Out of the Ashes (The Game 5)

I’d tidied up myself too. It was clear that Franklin had placed me in a certain box when we became friends, and my spot there had been solid till the day he’d found out I was a switch. From there, the box had rattled and started coming apart, but my work wasn’t done. So he wasn’t getting my everyday, cleaned-up version—essentially what I wore at work—chinos, nice shirt, hair tamed. He was getting ratty jeans, a fitted tee, and hair that looked like I’d just rolled out of bed.

I threw a dish towel over my shoulder, I added more olive oil and lemon to the pasta, I stirred the chicken, preventing it from sticking to the skillet, I hauled the zucchini out of the oven, and then I heard the buzzer in the hallway.

The man was right on time.

A flutter of nerves tightened my stomach, and I released a breath.

After buzzing him in, I opened the door and returned to the kitchen to drain the pasta. Oh, this was a great song. I bobbed my head to the beat and poured another glass of wine, estimating that it wouldn’t take me very long to learn this on the guitar. If Lee was a good Master tonight, maybe I could play for him soon.

Great song, great wine. Great, great wine.

I was actually a little nervous. Not in my ability to show Franklin I could floor him, with or without a stereotypically dominant appearance, but because of Lee. To him, this was in the bag. Franklin and I were already entering a kink dynamic, just like they had done.

In reality, Franklin and I were tentative friends. We’d formed a friendship over heartbreak and self-discovery. A rift had wedged itself between us when he’d hooked up with Lee, but the circumstances were washing away genuine hurt and anger.

Franklin was also so fucking safe that it wasn’t funny. The rage and jealousy died down as quickly as it flared up when Master chose to push that button. I wasn’t worried. My relationship with Lee had never felt so goddamn amazing and secure. And truth be told, Franklin had contributed to that feeling. But yeah, to experiment with our delicate friendship further, to add sex and kink to the mix so soon, was a bit nerve-racking.

I took another big swig of my wine, then grabbed the two pasta bowls from the bar.

“Hello?”

Here we go.

“In the kitchen!” I poured the pasta into the bowls and followed with chicken and the garlic butter. “You like zucchini, right?”

“Uh, yes? I mean, yes. I like zucchini.” Franklin appeared after rounding the corner of the bathroom, and he was dressed as usual. An expensive suit made for his body. “You said we were going to stuff our faces with pasta and garlic, so I…” He held up a bottle of white.

“Nice. I’m about to finish my second glass. You can put it in the fridge.” Once I’d added the roasted zucchini to the pasta dish, I went for the final touch. Fresh basil, a squeeze of lemon, and Parmesan. “How are you today?” I turned on the water and washed my hands quickly.

“Nervous,” he admitted. “I don’t know if this is lunch or a scene or a combination of both. I don’t know if I’m walking into hostile territory or the home of a friend. But I suppose intimacy is ruled out if we’re eating garlic.”

I snorted a laugh, and fuck me if he didn’t blush and avert his gaze.

After drying my hands, I grabbed our plates and set them on the bar. “I hope you’re hungry.”

“I am—and it smells wonderful.” He scanned the apartment discreetly, casting glances here and there. “Your home is close to what I pictured for you two. Very relaxed and homey.”

I kept him in my periphery as I rounded the bar to take my seat. He was definitely feeling out of sorts with everything being up in the air.

Maybe I should kiss him just to break the ice.

I didn’t have a protocol, to be honest. I was feeling a little out of sorts too, and I’d been hoping to wing it—to read the room and our moods in order to figure out the next step.

He sat down next to me as I poured him a glass of wine.

Maybe I shouldn’t kiss him to break the ice.

Maybe I should increase his discomfort.

“Do you like what I’m wearing?” I asked. “I figured since you see me as a submissive little boy when I wear my usual clothes, I’d mix it up for you.”

His eyes widened for a fraction of a second before he turned to liquid courage and gulped down half his glass of wine.

I smiled and tucked into my food.

This was fun.

“That’s not what I said,” he argued carefully. “You’ve been my safe guide, if anything. The one person who could help me navigate my way out of my marriage.”