#Chapter6
Midnight was the hour of secrets.
It acted as the thin divider that not only separated one day from another, but also estranged the darkness that nestled within a man's soul from the mask that one was forced to wear throughout the laboured hours that compiled each sun-lit day.
Midnight was the hour of secrets, the time to relinquish one's hold on their sins and walk their torments like they were nothing more than rowdy puppies. But tonight, as the hour struck, Angel Toussaint's mind was, for once, oddly blank.
No, it was more than blank. For the first time in years, it was deathly silent. Everything was. The guzzle of traffic that razzed around the streets below, the city too awake to ever truly sleep, didn't register. Nor did the wind that whispered against his ears, licking at his cheeks in numbing swipes.
Closing his eyes, face tilting skyward, he took a moment to enjoy the moment. His thoughts were always so loud, always so devious and demanding, that the small slither of nothingness was as close to Heaven as a sinner like him could ever hope to obtain.
It was funny, really. He'd spent years trying to blot out his own noise by finding people even louder and messier than him. It had worked, to a degree. He'd never considered the alternative. He'd dismissed the idea that a quieter person, a peaceful soul, could offer him the salvation he craved.
And damn it to Hell, Angel hated a lot of things, but there was nothing worse than admitting Ronan fucking Elmore was right— the man had the irritating trait of gloating about it every chance he got.
And right now was one of those instances. Ronan had been on his ass for months, bothering him, texting him, following him around, the whole nine yards, until he agreed to go out on a date with his friend. They were perfect for one another, in Ronan's words.
Angel wasn't going as far as to use that exact adjective, but he was— reluctantly— willing to admit that Lucien had ticked boxes for him that he hadn't even been aware were on his list. By the end of their first date together, he'd been certain there was going to be another. By the end of the second, he knew he was going to have to swallow humble pie and admit that occasionally Ronan had the capability of knowing his shit.
Midnight was the hour of secrets, and as he straightened up from the balcony railing he'd been leaning against, casting a fleeting glance at the blistering headlights that decked the darkened lane down below, the quietest thought infiltrated through his numbness: what if this was it?
Scowling, he pushed forward, wincing as a twang of pain spasmed up the narrowing of his left thigh, and made his way back inside the bedroom that adjourned. Darkened to a shadow-kissed paradise, broken only by the spark of illumination that the bedside lamp offered, Angel found himself pausing at the foot of the king-size bed.
It was new territory for him, sharing a bed. He'd had lovers before. He'd taken on subs before. He'd had one night stands and drunken shags, but he didn't sleep with them afterwards. Something about it had always been too . . . intimate? It opened the door for vulnerability. Having sex was one thing, but to hold them afterwards? To hold them close, to feel the beating of their heart against you as they drifted off into a lax slumber, now that was something else entirely.
He didn't do it. With his subs, it'd been made clear from the start. With casual hook-ups he'd often used the excuse of working nights; he'd have his way with them during the daylight hours and then be free to up and leave. As for one-night stands— well, he wasn't Raven and he never invited them back to home. Always their place. He was always back home by dawn.
So what made Lucien Murdock so different?
Was it because Ronan had orchestrated it and he respected and cared too much about the fool to disrespect him by shunning Lucien?
Nope. He wasn't sure that was it. It potentially played a part, but he didn't see a lifetime habit changing over the risk of stepping on Ronan's prissy little feelings.
No. He'd made this happen. Lucien was a sweet kid. Shy. Obedient. Almost puppy-like the way he followed him around and hung onto his every word. He could have dragged it out. He could have used every excuse, every resource he had to make sure they didn't end up in this predicament.
And yet they had. Willingly. Through his invite, nevertheless.
Worse still . . . sex hadn't even been entertained.
So once again, it begged the question: Why?
/"Siamo dannati dai nostri cuori,/" he muttered to himself, shrugging out of his jacket and watching as it fell to the floor in a heavy thump.
Lucien was a bed-hogger, it seemed. Flat on his back in the center of the mattress, his arms and legs all spiralled in different outward angles, there wasn't much space for him. The bright burn of his orange pyjamas set alight against the black satin of the bedcovers, and his cheeks were rosy and flushed, visible even as the shadows nipped away at them.
Angel watched him for a moment longer. Even found his lips curving up as he recalled how nervous and jumpy he'd been when he'd first revealed his attire for the night; he'd looked on the verge of tears as he'd stuttered out an apology for packing the wrong clothes. He'd been trembling too. His hands had been curled up so tightly that his knuckles had begun to turn white, and Angel had even noticed a spot of blood on his lip from where he'd been chewing on it.
Was it sadistic of him to have found it amusing? Was it cruel that something about the blind submission and the tepidness of the clueless puppy had his inner Dom humming with appreciation?
Perching on the foot of the bed, he pulled off his boots. Then he yanked off his shirt. He paused at his pants. He slept naked, as a rule, but with hindsight, he kept them on. He'd promised Lucien that tonight wouldn't be about sex and he intended to honour that vow; the kids nerves had been on hyperdrive and he didn't have to be Sherlock Fucking Holmes to conclude that doing the deed was the root.
It was yet another way Lucien differed from all his other relationships: in his previous relations, it had never taken so long to get down to the dirty details. With Lucien, it hadn't even been on the cards.
It was in no way a reflection on Lucien or his attractiveness, as Angel's mind had taken quite a few gutter trails when it'd come to the mousy brunette. He was beautiful; Angel refused to take that from him. He had the sweetest green eyes that he had ever seen, a Yin and Yang mixture of pure innocence and subtle coyness that danced the line of seduction, and he had lips that were so full and inviting that they held the untouched potential to bring any man to his knees.