to force his heart back down his throat. The master was pumping himself: long, slow strokes with a tightly fisted hand. If he felt any pleasure, his face did not reflect it. He was glaring at Daniel, just as he had at dinner, as he had during the movie. But this time, overtop the anger, the frustration, the confusion, Daniel saw incredulity as well.

“I’m confused,” the master said, his fist still moving over his cock. “Do you want me to hit you? Would that make you feel better?”

“N-no, Master, of course not!”

“Do you not understand anatomy, then?” The question was sharper, angrier than the one before it, and the master’s hand sped up to match. Daniel winced; there was violence in that fist, straining to break free. Maybe it already had. “Do you get how this”—the master thrust his hips at Daniel, face bent into a grimace, wrist twisting hard over his cock—“works?”

“Y-yes,” Daniel said, reaching out with one hand to do what the master so clearly wanted before the man beat him senseless. It’s just a handjob, Daniel, just a handjob; it doesn’t have to mean something.