Page 5 of Merrick

Merrick’s cheeks flushed at the implication, the accusation.

He knew he was a lot.

Too much.

nvm

No.

Don’t do that.

Merrick’s erection finally flagged, and he swiped the messages away to skim through Wilder’s profile. He hadn’t read more than two sentences before his erection was back in full force, hard and leaking against his fingers.

Dominant man looking for submissive partner. Gender is irrelevant, compliance is not. Consent in all things at all times, but I love corporal punishment, domestic discipline, rough play, and humiliation.

Merrick did not like humiliation, though…

Maybe he did a little bit.

A lot.

He kept reading.

I do not share, not interested in being a third. Casual scene partners not ideal, but looking for something invested and long-term.

Merrick groaned, ignoring the incoming message in favor of staring at the unfinished painting of a sunset he’d been working on for the past week. He’d been busy at the shop, which was good for his bank account but not for his creativity. Drawing other people’s art was all well and good, but he wanted time to work on his own designs again.

Another incoming message and he read them both.

I wasn’t being critical of your sex drive or your kinks.

If there’s something you want, you should ask for it.

I did. Earlier tonight.

And so I ask you again.

Was it not enough?

Merrick pressed the edge of his thumb into his leaking slit, cursing himself under his breath.

No, it wasn’t.

There was no reply for almost a minute. Merrick was ready to turn his phone off and throw it in the dishwasher when another message came through.

I have to get up for work at six, but I’ll host if you want another round.

Merrick had about a thousand questions for this man, but he quickly mentally organized them and asked the most important one first.

What’s your address?

Wilder lived close, Merrick quickly learned, and less than ten minutes later, he was on the other man’s front porch. Merrick had an apartment in an old pre-war building that hadn’t been updated since the early nineties, but Wilder lived in a small bungalow on a corner lot, an overgrown bougainvillea in the front yard. The light in the living room was on, and Wilder opened the front door before Merrick even stepped onto the porch.

“You came,” Wilder said, pulling the door open to make room for Merrick to come inside.

He’d changed from the club, standing there in a pair of black flannel pajama pants and no shirt. Merrick had on the same shirt and track pants he’d worn to Rapture, a single condom shoved into his pocket.

“I did.”