Love Junkie Sub ●

Cory started to feel solid. Like a person instead of a wound.

"But I went looking for it," Cory said. "I wanted to feel out of control."

When it was over, he walked home in the rain. He didn't cry. He just felt the familiar, awful emptiness—the comedown after the crash. The proof that he was nothing but a thing to be consumed.

He went home with Derrick. Derrick didn't ask about limits. He didn't show him the rope. He just pushed Cory onto his stomach, held him down by the back of the neck, and took what he wanted.

Marcus nodded slowly. "I know. And we're going to talk about that. But first—" He set down his tea and took Cory's hands. "First, I need to know if you're safe. Not physically. Inside."

Paul had left a note on the fridge. "Call your sponsor. Not me."

Not the bad kind. The kind where the ceiling of his thoughts fell away and he was just a body in a room. No past. No future. No desperate clawing for attention. Just the sound of leather on skin and Marcus's voice counting strokes.

Cory cried. Not pretty tears—ugly, heaving sobs that shook his whole body. Marcus held him through it, palm flat on his sternum, grounding him like a living weight.