Part 2

Owen shouldn't really have been driving when he was this keyed up, but right then he just wanted to go home. He pushed his emotions aside to be dealt with later and concentrated on the road, navigating the familiar route between the club and his house with his hands gripping the wheel tightly to stop them from shaking.

Carol and that goddamned boy…an ending and a beginning side by side if he wanted it to be that way. Did he? He wasn't sure—and that indecision troubled him more than his failure with Carol.

He'd left a light on, and it made the empty house look welcoming as he got out of his car in the driveway and walked up the narrow, twisting path to the front door. The path was edged with low bushes of lavender, aromatic in the damp September air, and roses, some still with a few tattered petals clinging to the thorny stems. Owen had inherited the large 1900s house from his parents, who'd moved into it after he'd left for college and partially restored it. It was only now, three years after their deaths in a car accident, that it was beginning to feel like his home, not theirs, a change that brought with it some guilt as he painted over walls they'd decorated and disposed of furniture they'd chosen.

He got inside, kicked off his shoes, and headed for the master bedroom, walking slowly up the curved wooden stairs. This room was the first that he'd made his own, unable to bear the thought of sleeping in his parents' bed for even a single night, the shock of their loss making logic and reason disappear. He'd slept on the couch for a week until the redecorating was complete and his own furniture had arrived, waking stiff-necked and cramped each morning. The pale rose walls and cream carpet that his mother, Anne, had chosen and his father had endured, had been painted over and torn up respectively, and the room, with its high ceilings and long, narrow windows, was now hunter green with a hardwood floor in a rich chestnut wood. Against the deep, traditional colors, the black metal frame of his high bed could have looked uncompromising, but the way the metal was worked into an airy design, simple but visually interesting, saved it from that.

Or so the salesman had told Owen, who had been more interested by the linked double posts in each corner, rising up a few feet above the frame, and the numerous places on the frame that would take a cuff or a tether.

He showered, keeping his mind deliberately blank, and pulled on a disreputable but warm navy robe that dated back years over a short-sleeved T-shirt and shorts. It was still early, barely ten, and he went back downstairs to get a drink. The bottle of Lagavulin looked almost empty, but tipping its contents into a glass ended up giving him a lot more than he would usually have allowed himself as a nightcap.

Shrugging, he swallowed a third of it before going to sit in the wide, low leather armchair by the fireplace. A discreetly modern and effective heating system meant that he rarely went to the trouble of kindling a real fire, but he wished that there was one burning to chase away the chill that the hot shower and whiskey couldn't touch.

With no more reason to put off the inquest, he pictured Carol's face as he'd last seen it, anguished and contrite. Did he feel even a flicker of interest in her? He had to admit that he didn't. She was beautiful, not that it mattered to him as much as other factors, and she was exquisitely responsive, but God, she was so boringly predictable. Too many small flaws marring her performance too, flaws other Doms had let her get away with because of that shining fall of hair, those wide, beseeching eyes, and full, lush mouth.

Owen had taken her on because she'd begged him to and because he'd seen her potential, but she just didn't get it, none of it. The physical pleasure she got from what he did to her—that, yes, but she was incapable of understanding why something worked for her, and trying to coax anything other than a rote, “I like anything you do to me, Sir,” from her had proven impossible.

He didn't feel too sympathetic or regretful. She'd find someone else before the marks he'd striped her back with had faded, and they hadn't formed a real connection. She'd enjoyed being seen with him because he had a reputation for being choosy, but she hadn't been interested in him beyond what they did at the club.

Owen raised his glass in an ironic, silent toast to her, took a sip of whiskey, and forgot about her.

He wished that young Mr. Baker was as easy to ignore.

It was only two days later that Owen ran, almost literally, into Sterling again. The weather was gray, the sky threatening rain that Owen felt confident would hold off until the afternoon, and he was still keyed up enough after the weekend that he felt the need to burn off some of his nervous energy. He liked to run—had since he'd been a teenager—and mornings seemed the best time to do so if he wanted to lose himself in the rhythm of the exercise.

He definitely preferred the track to running in his own neighborhood; for him, the whole point was to be able to concentrate on putting one foot in front of the other, not to have to worry about whether cars or errant dogs might make him a target. Before noon, few students seemed to use the college track.

Tightening the laces of his fairly expensive running shoes, Owen stretched a little and started to run. He kept it slow at first, easing into it, and made two complete laps, a total of half a mile, before he sped up. As he did, starting the third lap, someone else joined him, pacing him. He glanced over and saw, more surprised than he should have been, that the someone was Sterling Baker.

“Hi,” Sterling said.

Owen had been using the track for months, but he didn't recall seeing Sterling do anything more athletic than tapping his pencil against his desk until Owen's fingers had itched with the need to spank the brat out of him. It was a second surprise to see just how fit Sterling looked, his long, muscular legs emerging from a pair of clinging running shorts that showcased an ass usually hidden under overly baggy shirts. Owen didn't pay much attention to the sporting side of the university, though; for all he knew, Sterling could be a star of track and field. Once the young man had left Owen's class at the end of his freshman year, their paths hadn't crossed often.

Now it seemed they were about to cross frequently unless he swatted this persistent bug with enough force to drive his message home. Telling Sterling to go away wasn't an option given their location; Sterling had every right to be here. Retreating was equally impossible; it went against Owen's natural inclinations, and he was only partway through his run.

Sterling was watching him with just a little anxiety in his eyes, very different from the cool arrogance he'd shown Owen so often in class, but there was a tilt to his chin that didn't look at all meek.

“Good morning,” Owen said pleasantly, glad that he wasn't at all out of breath. “Should I e-mail you my schedule for the week so that you don't miss any opportunity to accidentally bump into me, or can we end this game right now?”

“I don't want to end it,” Sterling said just as pleasantly. “We're just starting. So yeah, feel free to e-mail me your schedule. Or not—I'm stubborn. I'll figure this out either way.”

Younger and apparently just as fit, Sterling kept pace with no apparent effort—not impressive yet, not when he'd just started, but if it continued… If it continued, Owen would be impressed, and that wasn't part of his plan as to how this would go, not at all. Owen put on a bit more speed, testing, and Sterling sped up too.

They ran side by side in silence for a while, their paces perfectly matched, their feet striking the surface of the track in an insistent rhythm. Not good, and Owen, determined to break the unwanted synchronicity, fell back with an abruptness that left Sterling forging ahead for a few paces until he realized that he was running alone.

Owen gave him a bland smile and continued to jog at an easy, undemanding pace, frustratingly slow for him and, he was sure, maddeningly so for someone as athletic as Sterling. Now Sterling had several choices; he could match Owen's speed, following his lead, demonstrate his strength and endurance by sprinting off, or continue at his present pace. Or give up. Owen didn't really care what Sterling did; any choice he made would reveal something about him, and that was what Owen wanted. Know thy enemies… Sterling wasn't an enemy, but the theory was sound.

At first Owen thought Sterling had chosen to continue at the same speed they'd been at, but slowly, almost casually, he slowed down until he was running beside Owen again. He flashed Owen a friendly smile, somehow managing to keep any hint of pride out of it.

“I'm still an English major,” Sterling said.

Owen refrained from rolling his eyes. “Am I supposed to consider that an accomplishment?”

“After the hard time you gave me in your class? I'm surprised I didn't transfer schools.” Sterling's tone was light, joking.

“And miss the chance to repay the favor by giving me a hard time when I'm not in class?” Owen didn't give Sterling a chance to reply; he wanted to run, feel the pleasant ache of tired muscles vanish in an endorphin rush as he pushed his limits. “Two laps,” he said, and allowed a hint of challenge to roughen his voice. “Show me what you've got.”

It was a strange relief that Sterling was left behind in Owen's metaphorical dust, even if it was only for a few seconds. At least it reassured Owen that the boy wasn't perfect. It was stupid of him to think otherwise, of course—but God, Sterling was so young and beautiful. And quick too—he caught on and caught up in less than thirty seconds, long legs matching Owen's speed stride for stride.

It felt good, running so fast. The world passed by in a blur of color, Owen's nostrils flaring like he imagined a horse's would as he went faster and then even faster. He was aware of Sterling beside him, arms and legs pumping. Owen wasn't running at top speed—this wasn't about winning, it was about discovery, and he wanted to know what Sterling was capable of. A hell of a lot more than he was himself, if this was any indication. Owen was sixteen years older and, while fit by almost any standards, no match for a twenty-year-old with a chip on his shoulder.

He shouldn't be doing this—not the running, which was exhilarating, but what it implied. Sterling was barely more than a kid, a kid who had no idea what he was getting himself into. Or trying to get himself into. It'd be okay, though, because Owen would set him straight.

The second lap was almost over when Owen broke from a position that had given him an excellent view of Sterling's ass for the last few minutes and poured everything he had into the last few hundred yards, soon passing Sterling, who'd run a valiant race at a speed just a fraction too much to sustain over the distance.

As he'd expected, he heard a grunt of sheer determination from behind him, Sterling's breath sobbing in his dry throat, and he could almost feel Sterling straining every muscle to regain the lead. Did the boy think winning would give him what he wanted, whatever that was? And what would happen if Owen allowed him to win and then walked away again, something he was more than capable of doing?

It took more of an effort to stop than continuing to run would have done, but with the finish line a few yards away, he slackened his speed dramatically and watched a blown, panting Sterling finish the race.

“You don't know your limits well enough,” he said when he could speak without gasping for breath between words. His legs were trembling slightly, and the lure of a really hot shower made him disinclined to drag out a conversation that he supposed the boy had earned. They were still the only ones on the field, but it felt odd to be discussing this here in this wide-open space. “That kind of recklessness in a Dom can get a sub hurt, and in your case, you'd need a very experienced handler to impose more realistic demands upon you.”

Sterling was bent forward at the waist, hands braced on his thighs as he fought to regain control of his breathing. His face was flushed, his T-shirt damp and clinging to his upper body, but his eyes were bright and hopeful when he looked up at Owen. “You're experienced,” he said. “You could handle me. I want—I want you to show me. Teach me.” Sterling hesitated, then went on. “Like the woman in that club. Carol? Like her.”

“Oh, God, no,” Owen said without thinking before he spoke for once. He shook his head forcefully and felt the cool air brush against his flushed face, reminding him of how hot he was. “I'm not going through that hell again and certainly not with you. No.” He walked over to the towel he'd left draped over a bench a few yards away and used it to blot up the sweat on his face before picking up his water bottle. Sterling appeared beside him, but Owen ignored him in favor of getting the water from the bottle to his mouth, swallowing it in long, slow gulps.

Teach him? Teach the obnoxious brat who'd given him a semester's worth of hell to behave? Oh, it was appealing on one level—and Sterling's manners had improved somewhat since his freshman year—but Owen had had enough of newbies and wannabes. He'd already decided that his next session—and God, he'd earned it—would be a one-off with a sub he knew and trusted, a blessed relief after weeks of dealing with Carol's lack of imagination and, before her, the equally disappointing Andrew.

How long had it been since he'd really clicked with a sub? Bleakly, Owen wondered if he ever would again. Maybe he was too demanding, too exacting, but wasn't that what it was all about?

“Please,” Sterling said. His voice was quiet, but the lack of volume didn't do anything to hide the intensity. “What if—what if it wouldn't be hell? I mean, I'm smart, and I'm a fast learner. And there must be a reason you do it—for you. Something you get out of it, right? I could give you that.” From somewhere, the kid managed to find a slender thread of persuasiveness and inject it into his voice. “I could give you what you need.”

“How do you know that?” Owen asked bluntly, determined to make Sterling see sense. “You don't know anything about my tastes, and believe me, it isn't as simple as matching someone with a desire to control with someone who wants to be controlled. Far from it. I've been involved in this for a long time, and what I need and expect is almost certainly beyond you.” Sterling's mouth tightened mutinously, and Owen gave an impatient sigh. “That isn't a dig, so don't give me that look. God, you wouldn't last five minutes with an attitude like that… Tell me—and don't exaggerate—just exactly how much experience you've had.”

And then I can laugh, walk away, and avoid you for the rest of the year. Sterling smelled of sweat and musk, and the visceral memories that particular combination conjured up were making Owen edgy.

“Almost none,” Sterling said, looking at him steadily and making no apologies, two things that Owen reluctantly gave him credit for. “My friend Alex and I messed around some, but it wasn't working and we didn't know why. It wasn't until he saw how I looked at you at the club that something clicked and we realized that it was because I wanted you. Because I want to let someone else be in charge, but only someone I choose.”

Sterling sighed and looked out across the fields toward where the campus pond was. Owen looked too, reflexively, and they were both watching when a kid threw a stick and a black-and-white dog ran after it, barking, only to be swallowed up by the morning fog that hung thick in the air around the water.

“I know you think I'm too young to know what I want,” Sterling went on. “But I do. And even if I'm inexperienced, I'm not ignorant. I've been reading about this for weeks. I can learn. I just need somebody to teach me. I'd like it to be you.” That sounded like a thinly veiled threat—if Owen wouldn't take him on, he'd find someone else who would.

Owen contemplated walking into the club one night and finding Sterling kneeling, collared at someone's feet, and found the image not at all to his liking. Sterling was new, completely new to all of this, to a world that Owen had been part of for so long that he'd almost forgotten what it was like not to be surrounded by people who thought and felt as he did, people who understood. Someone had once told him that hell was standing in the cold, lonely darkness, looking through a window at a party you could never join, and right now that was how Sterling had to be feeling.

Which got him a certain amount of sympathy, but did it get him what he wanted, just for the asking? No.

Without vanity, Owen knew that he was considered good at what he did—what he was. Carol might be complaining about his harshness with a tear or two dewing her eyes, but that would add to the cachet of being his next sub, not put people off. If he showed up with someone as raw and untried as Sterling, eyebrows would rise and the gossip would start. There was more at stake than guiding Sterling's baby steps, not that Sterling, who possessed the natural egotism and selfishness of most people his age, would have considered that.

Overhead a squabble of birds flew, chattering noisily, swooping and diving through the cool, damp air. Owen tilted his face up to watch them, admiring their grace and precision. He could train Sterling to move like that, each shift of position smooth and flowing, his body under perfect control.

Under his control.

Oh, God, yes, it was appealing.

He turned his attention back to Sterling. “How old are you?”

Sterling looked startled, then answered slowly. “Twenty. Almost twenty-one.” When Owen lifted an eyebrow, he admitted, “In four months. January eighteenth.”

Owen shook his head. “Not a chance in hell until you're over twenty-one. And that goes for anyone you'll meet at the club or outside it, and trust me, I'll know if you try.”

Which wasn't strictly true, but he had no compunction about lying if it kept his sub safe—and look at how easily Sterling had slipped into that space…

“Oh, so now you control everyone in the neighboring five towns?” Sterling didn't look even slightly convinced. “I already know that's not true—Alex was seeing a guy who traded him in for a younger model, younger than me. Just because you have an unreasonable code that you pretend has something to do with ethics, that doesn't mean everyone else does. If you won't do this, I can find someone who will. But I'd rather it was you.”

“Fine, the legal age for gay sex in this state is eighteen, and you're well past that,” Owen snapped, goaded into honesty. “What you want is more than just sex, and I'm damned if I'm going to let you rush into this, demanding that everyone dances to your fucking tune. God, pushy subs like you are the most—”

“Challenging?”

“Not the word I was going to use.” Owen ran his hand through his damp hair, his T-shirt clinging clammily to his back. He really needed that shower, and he had a class at nine… “The answer's no.”

He glanced over to the right and saw a small group of students approaching, kicking a football between them, the sound of their voices carrying. Sterling saw them too, and his mouth tightened with frustration.

“Go away and think about it,” Owen said with more sympathy in his voice. “Talk to people like this friend of yours. You don't need someone like me when you're this new; you just need a boyfriend with an open mind. Find one and get him to give you a spanking. You might discover you don't even enjoy it when it's reality and not a fantasy.”

“So you're saying you're out of my league?” Sterling demanded. “I'm not good enough?”

Owen looked him over; tall, good-looking in a classic fair hair and blue eyes way, undoubtedly intelligent and so very much in need of discipline and control… Oh, Sterling was good enough.

“You're perfect.” Owen watched the boy's eyes light up, good-looking transformed into something so much more with the praise, vulnerability, and pleasure struggling for the upper hand in his expression. It made his parting words seem cruel, but they had to be said.

“For someone else. Not me.”

He walked away without looking back, putting some much-needed distance between them.

Sterling had never gotten over the surprise that there were so many people still willing to eat ice cream in the fall in New England, but it was okay with him because it meant he had a job. It wasn't crazy busy the way it was in the late spring, but business was steady and not at all hurt by the fact that Charlie, the store's manager, had branched out and added pastries and cookies to the menu along with an assortment of coffees. In a college town, there were always dozens of students willing to pay almost anything for a beverage with extra caffeine in it, and the very expensive and sometimes temperamental espresso machine saw almost constant use.

He'd just finished making a round of cappuccinos for some girls with the serious, drawn expressions of students working under a deadline and delivered them to their table—the delivery wasn't a usual part of his job, but it wasn't busy enough for it to bother him, and sometimes that kind of thing earned him good tips—when the bell over the door rang and a woman came in. She was wearing a black cap and looked, at first glance, vaguely familiar, but it wasn't until their eyes met and she said, “I know you,” that he remembered who she was.

“Um, Carol, right?” Sterling asked. She was the woman from the club, the one that had been Owen's sub. “What can I get you?”

She laughed, one of those artificial titters that were meant to say just how much she wasn't amused. “Well, I came in for coffee and a raspberry Danish, so how about we start with that? Skim milk, large, and why don't you surprise me on the beans?”

“Sure.” Sterling went for Kenyan and took the cup and the pastry over to her table, tucked away in a corner. He'd gotten good at guessing where people would sit, and he would've pegged her for a table in the middle of the room where everyone would see her, or the window, where she could look out. When she tapped the chair beside her and said, “Sit,” her choice made more sense.

“I'm working,” Sterling told her, but sat anyway because he was curious.

“Owen doesn't want to see me anymore,” Carol said. “So I assume he's seeing you.”

“No,” Sterling said. “I mean, I'm trying to talk him into it, but he says I'm, I don't know, wrong for him, or something. What am I doing wrong?”

Carol laughed again and wrapped her hands around her coffee mug like she was trying to warm her hands. “You think I know? It's just Owen—he's the best, but he gets bored easily, so he moves on. If he isn't with you, then he must be with someone else.”

Somehow Sterling didn't think that was the case, but Carol knew Owen better than he did. “Who? I mean, do you have any guesses?”

Carol shrugged, making the gesture theatrical. “I don't know. I heard about you because you were staring at me—you know, that night, and I hadn't seen you before, so I asked around.”

He'd been staring at Owen, not her, but it didn't seem kind to point that out.

“It was the first time I'd gone there. A friend of mine, Alex, is a member, and he—”

“Oh, I know Alex,” she interrupted. “He's the one who told me that you had your eye on Owen.”

“Remind me to say thanks to him,” Sterling said dryly.

Carol began to pick at her Danish, separating out small pieces with fingers tipped with nails painted much the same color as the filling, managing to keep an eye on Sterling as she did it. Sterling wondered if she planned to actually eat any of it; what she was doing seemed a real waste. Finally, she popped a piece laden with frosting into her mouth and pushed the plate aside.

“It's no one at the club,” she said. “I'd know.” She preened, her movements sensual and elegant; Sterling could see how she might have appealed to Owen, though something in him hated the thought that Carol was Owen's type. “People tell me things, always have.” She pouted thoughtfully. “It might be someone from the theater… That's where I met him. There was this opening night party, and we got to talking… I played…well, it wasn't exactly the lead character, but Amelia had a vital role. Without her delivering the letter, Colin and Susan would never have known that Susan's father suspected them. Owen said my role was pivotal.”

Sterling could just picture Owen when he said that, the delivery bone-dry, one corner of his mouth curled up.

Carol sighed and took a delicate sip of coffee, leaving the rim of the mug smudged with deep red lipstick. “We were so good together at the start,” she said mournfully, “but I knew I could never compete with Michael.”

Glancing over at the counter, which was customer-free, Sterling leaned closer to Carol. “Michael?”

“Oh, you haven't heard? He was Owen's first—and you know what they say about firsts.” Carol gave him a pointed look until he nodded, then went on. “If you ever do get together with Owen, it'll only be temporary, because nobody can measure up. Not that Owen still wants Michael.”

“He doesn't?” That sounded a little more promising.

“No, they agreed to split up. It's more that Michael is, I don't know, representative of the relationship Owen is looking for. He just hasn't figured out yet that it's not possible. He wants—hm.” Carol frowned at her plate, then slid it toward Sterling. “Feel free.”

Sterling shook his head. “No, thanks.” Like he'd eat a Danish she'd picked apart. “What does Owen want?”

“Not me, anyway.” For the first time, Sterling saw an unstudied, genuine emotion; Carol looked forlorn, her bright mouth drooping. “I knew we wouldn't have long—I see this psychic once a month, and she told me that I was still in a self-discovery phase and that in a year I might find the perfect partner, but it wasn't going to happen for a while and she'd guide me there.”

Sterling repressed the urge to ask how much the guiding would cost and gave her an encouraging murmur. He wasn't sure how much of what she said he could trust; she was a self-centered flake by the sounds of it, but even so…

“He wants you to be perfect,” she said abruptly. “He tells you to do something and that's the way he likes it done, and he really hates having to remind you if you screw up.”

That didn't sound too unreasonable to Sterling. In fact, he got a kick out of the idea of Owen being that precise, that stern. God, yes—and he could be everything Owen wanted him to be, he knew it.

“At the same time, if you do get it right—and I tried!—you can see him switching off. He got bored with me. With me.” Carol tossed her head. “The sex was nice, and he's good at the other stuff—you know. The spanking and the—”

“Yeah, I get it,” Sterling said hastily. The place was mostly empty, but that also meant that it was quiet.

“He's really good at that,” Carol said wistfully. “Just…hard to please. That scene at the club; that was over the stupidest little thing. Really, really dumb. He likes to talk; wants to know why things worked and other stuff didn't, and I can't do that. Well, not the way he wanted me to, anyway. And I was late a lot, and he just didn't seem to realize that I'm not a person who can be tied to a timetable. I'm a free spirit. Look!” She thrust out both hands dramatically, narrowly missing her coffee mug and exposing thin wrists jangling with silver bangles. “No watch!”

That was proof, all right. Sterling revised his opinion from “self-centered flake” to “potentially crazy flake,” then hid a grin as the “free spirit's” cell phone rang.

“Sorry,” she said. “Hang on.” She answered the phone, her voice low, and Sterling politely turned his attention to the glass display case where they kept the pastries, noting that it was speckled with fingerprints from when customers pointed to what they wanted. “Okay. Yes. Yes. I know—you too. Okay, bye.” Carol looked at Sterling again. “Sorry—that was my astrologist.”

“Oh.” Somehow that didn't come as the slightest surprise. What was surprising was that Owen, who had seemed pretty down-to-earth to Sterling, had spent so much time with this woman. “So Owen didn't like it when you were late?”

Carol pouted, something that Sterling felt sure she practiced in front of a mirror to get the exact blend of sorrowful dejection and reproof. “He said it showed a lack of respect for him, what we did, and his time.” Sterling noticed that her voice altered subtly and guessed that she was using Owen's exact words. They certainly sounded familiar. “He said he wouldn't start a session if he was really annoyed with a sub and with me, it was becoming impossible to feel any other emotion.” She tossed her head again. “I wasn't that late.”

It occurred to Sterling that he'd been late for a lot of Owen's lectures, sometimes accidentally, because his morning routine had been interrupted by something unforeseen, like his toast burning or a complete lack of clean shorts, but mostly just to get that intense stare and a few biting, scathing words thrown at him. He'd told himself that he enjoyed pissing Professor Sawyer off—the man was such an asshole about things like handing work in on time—but looking back, he wondered if he'd been looking for something more from Owen even then.

For Owen to put out his hand and say, “Enough,” and make him behave.

If all those times when he'd been late were contributing to Owen's reluctance to take him on… God, he hoped not.

“What else doesn't he like?” Sterling asked.

“Oh, lots of things.” Carol waved her hand, and her bracelets jingled faintly. “Too much talking, for one. Which is ridiculous, because, well, normal people talk, right? And he was so confusing about it! Sometimes he'd want me to talk, and other times he didn't want me to, and I couldn't keep track of which times were which.”

“That does sound confusing,” Sterling said diplomatically, even though he thought Carol was probably just not that bright. Right—so Owen liked it when you knew to keep quiet at certain times. That would be a challenge, sure, but he could learn.

Sterling knew he was smart. He could learn.

Carol gave him a surprisingly shrewd look. “Nothing I say will make any difference, will it? You still want him.”

“Don't you?” Sterling pulled a face. “You don't have to answer. I know you do. Yes, I want him—more than anything. And I don't give up easily. When I want something…”

“You think that you can make Owen do something he doesn't want to? Owen?” Carol shook her head. “No. The only way you'll get him to take you as his sub is if you make him see you as a challenge, and right now, this new, you're more like a chore.” She picked up her mug and took a long swallow. “It's been a long time since Owen trained a novice.”

“Let me guess,” Sterling said. “Michael.”

“That's right. Everyone after Michael has known what they were doing and didn't need training in the basics.” She gave him a look that might have been intended as kind but came off as patronizing. “How much training would you need?”

“Not as much as you'd think,” Sterling said. “I've done a lot of research already. And I learn fast.”

“It isn't book smarts you need for this kind of thing,” Carol said. “Honey, I got straight As in school too, but believe me when I tell you, you either have a knack for it or you don't. I've seen a lot of people who thought the scene was going to be some big kink fest, that it was all about the sex. But it's not. There's a lot more to it than that.”

Sterling opened his mouth to ask her what she meant, not really convinced that he trusted her take on it, but intensely curious, even so. Just talking to her had made him feel the first stirrings of an arousal that had nothing to do with her and everything about the subject of their conversation. He'd gotten the first words of his question out when the door opened and a group of teenagers walked in, backpacks slung over their shoulders, carried along on a tide of chatter and laughter.

“Damn,” he muttered as he stood up. “Sorry—hang on, okay? I'll be back. Let me just get these guys.”

The kids at least knew what they wanted—most of them were in the store a couple of times a week—but it took a while to make a variety of coffee drinks, especially when they asked for add-ins like syrups and whipped cream. When the last of them had paid and moved away from the counter, Sterling glanced reflexively toward the table where Carol had been sitting, but it was empty.

Looked like he was on his own again.

The next time Owen bumped into Sterling, it was even more literal. He was in the college library looking for a book he knew was on the shelf but which he just couldn't seem to find. Finally, he set his keys down on a shelf and knelt to check the lowest one, brushing his fingers along the spines of the books to make sure he didn't miss the one he wanted. There it was. He slipped it from between its companions, stood with a creak of joints that made him frown, and headed back toward the elevator.

Two rows later, he remembered his keys. Owen swore and retraced his steps, rounded the corner to the aisle he'd been in, and crashed full body into someone.

“God, I'm sorry,” he said, finding his balance and using one hand to steady the other person. “Are you—oh. It's you.”

“So I don't get an apology?” Sterling asked, grinning and not stepping back when Owen let go of him.

“You're stalking me,” Owen said.

Sterling shook his head. “I prefer the word 'following'; it sounds less creepy.”

“But doesn't make it any less annoying,” Owen said, raising his eyebrows. “You—almost—make me wish that you were mine to deal with; I can promise you'd be regretting this behavior very soon.”

That wiped the grin off Sterling's face. “God, I wouldn't regret anything if I was. Yours, I mean. I'd let you do whatever you wanted.”

“'Let' me?” Owen asked pointedly. “Somehow, I think you've misunderstood the definition of submission.”

God, they were close to flirting here, in the dense hush of the library, their voices lowered. Anyone could come around the corner like Owen had and find them here, standing too near to each other, looking too…involved.

“Maybe I need you to clear things up for me,” Sterling said, inching closer still. Owen stepped back, deliberately putting more space between them, and Sterling moved forward again. “I can be good. Show me.”

“You give me orders and demands when you should be begging, and follow when I'm telling you to back off; forgive me for doubting your ability to please me,” Owen said, sarcasm an easy weapon to wield. “Would you be this argumentative on your knees? I'm inclined to think you would. There's a big difference between an interesting, challenging sub and one who can't and won't learn. I know you, and I know what you'd be like.”

He let that ambiguity stand. Owen was certain which category Sterling would fall into and completely sure of his own ability to tame and control him—even if he was failing miserably at getting Sterling to leave him alone.

That failure was because of his ambivalent feelings, though, nothing more. He didn't doubt that he could train Sterling and enjoy doing it, but God, it would be such a bad idea. Sterling was floundering in the dark, but would he like what he saw if Owen lit a candle? Owen didn't want to see Sterling panicked, distressed, his brash arrogance scoured away. The boy had been a pest in class, granted; he was being way too demanding now, playing the part of a spoiled brat to perfection. I want. Give it to me now—behavior Owen would never have tolerated in a sub.

It didn't matter. He wanted Sterling tamed, not traumatized.

“You're not ready for me,” he said, and tried to put a cool finality into his words.

“Maybe not,” Sterling said. “But I don't want anyone else.” And he sank to his knees right there in the stacks, looking up at Owen with hopeful eyes. He didn't put his hands behind his back, and he didn't lower his head, but neither of those things mattered. He was so beautiful that the thought of turning him away seemed impossible. “Please, Owen. Teach me.”

“Oh my God—” Owen thrust his fingers through his hair, arousal and annoyance combining to make him louder than was wise. This was the most reckless, stupid… “Get up. Now.”

“Not until you say you will.” Sterling didn't pout or whine; he just looked up at Owen with a resolve that didn't waver.

Owen took a quick, sharp breath and tried to calm his racing heart.

“I just gave you an order,” he said. “Disobeying it is a poor start to our relationship.”

Sterling hesitated, seeming unsure of what the right thing to do was, then, finally, obeyed. On his feet again, the boy kept looking at him in that same way—steady, patient. Ready to learn, which just tempted Owen all the more.

“Better,” Owen said. Somehow, around Sterling, he found himself making snap decisions without hesitation, the way it had been with Michael all those years ago. The way it was supposed to be. “You want me to mentor you until you're sure of yourself? Then we do this my way. We do all of it my way, in fact. If that isn't something you can commit to, I walk away now, and we never discuss this again. Ever.”

Sterling blinked uncertainly, like he'd expected either a yes or no answer and didn't know what to do with something in between. “I don't know what that means,” he said. “Do I have to wait until January? Because I can't. I feel like—I've been waiting my whole life for this, to find out this thing about myself that's as important as breathing, only I didn't know what it was. And now that I know, I can't just hold my breath for four more months. I can't. I can't.” His hands were balled into fists.

Owen could understand that, but he refused to let Sterling have what he wanted so easily, just for the asking. He wanted Sterling begging, and for all the hunger in his eyes, Sterling hadn't come close to that. He would.

“There's more to discuss than we can do here,” he said, “but until you agree to one condition, there's nothing to discuss—and it's not up for negotiation.”

“Yes,” Sterling said recklessly, not waiting to hear what it was. “As long as it doesn't mean waiting, yes. Whatever it is. Yes.”

“No.” Owen said vehemently enough to make Sterling flinch. “Never do that. Never agree to something blind—oh, God, can you think with something other than your dick long enough for me to get it through to you that this is only safe, sane, and fucking consensual if you use your goddamned brain to do more than stop your ears from touching?”

A distant part of his brain was telling him that he was breaking about a dozen student/teacher rules, but he ignored it. There was more at stake here than a code of conduct that he was fulfilling in spirit anyway by trying to protect Sterling from himself.

“Okay. Right, right. Sorry. I know this—I do. It won't happen again.” Sterling muttered the words, flushed and seemingly miserable, but he lifted his gaze with what looked like a fair amount of effort and met Owen's eyes. “Right. Tell me what it is.”

Owen exhaled, partially mollified by Sterling's reaction, which was certainly not the one a rebuke like that would have gotten had they been in class. Even the mildest criticism—and not many of Owen's qualified for that description; “scathing” was more accurate—had been greeted by a sullen pout or a riposte that bordered on insolent more than once.

“You said you didn't want to wait.” He could hear the elevator doors as they opened, and the voices of some students talking and coming toward them. Damn. “I won't make you wait to feel…” He hesitated, searching for the right words. “Owned” came to mind, and he rejected it as being too much, too soon. “That you belong,” he temporized, “but you've demonstrated impatience and bad manners—yes, you have—and they're not failings I'm lenient about. One lesson you have to learn is that actions have consequences, and another is that waiting is part of what you say you want, not something to be avoided. I want it understood that I won't have sex with you before your birthday, no matter what I decide to do with you.”

Sterling looked doubtful, but nodded. Owen thought cynically that the boy probably didn't think that he meant it. He'd learn. “Okay. If that's your condition, fine, and I'll try to be more patient. But—can we, I don't know, talk more?” He turned his head in the direction of the students coming toward them and lowered his voice. “Off campus. I know it's probably not a good idea to be seen with me. What's that, fraternizing?” Sterling's lips quirked into a good-natured smile that went all the way to his eyes, crinkling them up and transforming his already handsome face into a shockingly beautiful one.

Oh God, Owen was in so much trouble.

“I could take you out to dinner,” Sterling offered.

Owen shook his head. He couldn't think of many restaurants in town where there was zero chance of someone they knew seeing them, and it wasn't the ideal setting for the type of discussion they needed to have. Two good reasons to turn down Sterling's invitation, but the one that counted was that he didn't want to be Sterling's guest. Sterling was still, unconsciously perhaps, fighting for control of the situation as a way of dealing with it, and Owen didn't want to—couldn't—give it to him.

“We have to talk,” he said, “but I'd prefer to do it somewhere less public than that. Come to my house tonight at eight. I'm sure you can find it.” Giving orders, setting the scene…how many times had he done this? It still sent a sizzle of arousal down his spine, and he could feel Sterling respond to that without knowing what he was doing—subtle signs that Owen noted automatically, like the way Sterling was leaning in closer to catch every word. “Eat something before you arrive, but no alcohol, not even a beer.” He smiled. “And no, you don't have permission to do anything about the hard-on you'll get when you're showering, but I'm sure you knew that already.”

“I have been doing a lot of reading,” Sterling reminded him with just a hint of that cocky attitude Owen was familiar with. There was a tension in Sterling now, a new one that hadn't been there before—Owen felt confident it was because Sterling thought he'd won, that he was getting what he wanted and that meant he was coming out on top. “And yes, I'll find your house. Eight o'clock. Do I get punished if I'm late?”

“That depends,” Owen said mildly, more than equal to dealing with Sterling in this mood. “Would you consider being told to go away until you'd learned to tell the time a punishment, or no more than you deserved for failing to follow a simple instruction?” He moved past Sterling to retrieve his keys from the shelf. “Eight o'clock, Sterling.”

“Yes, sir,” Sterling said promptly. “I won't be late. Should I bring anything?”

“Just yourself,” Owen said, amused despite himself by Sterling's eagerness and wondering how long it would last once he'd spelled out certain conditions.

He wasn't sure, but he suspected it was going to be an interesting evening.