Chapter 8

“Consent, Mark. I need your consent here.”

“Oh,” he said stupidly. “Yeah.”

“Well?” Francis seemed amused now.

The word was on the tip of his tongue. He wanted so, so fucking much. It had been too long. He shouldn’t, he shouldn’t, but he still let the word drop into the space between them. “Yes.”

“Don’t, for a second, think you’re in charge here.” Francis’s voice dropped to a lower register, something that made Mark’s whole body tingle.

“W-why?”

“Because you’re fitter and taller than me, Mark, and I don’t know you.” Francis took Mark’s jacket from his suddenly numb fingers and hung it on the wall with his own coat. Then he approached Mark again. “As soon as I saw you I could tell you were closeted, Mark, and I know what happens sometimes when a closeted guy gets to call the shots.” Something dark flashed in Francis’s eyes then.

“No, no, I would never—” Mark felt horrified at the suggestion that he might be violent.

“Yeah, that’s what they all say, officer.”