“Shut up!”
He had dreamed of this moment so often, Jonah as helpless as he had made Ben, getting his just deserts at last. He’d imagined beating the man to a pulp, seeing him crying and pleading, his own satisfaction as he redressed his catastrophic mistake and handed Jonah over to the law at last. The thought had given him the only pleasure he’d felt in months.
He hadn’t imagined the terrible, lost despair he now saw in Jonah’s eyes when he did it.
“Let me say…” Jonah’s voice cracked. “Let me tell you. I had to—”
“You didn’t. You didn’t have to. You chose to save yourself and ruin me.”
“No. Ben, I know you don’t believe me, you never will, but…” He swallowed. “I love you.”
Ben stared down. Jonah stared up, eyes wet and glimmering in the gaslight. The white streak in his hair shone.
“How dare you,” Ben said at last. The insult was foul beyond belief. A taunting, grotesque parody of what he’d believed, a mockery of his imbecilic passion. “How dare you say that. After everything. After you ran away and left me—like that— How stupid do you think I am? You think you just have to whisper something sweet and wiggle your arse and I’ll forget what you did to me?”
Jonah shook his head. “I ruined everything, I know, but I swear I couldn’t help it—”
Ben’s slap cracked across his cheek, sending his head jerking sideways. “Horseshit!”
Jonah put his free hand to his face, a hopeless movement. “I’d change it if I could,” he whispered. “I never meant those things to happen to you. I know I hurt you, and you despise me.” He gave a little shudder. “I suppose I deserve you to. I’m sorry.”
“Stop whining. Damn you to hell, stop it!” Christ, why wasn’t he fighting? Ben wanted him to fight. He could beat the man to death, if only he’d fight.
Jonah shook his head. “I love you, Ben.”
“I hate you,” Ben said, and grabbed for him.
He hadn’t intended it. He didn’t know what he intended now. His mind was a whirl of rage and misery, and Jonah was lying on the bed as he had so often, with those beseeching blue eyes fixed on Ben, and it had been so long since Ben had cared, or wanted, or felt anything.
He felt now. He wanted Jonah, and he wanted to hurt him.
He lifted Jonah up off the mattress, turning him and throwing him face down, so that he was bent over the bed’s edge, kneeling on the floor, his trapped arm twisted awkwardly under him. Jonah grunted and tried to straighten himself, and Ben pushed him down with a palm between the shoulder blades. He fumbled for the fastenings at Jonah’s waist, shoved shirttails up, trousers and drawers down to Jonah’s knees.
“Ben,” Jonah whispered. His voice was thick with tears.
“Shut up.” Ben grabbed the bottle of oil. It spilled as he fumbled the top, dripping over his fingers as the gin had dripped from Jonah’s. He dragged at buttons, pushed his own clothing aside and knelt behind Jonah’s bare arse, smearing the oil over his rigid cock with fingers that shook. Jonah sucked in a sharp breath.
Jesus Christ, what was he doing?
He’d scarcely mustered an erection for someone who’d begged to suck him off. Now he was—was he?—going to force himself on an unwilling man, on Jonah, and he was so hard he felt his own skin could barely contain him.
I’m ruined. I’m broken. What happened to me?
“Shit.” He jerked away, sickened, and Jonah twisted round. Ben could see the tears shining in his eyes.
“Jesus, Ben. Please don’t—”
“Shut up.” Ben’s voice was hoarse, unrecognisable to himself. He couldn’t do this, of course he couldn’t, but to hear the man mewl for mercy would be unbearable. “Shut your mouth.”
“Don’t stop,” Jonah said. “Fuck me. Even if you hate me. Please.”
Ben stared at him.
“Please,” Jonah repeated. “Once more.”
“Turn round.” The words didn’t sound like his own. “I don’t want to see your face.”
Jonah turned back. Ben moved forward, like an automaton, thighs wide, covering Jonah. Jonah shifted position, in practised response, knowing just what to do, and if Ben had been hard before, now it was painful. He was aware that he hadn’t prepared Jonah, that it would hurt, and part of his mind winced from the knowledge even as another part took a savage pleasure in the fact. A third part, the strongest, knew it didn’t matter at all. He was going to fuck Jonah one last time and it would all be over, everything, forever.
“I hate you,” he whispered, and thrust in.
Jonah bucked, a little jerk of instinctive distress. Ben repeated, “I hate you,” and pushed harder. Jonah was tight around him, breathing hard, not protesting, shifting only in an effort to take him. Ben bore down, past the resisting muscle, feeling himself hold back to make it easier and cursing his weakness at the same moment. He pushed again, until he was fully in Jonah and they both cried out.