So much so Forest wondered if he could even take the man in.
When he’d first felt the prickling of want, Forest had been horrified to discover he liked men. Unable to comprehend why his mind drifted into sexually charged thoughts at the idea of a man’s hands on him—a man’s cock inside of him—he’d driven himself down into his drumming, needing to pound out his fears and aggressions. Men were—they hurt. Even as his mother dragged him through her partying—even as she handed him over to rough-mouthed, drunken men who seemed to crawl out of the woodwork whenever she needed money—he’d done it because his mother needed him to—wanted him to.
There’d been too many times when he’d woken up sore, his voice hoarse from taking a man’s cock down his throat and his lips cracked from being stretched too wide—stretched too hard—and all the while, as Franklin waited for Forest to come to his senses and not trail after his mother like an oblivious duckling—Forest’d wished Frank would have just told him to stop.
Because his mother was the only person who’d ever told him he was needed, wanted, and the brutal fucking he got every time her friends passed him around was merely the price to pay to hear her say You did good, Forest. Real good.
By the time he’d thrown off her influence, Forest told himself he wanted something normal; a sweet-faced girl who’d giggle when he told a bad joke or even sit to listen in on a session. Quite a few of the musicians he played for had those kinds of girlfriends, smiling bits of sugar and candy who’d clap when they were finished playing and give fierce hugs of appreciation when the set was done.
Then he’d found himself looking more at the musicians than their girlfriends and wondered how truly fucked up he was, longing for something that’d only brought him pain.
Frank—God love Frank—for noticing and talking to him. They’d worked it out, small tidbits of conversations and reassurances of Forest’s sexuality, until Forest understood—realized—the men he’d gone with before weren’t partners, weren’t lovers; they were men interested in satiating their need for power or maybe even trying to exorcise their own demons. None of the pain, none of the trauma, had to do with love or want. If Forest wanted a man in his bed, it wasn’t because of something his mother or any of the countless, faceless nobodies who’d used him before had done. It was because that’s what his heart wanted.
And God, did his heart want Connor Morgan.
Especially now, because even as the man tenderly stroked and played with Forest’s body, he ached to have Connor in him.
He wanted Connor to erase every touch that’d come before him. He needed to believe the man when he whispered how much he wanted Forest. Most of all, he wanted to be held, to know Connor wasn’t going to let him go, wasn’t going to toss him out like he’d been tossed away so many damned times before. Forest needed that most of all, and in the murmuring Irish he heard those things.
His heart beat rapidly—urging his mind to fall into the man’s promises, but the slithering doubts—the evil, dark shadows lurking in the recesses of his mind, whispered of Connor’s disinterest once he’d gotten his fill of Forest’s body.
No, he told himself. He’d seen the look on Con’s face—that precious moment when he’d spied Forest through the glass and turned Forest’s world on its side. There’d been something tangibly magical in that glance—that smile—and it’d burned away every cobweb and flick of ice on Forest’s soul, baring him to the sun and stars. He’d die happy knowing he’d gotten that look just once.
He’d do anything Connor wanted of him just to have the man look at him like that for the rest of his life.
“God, I love you,” Forest muttered softly, too low for Connor to hear, and hot tears stung Forest’s eyes. “When the fuck did that happen?”
His mind burned and roiled with the knowledge, tearing at his thoughts and flinging back sharp darts of denial. They didn’t get very far. His heart caught every whisper of doubt and crushed them into a silvery ashen nothing, leaving only a smear of awareness behind.