Sequel to Leather and Tea
Retired secret agent Ben Smith has never been happier: married to his romance-novelist husband, settled into their life together, learning to bake scones because Simon likes them. But all Ben’s training and skills can’t deflect the car accident, or the injuries. Simon’s not badly hurt, but Ben can’t stop thinking about it. He promised to keep Simon safe, in bed and out of it. But what if he can’t?
It’s been three weeks. Simon’s been going crazy. He’s completely fine now, but his husband keeps treating him like glass, fragile and breakable. Simon isn’t breakable, though, and misses Ben’s hands, the touch of leather, cuffs and caresses and the thrill of submission.
He’s just going to have to prove to his husband he’s safe and alive and ready for anything. And he’s a romance writer, after all, so he’s going to make this a perfect scene, and a morning to remember.
He lay unmoving for a moment, appreciating the view. Watched his husband sleep, face squashed into the pillow in a fantastically inelegant fashion, hair sticking up in mischievous night-spikes. Simon asleep looked like dawn, he decided: pale sunshine curls and fair skin and careless contentment, a miniature masterpiece painted in gold that'd collided with a pillow and learned how to very quietly snore.
His heart twisted under his breastbone, a restless wild longing; he did have plans, and had made promises. So he got up, noiseless as instincts demanded, and wandered over to a very particular cabinet and a specific drawer.
Simon woke up blinking, yawning adorably, trying to move a hand to sweep disheveled hair out of one eye. The eye, and the other one, widened. Ah. Realization.
"You -- are we -- oh, all right then, good morning." Both hands lifted. Had to. Cuffed together, bound in exquisite expensive leather, blue and butter-soft and secure. Ben had collected slim wrists while his husband slept, luscious and malleable and slack in his grip. Had fit the right cuff on, then the left, then bound them together. He'd contemplated trying to fasten them behind Simon's back, but had doubted he'd be able to manage that without disturbing closed eyes.
He raised an eyebrow now. "Good morning what?"
Simon opened that eloquent mouth, shut it again. In the sunlit morning, in their small white-walled house with the teakettle and the shelves of bestselling romance novels, in the words left hanging in the quiet bedroom air, the scene assumed shape and presence.
Ben knew it did. Could see it. Watched the sea-change behind those eyes, as they took this in. Simon breathed out, and his arms relaxed, settling into the restraints. Acceptance. Affirmation.
"Good morning, sir."
"Good. And yes, it is." He did have to ask. "Everything okay? Tight enough, not too tight, you don't mind?"
"Don't you dare fuss over me." Simon gave him a tilted eyebrow that attempted irony and managed only delight at their positions. "Yes, it's all lovely, you know I like waking up this way. What would you like to do with me?"
"Oh, I've got some ideas." He leaned in; Simon kissed back while smiling, and Ben's heart did gymnastics routines. Flips. Floor shows. Every time. Every night, every morning, every day.