I heard the rustle of movement as he became aware of my presence, heard his whispered protest to go hide somewhere else, but I ignored it. I could only remember the dreams that had tormented me for over a year, of warm, firm lips and dreamy gray eyes. I couldn't see his eyes in the darkness, but—

I dragged him quickly into my arms and, before common sense could prevail, bent and pressed our lips together. It wasn't my first kiss. I'd been kissing girls since my first party at twelve, and even at seventeen I had acquired some skill in the department, but...this kiss felt different. The textures of Alexi's mouth enthralled me, the flavor of his response was addictive, and I had no idea where the experience was going to end. Instead of seducing, sampling, or even plain enjoying the kiss, I was flung headlong into a maelstrom of emotion and confusion. Alexi's kiss was the best kiss of my life, and the most terrifying.

We broke off the kiss to breathe, and that's when the fear overwhelmed me. I pushed the door open, slipping out without ever saying a word. I wanted to kiss Alexi, yes—all the rest of the shit that went along with kissing? Being gay? I didn't need that. Alexi made me doubt myself. What scared me most was that kissing him made all the bad things seem worthwhile.

I'm pretty sure Alexi had no idea who had kissed him in that closet at the beach cottage, but I was damned sure I'd like to kiss him again. His tongue slicking his lips like that tempted me to repeat the experience right here and now in the bright light of day where he couldn't possibly mistake me for some stupid football player.

First, though, I had to get him to relax a bit and maybe tell me about the wedding ring. He still darted nervous glances around the shopping center, and I finally, reluctantly, released his arm as we approached the coffee shop. We ordered at the walk-up window, and as we waited patiently for the barista to produce his basic cup of black coffee and my iced mocha, I strove to achieve casual as I asked, "So, what have you been doing since high school?"

He met my eyes briefly, then twisted about to stare off across the parking lot to the opposite side of the strip mall. He leaned his slim, compact body on a hip against the counter, and I couldn't help taking advantage of his lack of attention to look my fill. Tight-fitting, faded-nearly-white jeans molded the firmly muscled legs and flat abdomen. I noted the button fly of his jeans with approval. Yeah, I can't help it. Levi 501s are a trigger for me. I wished I could retrace my visual path physically, with my trembling hands, my tingling lips. A gray short-sleeved shirt open over a simple white T-shirt completed his Saturday casual attire.

Once I had finished my survey and my gaze meandered up to his face, he'd apparently had enough of the cars in the lot, and I found him watching me instead. His moist lips parted and his eyes sparkled. I nearly kissed him again right then, too aroused to care about observers. I didn't even care about the wedding ring right then. Marriage clearly wasn't on his mind either. It wasn't only that he was still sexy and attractive. He still wanted me. I saw the desire behind the sparkle and it sent me right back to those high school days, only this time without the stupid part of me that didn't want to want another man in my bed.

The barista fortunately interrupted my eye sex with our order and I remembered I was supposed to talk to Alexi, not visually inventory the places I was tempted to kiss.

Pulling into the drive, he turned to face Jesse, who had one hand on the door handle and an uncertain look on his face. Cautiously, sensing that Jesse wasn't immune to him, Drake gave in to his earlier temptation. He reached out and ran his hand down the side of that gorgeous face. When Jesse leaned into his touch, Drake's pulse sped up and he curled his finger around the back of Jesse's neck, threading his fingers into the still-damp blond locks. Tilting Jesse's head up, he leaned down, staring deep into the blue eyes, looking for any sign that his kiss was unwelcome. Jesse's eyes widened, and he expelled a sweet rush of air that hotly caressed Drake's lips. Drake sighed and brought their mouths together. Pausing, he again gave the skittish Jesse a chance to pull away. When no objection came, he tilted his head and caressed the full lower lip with his own, adoring the soft warmth, reveling in the delicate intimacy.

With a breathy whimper, Jesse's mouth opened slightly and Drake took full advantage. He swept his tongue inside, tracing hungrily over smooth velvety surfaces, teasing and massaging Jesse's timid tongue with his own. The sweet flavor and delicious heat, the residual taste of raspberry and dark chocolate intoxicated him, and he wanted more. He moaned loudly and pulled Jesse closer, pressing his mouth open wider, coaxing a response from the trembling man in his arms.

A sudden flash of bright light from a passing car startled him and Jesse shoved him away, breathing heavily. "Oh my God," he whispered, huge eyes locking on Drake's face. "I can't."

"Jesse? I'm sorry I got carried away. It's just...you're so damn sexy. I know I overstepped. Look. It's late. Can I see you again?"

"No. No I can't sleep with you. I want to. But I can't. There's someone else."

Drake jerked back as if slapped. "Someone else? And you couldn't call him to help you, I suppose?"

"You assume it's a him?"

Drake snorted in response. He damn well knew the someone else was a him. No straight man wore three-inch heels in the rain, no matter how fucking short he was. Not to mention, he'd likely have been punched square in the jaw at the first touch if Jesse weren't gay.

"I know it's a him. Just like I know you can't be all that in love with him if you can kiss me like that."

The golden brown gaze didn't warm in the slightest under his own admiring regard, but scanned his faded Levis and tight T-shirt with disapproval. Mason half expected to be informed he didn't meet the dress code for the elegant little shop. Instead, Mark Addison looked him over and dismissed him as though he were beneath notice.

Shrugging off the snobbery, Mason slapped his brother on the back. "Go get 'em, kid.  Or whatever you guys call it." He hoped to sleep in his car while his brother played, and turned to leave immediately.

He met Addison's eyes again, tried for a smile, but the arrogant host stared right through him. "Students participating in the tournament are to be supervised by adults at all times." 

The inflectionless voice grated on his nerves as much as the pronouncement.  It wasn't like these were two year olds, for God's sake. It was Chess Club. By virtue of their very geekiness they were mature, well behaved teens.

Too bad such a sexy voice and face belonged to such a prick.  Unfortunately for Mason, he couldn't focus on Johnny's progress through the tournament. All he seemed able to focus on was that slim figure moving between the tables, the unconscious grace of the small man's movements, the seductive draw of tightening khaki across his backside as he bent to survey a board or pick up something from the floor.

He scowled as Mark glared at him again, turning and facing resolutely out the window into the parking lot. In the reflection the glass provided, he watched Mark excuse himself from Ainslie, the kid's coach, and head in his direction, a determined expression on his face.

Good. The self-righteous prick had noticed him. Mark stopped right next to him, and they stood staring out into the parking lot together.

"Stop staring at me like that."

Mason snorted, turned to look down at the shorter man. "Like what?"

The older man twitched and licked his lips. Mason stifled the groan that wanted to escape. He shifted restlessly.

"You know. Like...that."

"Like I want to throw you over my shoulder and take you out of here and fuck you? Sorry. Can't do that." Fascinated, he noted the flush on Mark's cheekbones deepen, heard the hitch in his breathing and knew that he'd been right. Chemistry burned between them.

"You..." Mark glanced cautiously around the shop at the kids concentrating so fiercely on their chess games, the proud parents and coaches peering anxiously at their little darlings. Mark stuttered to a stop before starting again. "Not here. We need to talk privately. Meet me behind the shop in ten minutes."

"You're one of Bailey's friends? I'm Drew, his Dad." The man asked, reaching down and picking up Eden's back pack.

"Yes," He mumbled in reply, striving to fight down the shivers of arousal that rippled through him with the deep voice. The effect from the answering machine was magnified in person. That voice was a caress in itself, stroking over his body, making him tingle with awareness.

"Let me show you where you'll be sleeping. I'm putting you in with Bailey. Sorry I can't stay and talk, but I've got to get down to the market in town and pick up some supplies for our weekend."

Eden willingly followed the man into the house and down a short hallway. Bailey's dad opened a door and gestured into the room. "Here you go. People should be arriving soon, but I hope to be back before anyone else gets here."

Eden stepped up to the doorway inadvertently brushing against that hard muscled body as he did so. Heat seared through his thin T-shirt and gooseflesh prickled his arms. He bit his lip to keep the moan inside, just nodding his head, too afraid that his arousal would show to speak. He ducked his head and made to move into the room, when a hard warm hand closed around his upper arm. He found himself turned to face Bailey's dad, and looked up into puzzled blue eyes.

"We'll talk later, yes?" The man asserted. Eden was trapped in the depths of those deep blue eyes and unable to utter a response. A big, calloused hand came up to cup Eden's jaw, thumb rubbing gently over the two-day growth of beard he hadn't bothered to shave. Shaking his head, Drew began to speak again but then his head tilted slightly to the side and his lips came down. Eden caught his breath in surprise. Surely Bailey's dad wasn't going to kiss him?

But he was. Warm dry lips pressed to his own briefly, sliding a little to the side, nipping lightly at his own lower lip. The gentle kiss swept right across his mouth in a brief warm touch that left him craving more. It had barely begun before Drew pulled away. Wow. Pressing his fingers to his still tingling lips, Eden stared after the handsome man who'd shown him his room. Definitely scrapping plan A for this weekend.

"Hey, baby." Dan's call from several feet away sent a dash of cold water in Morgan's face. He shivered.

"Hey." His weak, hollow voice surprised Morgan. Earlier, in their room, hearing Dan call him "baby" had excited him. Now, his stomach churned a bit, and the bitter, strong coffee Dan preferred sat like lead. At a loss, Morgan nervously shredded the buttery croissant on the table in front of him. He'd often wondered if Dan intentionally confused him, flipping from hot to cold, sweet to acid. But even for Dan this weekend's behavior was different.

At first he'd attributed Dan's strange attitude to his long absence, worried that Dan was through with him, maybe searching for a way to let him down easily. The weekend had put those doubts to rest, but now Dan's open attitude made him nervous.

To his shock, Dan leaned over to kiss his cheek lightly in greeting before sliding into the chair opposite him. He panicked over that while Dan sipped his coffee and grimaced. Morgan shook his head, trying to make sense of the other man's lack of discretion and became aware that Dan smiled at him peculiarly.

"What?" Something itched at the back of Morgan's mind. Inconceivable as it seemed, Dan was acting, putting on a show, playing a role for Morgan. Why?

"You're white. What's wrong, baby?"

Morgan floundered for an answer. Dan knew bloody fucking well what was wrong. He was playing with Morgan, toying with him for some unknown reason, and Morgan was off balance.

Fuck. The waiter approached to refill their cups, and surely he'd heard Dan’s endearment? The young man remained expressionless as he topped up their coffee, and then silently indicated Morgan's shredded breakfast. Morgan nodded. His mouth was dry, and he doubted he could swallow anything anyway. The waiter scooped up the plate and left without speaking.

"Dan, someone will to hear you." He managed in feeble protest. Sometimes being Dan Blake's lover was awesome. When he was the sole focus of those intent green eyes, the object of Dan's attention, it was fucking glorious. But then, Dan was also a selfish bastard and an unmitigated prick at times. Like that nasty comment the other day about Morgan running when Dan called. Truth be told, he probably did run when Dan called, but mostly because he wanted very much to see Dan.

"Do you care if they do?"

He glared at Dan, grateful for the shades that hid his emotions, the flare of anger. Dan didn't have to care. The Blakes had it all. Studio, money, acceptance in society, it was all theirs by virtue of being born Blakes. They didn't have to worry about ever working, courting the right kind of publicity, and appeasing the fickle public. They didn't have to worry about hurting someone they cared about. Above all else, the Blakes stood together, united against public scrutiny. They stared down adverse publicity, weathered scandal, together. He didn't have that.

Adrian writing in purple ink stunned him more than the idea that Adrian had a crush on him. After all, they'd been down that road once before. Purple ink was so not Adrian. Black. Or Blue. Traditional. Classic. That was Adrian.

"Yeah, did you like it? Here, grab a cup of coffee and a pastry and let's take a walk." The other man turned and walked out the door, apparently assuming that Val would follow.

Val grabbed a coffee and hurried to catch up with Adrian. Jeez. Now what would he do? He had to let Adrian down gently. No sense ruining what had been a perfectly good friendship. No way could he ask Adrian to help with the redecorating project now. Distance, not closeness, was called for.

"Listen, Adrian, we have to talk. I really meant it when I said I'm not interested in men right now and honestly," he touched the other man's arm sympathetically, "you're just not my type, you know? So, much as I appreciate all the little gestures, I just feel friendship for you, okay?"

The other man's blue eyes sparkled at him, in apparent—amusement? "Are you done, Val?"

"Well, yeah, that's what I wanted to say. No hard feelings, right?"

"Right, Val. Let me set you straight on a few things before we talk about feelings, okay? First of all, I noticed you were down Friday, so I sent you the flower, yeah. I love those bird of paradise flowers. The colors are so sunny and cheerful. Then this morning, I wanted to talk to you about something, and sorry, but the coffee and pastries were as much because I knew I'd be hungry as for you. Yeah, you're hot as hell, but I know I'm not your type. And you know I know it, too. That's why you've been ramming tales about your wild and crazy love life down my throat for the past ten years, isn't it? I've heard about every new man as soon as you've met him, and every break up when it inevitably comes along. Why do you do that, Val? It's not for your own benefit, you know? You've been making sure that I knew that you weren't interested in hooking up with me all these years. I fucking get it, okay? You don't seem to see that I'm not the same man today as ten years ago. And that's your loss, not mine. I've done things, experienced things in the last few years that have helped me define who and what I am, in and out of bed, Val. Too bad you can't say the same."

Val swallowed and pulled his hand back. He shook his head as his brain whirled trying to keep up, to comprehend all the data Adrian threw at him in one long speech. "Whoa. Sorry. I just talk while I'm working, you know? I... Shit...sorry."

Keeping House

"So, tell me why you want to work for me." That should give him pause.

"I don’t. My brothers dared me to get a job, and it’s been a lot harder than I expected. I just came from a McDonalds where the manager had a guy with a BS cleaning the toilets and an MBA flipping burgers. The economy sucks." Mischa sounded dejected.

"Ahh." He wanted a job on a dare? What the hell? Who told a prospective employer they didn’t want to work for them? "Let me tell you a little about the parameters of the job.”

Mischa gazed at him quietly, waiting. Maybe the daunting aspects of the task would send the kid the way of the first applicant. "You’ll be responsible for preparing meals. I eat breakfast at six, daily, take a boxed lunch to work, and expect a minimum of a three course dinner. Sometimes I have guests, and occasionally dinner parties." He didn’t really, but threw out the possibility anyway. For a moment, he was distracted by the amusing vision of a room full of elegantly clad clients and coworkers staring in horror as a Goth-garbed Mischa, hair spiked and piercings glittering in the candlelight announced that dinner was served.

"Got it. Cooking. I can do that." Mischa seemed to be trying to convince himself as much as Donovan of that fact.

"You’ll have to do the shopping. I don’t have time for things like that. Then there’s the cleaning. I expect the house to be spotless at all times." He assiduously ignored the fact that the house was currently anything but clean.

Mischa wasn’t inclined to be so kind, though. He glanced pointedly around the kitchen, at the stack of dirty dishes in the sink, the debris from several takeout meals on the counter tops, and the unpacked boxes of kitchenware. "Ok. Clean. I can do that."

"I need the house put together, too. The boxes," he waved around, "unpacked and stuff put away. The walls painted, furniture ordered and assembled and put in place."

Mischa looked shocked. "You trust me to decorate your house?"

"No. I have the plans here." He thumped the red leather-bound album that held the dream house drawings he’d labored on over the years on the marble counter. "I need my housekeeper to coordinate the workmen, decorators, deliveries and so on."

More nods. "I can do that."

Donovan stared helplessly at the kid. <i>Stop calling him kid. It’s too pervy. </i> What else? "References? Do you have references?"

Mischa bent over and the tight black t-shirt rode up as the skinny jeans inched down. Damn. All that creamy white flesh, hairless and smooth tempted him to reach out and touch, to examine the texture and resiliency. He wondered if there were any more shiny piercings hidden under that severe black garb.

Telling the Truth

When he opened his eyes again long moments later, he caught sight of two young men, nearly identical in appearance, standing in the shade of a leafy palm tree directly in his line of vision. Stunned, he stared in disbelief. They were absolutely beautiful. Were they actors from the studio? Pale skin, black hair, identical bright blue eyes, rosy-red lipped mouths, slender, athletically built; they were so absorbed in one another they seemed alone in the crowded yard.

As he watched, the boys turned closer in to each other, leaning forward to whisper together. Lowering his lids, Terry watched covertly. There was something illicit about the pair, something almost sexual. But surely they were related? Two young men who looked so much alike had to be brothers.

One of the boys tugged the other deeper into the shadows of a tree and the privacy fence. They looked around, and when one bright blue glance settled on him for a minute, Terry's heart rate increased and his skin heated. They couldn’t tell he watched from under his lashes could they? Apparently deciding that he was asleep and no threat, the two embraced, sharing gentle kisses and petting each other with slim white hands.

Giving Up

He stood automatically, reaching out to shake her hand in greeting and murmuring a polite good morning. A slight heat rose in his cheeks, and he hoped to hell the blush wasn't visible. And why the fuck a simple handshake with the doctor should cause him to blush, he didn't know, but something about her made him feel self-conscious and uncertain in ways he hadn't felt since he was a wild sixteen-year-old serving as his beautiful mother's escort to wild Hollywood parties.

He stiffened his spine and forced himself to meet those sharp blue eyes, unwittingly squeezing her hand just a little too tightly. He watched as the blue eyes flared wide then narrowed, and Dr. Grey gently removed her hand from his. The heat in his cheeks grew, and he felt his stomach churn alarmingly. He and Trick were about to have more in common than he'd ever thought possible if he couldn't calm down soon.

Dr. Grey led him into her office, and he took his usual seat on the plush leather chair in front of the desk. Somewhat surprised, he noticed that instead of taking the chair adjacent to him as she normally did, Dr. Grey seated herself behind the neat steel and glass desk. Crossing her hands on the desktop, she met his questioning gaze calmly, and Brandon let out the breath he hadn't realized he held. His roiling emotions calmed as he took in her stillness, and even his churning stomach was soothed. This was different, but not wrong.

Or so he thought until she spoke.
 

"So, tell me why you want to work for me." That should give him pause.

"I don’t. My brothers dared me to get a job, and it’s been a lot harder than I expected. I just came from a McDonalds where the manager had a guy with a BS cleaning the toilets and an MBA flipping burgers. The economy sucks." Mischa sounded dejected.

"Ahh." He wanted a job on a dare? What the hell? Who told a prospective employer they didn’t want to work for them? "Let me tell you a little about the parameters of the job."

Mischa gazed at him quietly, waiting. Maybe the daunting aspects of the task would send the kid the way of the first applicant. "You’ll be responsible for preparing meals. I eat breakfast at six, daily, take a boxed lunch to work, and expect a minimum of a three course dinner. Sometimes I have guests, and occasionally dinner parties." He didn’t really, but threw out the possibility anyway. For a moment, he was distracted by the amusing vision of a room full of elegantly clad clients and coworkers staring in horror as a Goth-garbed Mischa, hair spiked and piercings glittering in the candlelight announced that dinner was served.

"Got it. Cooking. I can do that." Mischa seemed to be trying to convince himself as much as Donovan of that fact.

"You’ll have to do the shopping. I don’t have time for things like that. Then there’s the cleaning. I expect the house to be spotless at all times." He assiduously ignored the fact that the house was currently anything but clean.

Mischa wasn’t inclined to be so kind, though. He glanced pointedly around the kitchen, at the stack of dirty dishes in the sink, the debris from several takeout meals on the counter tops, and the unpacked boxes of kitchenware. "Ok. Clean. I can do that."

"I need the house put together, too. The boxes," he waved around, "unpacked and stuff put away. The walls painted, furniture ordered and assembled and put in place."

Mischa looked shocked. "You trust me to decorate your house?"

"No. I have the plans here." He thumped the red leather-bound album that held the dream house drawings he’d labored on over the years on the marble counter. "I need my housekeeper to coordinate the workmen, decorators, deliveries and so on."

More nods. "I can do that."

Donovan stared helplessly at the kid. Stop calling him kid. It’s too pervy. What else? "References? Do you have references?"

Mischa bent over and the tight black t-shirt rode up as the skinny jeans inched down. Damn. All that creamy white flesh, hairless and smooth tempted him to reach out and touch, to examine the texture and resiliency. He wondered if there were any more shiny piercings hidden under that severe black garb.

"Hey," Mischa was waving a handful of papers in front of his face, and Donovan flushed slightly. Could Mischa tell he’d been staring inappropriately at his exposed skin?

"I’ll, ahh, I’ll keep these. I need to call on them later." He searched desperately for something, anything to turn the kid-man off the idea of working for him. Recalling the indignation and vitriol of the second applicant, he took a shot in the dark and threw it out there. "I’m gay."

No response.

"I said I’m gay, a homosexual, a flamer."

No response. Just inquiring green eyes locked on his face. Someone must have told the kid - man that eye contact was important.

"I sleep with other men?" Shit now he was making statements as questions.

The pierced brow rose slightly at that in an enigmatic gesture, but no response was forthcoming.

"This is a live in position. You don’t mind working for and living with a gay man?"

Finally, Mischa smiled. Donovan’s heart lurched at the sexy sweetness of that smile. The tiny silver hoop in his lower lip glinted seductively. Wonder how that piercing would feel when he pressed his lips to Mischa’s? It certainly drew attention to the swollen plumpness of the full red lower lip. Yeah—he really needed to get laid this weekend.

"No. I don’t mind working for a gay man, as long as you don’t mind hiring one." Mischa’s smile was now a broad grin, and he settled back more comfortably on the barstool, as though he were suddenly making himself at home.

Sudden sympathy overrode Donovan’s concerns. Why not give the kid a chance? If Martin Weston hadn’t hired him to work in the copy room at his company all those years ago despite his being an underage gay hippie he wouldn’t be where he was today. He’d probably regret this, but it looked like the skater-Goth-boy/man had talked himself into a job. And the corporate advertising executive was sentencing himself to a series of cold showers.

When he opened his eyes again long moments later, he caught sight of two young men, nearly identical in appearance, standing in the shade of a leafy palm tree directly in his line of vision. Stunned, he stared in disbelief. They were absolutely beautiful. Were they actors from the studio? Pale skin, black hair, identical bright blue eyes, rosy-red lipped mouths, slender, athletically built; they were so absorbed in one another they seemed alone in the crowded yard.

As he watched, the boys turned closer in to each other, leaning forward to whisper together. Lowering his lids, Terry watched covertly. There was something illicit about the pair, something almost sexual. But surely they were related? Two young men who looked so much alike had to be brothers.

One of the boys tugged the other deeper into the shadows of a tree and the privacy fence. They looked around, and when one bright blue glance settled on him for a minute, Terry’s heart rate increased and his skin heated. They couldn’t tell he watched from under his lashes could they? Apparently deciding that he was asleep and no threat, the two embraced, sharing gentle kisses and petting each other with slim white hands.

Enthralled, Terry stifled a groan as his cock stirred against the zipper of his khaki shorts. Damn. That hadn’t happened with so little effort in a long time. What the fuck? He tried to look away from the boys, told himself he should be disgusted, but he couldn’t. Bottom line, he’d never been so turned on in his life. He’d spent his whole life doing and feeling exactly what everyone felt he ought, and what had it gotten him? A corner office in the family business and a lonely bed at night. Fuck it. He was done living for everyone else. If Mischa could find his own way, then Terry damn well could too. And he’d get started on doing that as soon as his erection subsided enough to get out of this chair without causing himself a lot of embarrassment. He crossed his hands over his lap and continued to watch the boys in the corner of the yard.

Mm, and why rush off? This lovely couple was really getting into their embrace now, and since no one else seemed to notice, Terry felt kind of included, almost as though he were participating in the act instead of witnessing it. He could practically feel the sweep of tongues in his mouth, the touch of two sets of hands tracing his shoulders, his abdomen. Damn, he really wished he had Dan’s bold personality or Mischa’s rebellious streak. He’d be over there in a heartbeat taking his share of kisses.

Down boy, he whispered to his newly overactive libido. Baby steps; we’ll get there eventually. Jumping from mild-mannered straight accountant to gay threesome in seconds made for too drastic a change.

“Terry? Are you all right? Do you need a drink or something?”

Damn. Somehow Mischa had walked up and knelt next to him without him noticing.

“I’m fine. Fine. It’s a little hot here, that’s all.” Terry spoke, but he didn’t look at Mischa.

He stood automatically, reaching out to shake her hand in greeting and murmuring a polite good morning. A slight heat rose in his cheeks, and he hoped to hell the blush wasn't visible. And why the fuck a simple handshake with the doctor should cause him to blush, he didn't know, but something about her made him feel self-conscious and uncertain in ways he hadn't felt since he was a wild sixteen-year-old serving as his beautiful mother's escort to wild Hollywood parties. He stiffened his spine and forced himself to meet those sharp blue eyes, unwittingly squeezing her hand just a little too tightly. He watched as the blue eyes flared wide then narrowed, and Dr. Grey gently removed her hand from his. The heat in his cheeks grew, and he felt his stomach churn alarmingly. He and Trick were about to have more in common than he'd ever thought possible if he couldn't calm down soon. Dr. Grey led him into her office, and he took his usual seat on the plush leather chair in front of the desk. Somewhat surprised, he noticed that instead of taking the chair adjacent to him as she normally did, Dr. Grey seated herself behind the neat steel and glass desk. Crossing her hands on the desktop, she met his questioning gaze calmly, and Brandon let out the breath he hadn't realized he held. His roiling emotions calmed as he took in her stillness, and even his churning stomach was soothed. This was different, but not wrong. Or so he thought until she spoke. "I'm afraid, Brandon, that I can't keep you on as patient any longer." Panic flared. "What? Why not?" His stomach heaved, and he forced himself to breathe deeply through his nose, swallowing rapidly to prevent the consequences of the sudden lurch. He was sure nothing of his feelings showed on his face. He had twenty-three years of practice since his mother's death at making sure of that. He couldn't have heard correctly. "Because I can't help you in a professional capacity. I've given you the tools to manage your problem; you're an intelligent man, and you can resolve your issues from here on your own." Her voice remained the same as it always had, soothing and cool, her gaze untroubled and calm. Damn. How had he come to depend on that calmness in such a few meetings? How would he deal without the soothing effect her voice had on his nerves and stomach? Quickly pulling in resources to hide the shocking sense of abandonment he suddenly felt, Brandon grasped the tiny thread of anger and blew it up. He surged upright and waved his phone in her face. "Fuck. I could have been at the office heading off a dozen major crises! See this? It's called a cell phone. I have it with me all the time. Next time you need to change our plans, use it!"