Page 24 of Anchored

Daniel left the bathroom and climbed back into bed. Before he’d even had a chance to settle, the master tugged him into his arms, pressed his chest to Daniel’s back and wove his legs between Daniel’s own. Despite the man’s earlier assertion that he was too old to come twice in one night, proof against it pressed hard along the crack of Daniel’s ass. Not forcing, not even asking—but still very much there.

It reminded Daniel of those men who’d used him so carelessly at his old mistress’s shop. Worse, it reminded Daniel of sneaking embraces with Victor in the bathrooms of the InfoGlobe dorm, of Victor sneaking up behind him and wrapping arms around his chest. Feeling Victor’s lips at his nape, Victor’s cock nudged up against him, begging for attention from his hands or mouth. And surely it was only those memories making his skin hum, bringing the blood to his cock as he lay in another man’s arms.

Shame heated his cheeks anyway, and he cursed his errant body for pulling shit like that in such a dangerous situation.

“Better?” the master asked, but it sounded a lot more like a demand than a question. So even though Daniel was hot and uncomfortable again—in more ways than one—and the master’s tight, skin-to-skin press was painful against healing welts, and God, he didn’t even know where to begin with how freaked out he was with that erection trying to worm between his ass cheeks, he thought it prudent not to argue. “Yes, Master.”

“Then for heaven’s sake, stop squirming and go back to sleep. There’s only one good reason for you to keep me up at night, and this sure as fuck ain’t it.”

Daniel took a breath to apologize again, but the master cut him off with a tight squeeze around his middle. “Just be quiet. Not another word. I’m sick of hearing you, and I’m sure as fuck not gonna fall for your little endearing-stutter routine anymore. So just . . . Sleep. Now. Before you really piss me off.”

Daniel felt certain it was much too late for that, but nevertheless, he did as he was told.

When next Daniel awoke, he was blissfully alone. He didn’t remember falling back to sleep, though obviously he had. He’d also somehow managed to sprawl across the entire bed. He peered at the clock and nearly panicked. 2:37 p.m.? Jesus! He hadn’t slept that late since . . . since . . . Well, the last time he had, he’d probably been too sick to remember it. And even though he knew he had no real place here, nothing to do, nobody who needed him, he still couldn’t shake the feeling that he’d overslept, shirked some duty, and would be in trouble for it.

But nobody came in shouting or wielding shock prods. In fact, nothing happened at all. He heard no sounds from outside the closed door, and actually suspected he might be alone in the apartment. A strange thought, vaguely frightening, yet also quietly liberating; if ever he’d been alone—truly alone—even once in his lifetime, it predated his earliest memories.

He climbed out of bed in a strange slow motion, tiptoed to the door, and cracked it open, absurdly afraid that even the slightest noise might break the spell.

The hallway was empty. So were the guest bed and bath, and the living room, and the kitchen. The slave quarters were abandoned, too.

Back in the kitchen, he spun a slow circle and thought, I can do anything.

He entertained the idea of running away for about 0.6 seconds, but of course, the damn GPS chip buried behind his left collarbone would make that impossible. Not to mention that even just a ghost of the memory of what he’d endured the one and only time he’d tried, on a trip to Denmark a few months after they’d taken Victor away, left him nauseous and shaking. He’d make them kill him before he’d ever suffer through that again. Besides, where would he hide in the States, even if he could somehow ditch the chip? Everyone knew his face here.

Forcing such thoughts from his head, he grabbed a brownie, idly opening cabinets and drawers as he ate. Silverware. Cookware. Plates and glasses. Little kitchen hand tools he hadn’t used since NewWorld bought him: corkscrew, can opener, measuring spoons, one of those plastic grippy things for opening stubborn lids. A drawer full of pens, paper, rubber bands, dozens of restaurant matchbooks . . . a Hot Wheels car? His first mistress’s son had played with those, would sometimes make Daniel watch but never let him play too. This one was bright red, no longer than his thumb. He pulled it out and backed it up along the counter, released it, and watched it fly. Again, and again, until it rolled right off the counter and clacked to the floor.

Daniel retrieved the car with a startled curse, terrified for a moment that he’d broken it. But the toy looked just the same as before. He put it back where he’d found it, between the paper clip chain and the hot pink Koosh Ball.

Still hungry, he opened the fridge, reeling at the sheer magnitude of choices within. He realized maybe a minute later that he was just standing there staring with the door open, and also that he was cold—he hadn’t bothered to put clothes on, though for once he had no reason to be self-conscious about that. He grabbed the milk. Took a shifty-eyed look around the apartment and, confirming it still empty, drank straight from the carton.

God, that felt good.

Thirst slaked, he found ice cream in the freezer, whipped cream in the fridge, sprinkles and fudge sauce in the pantry. He crumbled another brownie over all that and ate his sundae sprawled naked on the couch as he scrolled through the master’s DVR.

He discovered about halfway through his sundae and an old episode of The Simpsons in which his master had guest-starred that his eyes were significantly bigger than his stomach, at least when it came to something as sweet and rich as brownie sundaes. He wasn’t accustomed to having more food than he could finish, and so found himself with the curious dilemma of what to do with his leftovers. In the end, worry at being punished for wastefulness overshadowed worry at eating ice cream for breakfast (the master had, after all, said more than once that he could help himself to anything at any time), so he put his leftovers back in the freezer.

Sticky with dried sweat and chocolate sauce, he decided on a shower. The bathroom was more extravagant than he remembered it being, the water more relaxing. He sat on the heated marble bench inside the stall, three adjustable heads pounding him with water, and nearly let himself drift to sleep. What a difference it made to make the choice to shower, and to know the master wouldn’t be barging in to join him.

He stayed in the stall a long time, careful only not to let the water run cold. His track pants and a T-shirt, socks and underwear sat clean and folded on the master’s dresser. He put them on, then wandered back into the kitchen to finish his leftover sundae.

And that was how Jane and Dave found him ten minutes later, sitting at the kitchen table, reading the Sunday Times and licking melted ice cream off the side of his hand.

“Glad to see you’re settling in,” Jane said around a chuckle and an armful of groceries. “Though God knows how you keep that body eating so much junk.”

Jane put her packages down on the counter, gestured Dave to do the same, and then shooed the man off to their bedroom with a silent glance and a peck on the cheek. Once he was gone, she turned her full attention back to Daniel, sitting down next to him and giving him a careful, serious once-over.

“What,” he asked flatly, weirded out by how hard she was studying him and unfairly angry that she’d ended his time alone. But then it clicked: surely she’d heard all that shouting last night. “I’m fine,” he said, scraping the last of his ice cream from the bowl. “He didn’t hurt me, if that’s what you’re worried about.”

“Good,” she said, her bright smile returning. “Good.”

He stood to rinse his bowl in the sink, but Jane snatched it from his fingers and did it for him. “Sit, darling.”

He wanted to tell her she didn’t have to wait on him, but surely she already knew that, and she might even find it insulting. Instead, he asked, “Where’s the master?” not really sure he wanted to know.

Jane shrugged, washed his bowl, put it in the drain board, and wiped her hands on a dish towel. “He left before noon wearing a great big frown that screamed don’t talk to me. I thought it best to listen. Maybe he went to the office. Maybe to a friend’s. Wouldn’t be surprised if he was out getting drunk; he don’t do it often, but . . .”

But I pissed him off, and now he can’t even stand to look at me.