’COLE is not my son. ‘

My lover pulled me into his arms and silenced my rising questions with a harsh kiss. I rested my hands against his chest, drawing comfort from his large bulk, his familiar presence. The feel of his expensive jacket under my hands, his mouth, hard and demanding as he kissed me, and the tangy smell of his body as he engulfed me in his arms.

I had the distinct feeling that he wanted some sort of reassurance but what?

With an arm around my waist, he turned to Claude and asked in his rasping, gravelly baritone,

‘How do you feel, son?’

Claude gaped at him. Lucien had never cared to ask about his wellbeing before this, even during occasions when Claude had been younger and getting into one scrape after another. Generally, he behaved as if Claude was part of the furniture, barely deigning to acknowledge his presence in private.

So this query about Claude’s well-being was definitely an eye-opener for Claude. Quickly recovering himself, my son stammered, ‘I’m good Sir. I mean…’ he indicated his