If It Fornicates (Market Garden, #4)(30)

“Just say it,” Nick said through his teeth. “If you want me to choose between you and my job, then let’s not beat around the bush. Just say it.”

“It’s not that,” Spencer said. “It’s . . .” He drummed his fingers on the table beside his coffee cup. “All right, let me ask you this.” Spencer leaned forward and folded his hands on the table. “As my Dom, you’d never have me do something that made me uncomfortable, right?”

“Of course not.” Nick shook his head. “Never.”

“Right. And if you do, I can safeword, and we call it off, correct?”

“Absolutely.”

Spencer moistened his lips. “Well, being the reason you’re losing sleep and coming apart at the seams is one of those things I won’t let you ask me to do.”

Nick’s spine straightened and he pulled in a breath. “Spencer, you’re not—”

“I’m not telling you to make a decision this instant,” Spencer said softly. “And I’m not telling you to choose between me and your job. Well, I mean, maybe I am. And maybe this does qualify as an ultimatum.” He put a hand over Nick’s arm and squeezed gently. “I just don’t want you falling apart because of me.”

I’ll be falling apart because of you no matter what, Spencer.

Nick put his hand over Spencer’s on his arm. “Give me some time. This is all still so new. I just need to learn to balance my two lives.”

“If you think you can manage that,” Spencer said with a nod, “then I can live with it too. All I want is for you to be happy.”

“That’s all I want for you too.”

“And I’m not going anywhere today. I just don’t want this to fester into something that makes us resent each other.”

Nick nodded. “Understood.”

The silence that fell was unusually awkward for them.

Spencer cleared his throat. “So, for now, are we still . . .”

“I don’t see any reason things should change,” Nick said, his own nerves settling as Spencer relaxed. “We’ll figure things out, but in the meantime, I don’t want to change what we’re doing.” He grinned. “You don’t want me to stop beating the hell out of you?”

Spencer shivered. “Absolutely not.”

“Good. I didn’t plan on it.”

Spencer returned the grin. “Speaking of which, we talked the other night about . . . about, what was it you called it? Chastity play?”

Nick barely kept himself from a relieved exhalation. “We did, yes.”

“What exactly would that entail?”

“Anything I want it to.” Nick set his glass down beside his empty plate. “I could make you wear a device. All kinds of them out there. Or I can just tell you that you won’t touch yourself or get an erection all day.”

Spencer gulped. “Which type do you prefer?”

“That all depends.” Resting his elbows on the table, Nick steepled his fingers above the plate. “Depends on how sadistic I’m feeling, and also how obedient my submissive is.”

Some subs twitched and fidgeted over comments like that. Spencer was the type who visibly settled. Calmed, even. His shoulders came down, and some tension Nick hadn’t noticed before melted away from his brow.

“What do you think, Spencer? Do I need to put a device on you? Or is my command enough?”

“Your command is enough,” Spencer said quickly. “You don’t . . . you don’t need to put anything on me.”

Nick smiled. So willing. So obedient. “I don’t need to, but I could if I wanted to.”

Spencer nodded. “Of course.”

“You do know what the ‘T’ in CBT stands for, don’t you?”

Spencer swallowed. “Torture.”

“Mm-hmm.” Nick watched him for a moment. “The fun part.”

Spencer shivered.

Nick took another drink to cool himself down. “I have plenty of devices we could play with. One or two might not fit you—” He grinned again, and so did Spencer. “—but I have a few that will. Would you like to try?”

Spencer watched him quietly. Then he said, “If that’s what you want me to do.”

Fuck, but this man was born to submit.

“Hmm. I left my bag at my flat.” Nick lowered his hand to the table and drummed his fingers. “Maybe we should go get it.”

Spencer’s eyebrows jumped. “We?”

Nick nodded. “That’s what I said, isn’t it?”

“Yes. But . . . I’ve never been to your flat.”

“I know.” He stopped tapping his fingers. “Why don’t we go over there, then?”

Spencer nodded. “Let me—” He paused. Then, gesturing at the table, asked, “May I clean all of this up first?”

Nick smiled. “Of course.”



Compared to Spencer’s house, Nick’s one-room studio in Angel was tiny. It sat atop a shop that sold furnishings—drapes and curtains and cushions that cost a fortune—but the location suited him because it was quiet in the mornings, when he had to sleep in.

He opened the door and stepped inside, let Spencer take in what he wanted. The hardwood floor, the bed in the far corner, a low futon with a sturdy headrest. The bookshelf lining one wall, and the huge desk pushed right up to the window, wooden blinds regulating the light coming in from the street. The desk was full of papers, laptop sitting on top of some psychology textbooks he was working on. Kitchenette taking up another corner. One door to a bathroom. Sparse, uncluttered; tiny, really, the whole thing smaller than Spencer’s living room.