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.
Two large canvas prints that Nick loved filled up some of the white walls. One was a close-up shot of metal chains, filling every square inch of the canvas, adding dark and grey and silvery accents to the flat that was mostly wood surfaces and white. The other was more explicit—a bent, muscular back, barely visible in the gloom, an arty shot of strength and obedience, and in a certain light, Nick could easily imagine bruises or bloody gashes on the surface.
Spencer looked at it, studied it for a full minute, then looked back at Nick. “It’s very you.”
Nick winked. “Actually, it’s very you, but I’ll let that stand.”
Spencer indicated the bed. “May I?”
Right. He didn’t actually have any extra chairs, because he really only slept and studied here. And Spencer sitting down on his bed seemed crazy, somehow, really fucking intimate—his territory, his personal space, his private life, and Spencer right in the middle of it. The most shocking thing was that it didn’t freak him out. It was also hot as hell. It always took extra effort to dominate somebody in their own space, but in his own? Well, this could practically be his dungeon. Everything here was Nick’s. Including Spencer.
Nick cleared his throat. “Have a seat.”
As Spencer sat on the edge of the bed, the toy bag in the wardrobe was forgotten for the moment. It was hard to think of anything now besides the fact that Spencer was here in Nick’s flat. On his turf. Looking up at him from the edge of Nick’s bed, eyes full of You’re in charge and Whatever you say, I’ll do.
Nick approached Spencer slowly. There wasn’t a lot of room, so he made every step count, holding Spencer’s gaze. He stopped with maybe half an inch separating his leg from Spencer’s, and reached down to touch Spencer’s face. He trailed a fingertip along the underside of his jaw, pausing beneath his chin. Then he pressed upwards, tilting Spencer’s head back so he was really looking up at him now.
“I can’t even remember the last time I fucked someone here.”
Spencer gasped. The full-body shiver reverberated through Nick’s fingers.
“Would you like that, Spencer?” he whispered. “To be fucked here? In my flat?” He narrowed his eyes a little. “In my bed?”
Spencer licked his lips, then nodded as much as the fingers under his chin would allow. “I would. Yes.”
Nick drew his hand back. “Strip.”
Spencer’s hands flew to the top button of his shirt, but he paused. “May I . . . stand?”
Nick nodded. He stepped back to give Spencer more room. His mouth watered as he watched Spencer remove one layer after another. Spencer’s hands were steady, but quick; he knew better than to dawdle, and anyway, he probably wanted this as much as Nick did. Why waste time?
Spencer pushed his shoes up against the futon’s frame, and neatly folded and stacked his clothes on top of them. Then, completely naked and fully hard, he faced Nick. “Where do you want me?”
“Right there. Don’t move.” Nick pulled off his own shirt and tossed it in the general direction of Spencer’s clothes. He only had on trainers today, so he toed those off and nudged them aside. Eyes locked on Spencer’s, he unbuckled his belt. Spencer could barely stand still; the restlessness was written all over the subtle shifts of his weight to his right foot, left, right again, and the way he kept curling and uncurling his fingers into loose fists. Not nervous. He’d gotten over his nerves a long time ago.
Nick always had some sort of new game or device up his sleeve, but Spencer trusted him. Even when he was nervous, Spencer never seemed remotely tempted to back away. He reminded Nick of a kid trying out a theme park ride for the first time: he knew it was inherently safe, and wasn’t actually afraid, but had no idea what twists and turns and feelings awaited him once the ride began.