development. The gallery incident had been a blip in Danvers’ plans, and with its creation the inevitable circle of life and death would be complete. Paolo's treasured, once-perfect world would be fully destroyed, his home and his love gone, as well as his long-held belief that the good guys always won.
* * * *
“What about sex?”
“Thanks, but I'm married.”
“Haha, Doc,” said Rich North, not laughing at all as he sat up on the edge of the sterile examining table. He was dressed, or perhaps undressed was more accurate, in one of those horrible gowns, now pulled down around his waist, exposing his torso to the open air. His state of dress made sense, as Dr. Henry Montgomery had needed to change the dressing on Rich's upper chest, where he'd been injured. Now, with new bandages and having been issued a clean bill of health, the doctor was tossing away used gauze when Rich posed his suggestive question. “Seriously. . . I mean, I got shot, doc, my lung collapsed.”
“And you've recovered, nicely and quickly, a credit to your otherwise overall health,” Dr. Montgomery said, scratching notes into his chart. He was fifty-something, handsome, in great shape, but with that ring on his finger and his very apparent hetero vibe, Rich had not made any move on his healer, content during his hospital stay with the ministrations of the cute male nurse. Still, it was one thing to lie back in bed and have your cock sucked till it exploded, it was another to engage in active sexual intercourse, especially an aggressive top who liked to hold off orgasm as long as possible. “Look, Rich, a wound like the one you suffered would give any man pause about even walking up a flight of stairs, let alone. . . engaging in sexual activity, so if you're concerned about your stamina or your breathing, then maybe you're not ready.”
“Not like I've had an opportunity,” Rich said, more to himself than to his doctor.
“Your partner may be afraid, too. . . you know, of injuring you,” the doctor said matter of factly, “so just give it some time, don't push things. You've only been home a week. You're not going anywhere, and I presume neither is he, so it's all good, isn't it? You both had a big scare. But tomorrow is another day, and after that another. . . you get the picture.” He paused, the intent behind his words clear. “It's more than your friend Aaron can say. Learn from him.”
Excusing himself in favor of another patient, the doctor left Rich to get dressed. Rich found that he was staring at himself in the mirror that hung on the back of the door. A clean bill of health? He sighed, wondering why then he felt like he'd had the wind knocked out of him. Was it the reference to Aaron, or was it the lingering doubts that had plagued him since that time in the hospital when Marc had angrily walked out on him. Sure, he hadn't fully left him, he was still home on Eldon Court, not that Marc had been all that welcoming since his return. Cool was a kind word, distant was more accurate, meals silent except for the scraping of silverware over china. Maybe the doctor was right, they had all been through a tough time and then needed to recover. Sometimes the physical wounds were the first to heal.
Hefting himself off the doctor's table, Rich slipped off that flimsy gown. In short order he'd donned his boxers and blue jeans, tossing on his button-down shirt but leaving it unbuttoned for a moment. Moving closer toward the mirror, he examined the bandages on his upper chest, considered what his wound would look like when fully healed. How much of a scar would it leave? His chest was naturally hairy, now still mostly bare, shaved as a result of the surgery. Dark sprigs of hair had begun to grow back between his pecs and at his collar bone, where the hair was densest; would his scar prevent him fully growing back his dark mat? Would Marc come to him at night still? Would his fingers still easily and giddily glide over his chest, or would
* * * *
“What about sex?”
“Thanks, but I'm married.”
“Haha, Doc,” said Rich North, not laughing at all as he sat up on the edge of the sterile examining table. He was dressed, or perhaps undressed was more accurate, in one of those horrible gowns, now pulled down around his waist, exposing his torso to the open air. His state of dress made sense, as Dr. Henry Montgomery had needed to change the dressing on Rich's upper chest, where he'd been injured. Now, with new bandages and having been issued a clean bill of health, the doctor was tossing away used gauze when Rich posed his suggestive question. “Seriously. . . I mean, I got shot, doc, my lung collapsed.”
“And you've recovered, nicely and quickly, a credit to your otherwise overall health,” Dr. Montgomery said, scratching notes into his chart. He was fifty-something, handsome, in great shape, but with that ring on his finger and his very apparent hetero vibe, Rich had not made any move on his healer, content during his hospital stay with the ministrations of the cute male nurse. Still, it was one thing to lie back in bed and have your cock sucked till it exploded, it was another to engage in active sexual intercourse, especially an aggressive top who liked to hold off orgasm as long as possible. “Look, Rich, a wound like the one you suffered would give any man pause about even walking up a flight of stairs, let alone. . . engaging in sexual activity, so if you're concerned about your stamina or your breathing, then maybe you're not ready.”
“Not like I've had an opportunity,” Rich said, more to himself than to his doctor.
“Your partner may be afraid, too. . . you know, of injuring you,” the doctor said matter of factly, “so just give it some time, don't push things. You've only been home a week. You're not going anywhere, and I presume neither is he, so it's all good, isn't it? You both had a big scare. But tomorrow is another day, and after that another. . . you get the picture.” He paused, the intent behind his words clear. “It's more than your friend Aaron can say. Learn from him.”
Excusing himself in favor of another patient, the doctor left Rich to get dressed. Rich found that he was staring at himself in the mirror that hung on the back of the door. A clean bill of health? He sighed, wondering why then he felt like he'd had the wind knocked out of him. Was it the reference to Aaron, or was it the lingering doubts that had plagued him since that time in the hospital when Marc had angrily walked out on him. Sure, he hadn't fully left him, he was still home on Eldon Court, not that Marc had been all that welcoming since his return. Cool was a kind word, distant was more accurate, meals silent except for the scraping of silverware over china. Maybe the doctor was right, they had all been through a tough time and then needed to recover. Sometimes the physical wounds were the first to heal.
Hefting himself off the doctor's table, Rich slipped off that flimsy gown. In short order he'd donned his boxers and blue jeans, tossing on his button-down shirt but leaving it unbuttoned for a moment. Moving closer toward the mirror, he examined the bandages on his upper chest, considered what his wound would look like when fully healed. How much of a scar would it leave? His chest was naturally hairy, now still mostly bare, shaved as a result of the surgery. Dark sprigs of hair had begun to grow back between his pecs and at his collar bone, where the hair was densest; would his scar prevent him fully growing back his dark mat? Would Marc come to him at night still? Would his fingers still easily and giddily glide over his chest, or would
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