“You have nothing to be sorry about.” I was crushed at his apology. “That was hot.”
“And inappropriate. I should know better by now, even if you don’t.”
“I know what I want.”
“I never doubted that.” He stepped back from the door. “But I also know what I want.”
And it’s not me.
He didn’t have to say the words. He’d already said enough, and it hurt like hell. I wasn’t used to rejection, but when it happened, it was always by the people who I expected more from. People who didn’t think me worthy enough to receive more or better from them.
Maybe it was my fault for being lacking. For never being good enough.
“I should’ve never come, Ashton,” he said, his voice gentle, even concerned. “It’s not you, I promise. I just can’t do this again. Happy Birthday, sweet boy.”
He left and closed the door behind him with a soft thud. I gulped air and blinked at the sudden rush of tears. He didn’t even mean that much to me. I knew very little about him, but for a month, I’d been around this guy, building up my hopes where he was concerned, convincing myself that I’d have worn him down.
Sweet boy.
Clearly, I’d been wrong, and I’d done nothing but hurt myself in the process. But what had he meant by “I just can’t do this again.” Do what exactly? I had a feeling that I was paying for somebody else’s mistake, and I didn’t like it at all. I already had enough of my own to accept somebody else’s guilt.
Chapter Five
Callum
The pounding at my bedroom door woke me up, and I groaned, trying to figure out if the world was coming to an end or what. Why else would someone be knocking at my door with such urgency at this godforsaken hour?
I was too groggy to process things all at once, but I couldn’t have been asleep for an hour before the knocking started.
Ignoring the disturbance, I sat up in bed and turned on the bedside lamp. I found my phone on the nightstand and peered at the time. Close to fucking four in the morning. The short hand had almost been on three when I’d finally climbed into bed and stopped agonizing over what a dick I’d been back at the club.
I couldn’t get Ashton’s sad face from my mind nor the way he’d felt against me. Holding him to me had filled me with such longing I hadn’t been able to help myself touching him. I’d never meant for it to go that far, but he’d been so hot. So eager. So ready. I just had to know what he was like in the throes of passion.
Now I knew, and I was even more curious. But I ran like a coward. No, not a coward. I’d run like a sane man who didn’t want history to repeat itself. If Ashton were any other boy, I’d have stayed at the club. But then again, the Ashton it would’ve taken for me to stay wouldn’t have been clubbing in the first place.
When it became evident that the person at the door wasn’t planning to go away, I crawled out of bed. I didn’t bother to pull on anything. That would mean searching for clothes to wear, and I had very little in the first place.
The space was too small to keep more than what was necessary. I didn’t intend to entertain anyone anyway. I’d give whoever was at the door an earful and send them on their merry way. At another time, I’d have been polite, but I was grumpier than a bear woken up midhibernation.
And horny. Apparently, when asleep, my dick didn’t get the memo that Ashton Keyes was off-limits.
“Somebody has got some fucking explaining to do,” I mumbled, unlocking the door and opening it. I glared at the intruder of my peace and sleep. “You?” I frowned, astonished to find Ashton’s driver standing on the landing.
“Yes, me,” the man answered. He was always well put together whenever he went out with his young charge, but he had clearly had better nights from the looks of him. His hair was sticking up as if he’d run his fingers through the strands over and over. His shirt was wrinkled and stained, and he smelled like someone had vomited expensive liquor all over him, which would explain the wetness on his shirt front.
“What are you doing here?” I peered over his shoulder, expecting to see Ashton. This had to be his doing.
“This was not my idea.” The driver thrust his hands into the pockets of his pants. “He insisted that I take him here, and he became rather belligerent when I refused. Rather than risk him creating a scene his mother may get wind of, I asked myself how much worse can this get by bringing him here?”
“You brought him here? Why on earth would you do that? He should be back home into his rich, entitled bed.”
His eyes narrowed. “I brought him here, thinking you may be able to get through to him, which I clearly can’t. I also brought him here because he asked me to. And last but not least, I brought him here because you toyed with him tonight, then shoved him aside like…like…like toilet paper you wiped your ass with, then flushed down the toilet.”
“Listen.” I pointed at the driver. “Nothing happened tonight that we both didn’t consent to. He’s an adult and should be able to take care of himself. Why don’t you take him home and keep him away from my coffee shop? I can’t be what he needs me to be.”
“I can’t take him home like this,” the man snapped. “After you left, he wouldn’t stop drinking. I only got him to stop because I promised him I’d take him here. If I bring him home like this, I’m afraid of what his mother will do. She’ll likely disinherit him.”
“Shit.” I scrubbed at my face with my palm. I couldn’t have Ashton here right now. I was too vulnerable; he was too vulnerable. Nothing good could come from this. Clearly, the boy had issues, issues I was hesitant to get involved with. I wasn’t a fucking therapist, and I’d already made that mistake once.
A scuffling sound on the stairs grabbed both our attention. I frowned, heart lurching in my chest at the sight of Ashton mounting the stairs, his steps heavy and unsteady.
“Master Ashton, I asked you to wait in the car,” the driver said.
Ashton wavered on his next step, and I rushed by the driver to get to him before he plunged backward down the stairs. The cold night air nipped at my bare skin and worked wonders on my erection. I caught Ashton, who smiled up at me sheepishly before drooping into my arms.
“We”—hiccup—”need to talk,” he slurred.
“There’s not much talking we can do when you’re like this, Ashton.” But maybe he was right, and we needed to talk. Maybe if I came clean to him, then he’d understand why I could never be the man—the Daddy—he wanted.
“I’m f-f-fine.”
“Ashton, you’re drunk.”
“Then you should punish me and make me a good boy.” He grabbed onto my arm. “Please, Daddy, make me a good boy for you. I want to be so good.”
This was a bad idea, one that was going to get us both into trouble, but what could I do? I shouldn’t have kissed him, then left him confused at the club.
I’d known beforehand that nothing could come of us, and he’d made it so clear he wanted me. I should’ve avoided him, pulverized that invitation. And while I was at it, should close the coffee shop and move to another country. Unlikely to happen. I was as attracted to his destructive side as he was drawn to my protective side.