He had also almost definitely special ordered them, quite possibly the moment he’d found Trevor’s invitation.
And Trevor had thought Sky had problems communicating.
He must have sighed or something, because his grandmother decided to press him again. “He got those for you. He didn’t ask ifIliked tea,” she added pointedly. “A sweet gesture all the same. Are pastries to soften a rejection a gay tradition?”
“Grandma.” Trevor narrowed his eyes at her, an empty threat. “And no, it isn’t.”
She pulled her glasses up to the top of her head but didn’t close her laptop. “You know,” she began, tentative now, “an age difference like that wouldn’t have mattered much only a few decades ago. A respectable man, established, would of course only finally have time for… I was going to say a wife, but you know what I mean. He’d only start getting serious as he got older. Forty is nothing, really, by the way things work now. And you’re hardly a child.”
“Thank you for that.” It could have been sarcastic but Trevor was sincere.
His grandma smiled, then seemed to flounder on what to say next. “I’ve never made pastries like that, so I can’t teach you those.”
“That’s okay,” Trevor assured her quickly. “I think G.G. knows how to bake things like this.” If not as well as a professional, then probably still pretty damn good. Trevor was willing to bet money he did not have on it. “I was thinking…. Mom wants me to go over there for dinner soon. I should bring a dessert and freak her out by telling her I made it.”
His grandma’s grin was wicked. “I’ll come up with something good and we’ll practice.” She went serious a moment later. “What about G.G.?”
“I’ll think about it.” Trevor was very aware of the honey still on his fingertips. “I’ll have to thank him for the box anyway.”
He didn’t draw anything, sparing his hands while he daydreamed.
He left the orc for a future project and replaced him with his sad, lonely warrior. The warrior would have cooling racks of delicious, if slightly imperfect, treats to one side of him in a gorgeously fantasy-looking kitchen built exactly to his specifications. In the background would be bushels of ripe apples, pots of slowly dripping honey, and multiple ovens with wavy lines to show the heat that had the warrior barely dressed.
His face and chest would be red from the heat and the implied attention of his audience, and he should pause in his work to run his fingers over the fine chains wound around his neck, and maybe to give a careful glance toward the one watching him. He should also stop when directed to, and step to the side to push a piece of pastry into the mouth of the tightly bound and gagged wizard glaring furiously up from where he’d been forced to his knees by the chain linked from the floor to the leather collar at his neck.
A closeup of the wizard’s mouth as he took in both thick fingertips and a soft, doughy pastry was required. And the fierce look on his face shifting to greedy hunger before he could deny it.
Then his gag should be replaced and the warrior could continue in his work, pleasing himself, and displaying himself, and waiting.
Like the straining, momentarily silenced wizard on the floor.
No.
Trevor stopped the whole thing.
He shouldn’t be thinking about Sky or situations to add to Sky’s notebook.
Sky was smart. Sky had listened to Trevor whine about his life and about G.G., and dropped his genius Sky breadcrumbs telling Trevor to try with G.G. and that was very likely why he was being quiet now. He was encouraging Trevor to move on and probably didn’t want Trevor to think about this anymore. Or Trevorhadgone too far the other night and it amounted to the same thing; Sky wanted Trevor to direct his energies elsewhere.
So, thewarriorcould be restrained on his knees on the floor, keeping his head down until instructed to raise it, because unlike the wizard, he enjoyed the attention and would be eager to get more of it. Someone ought to stand next to his kneeling figure and tangle their fingers in his hair, then bring his head up to ask why he felt he deserved this.
The imperfections in the pastries, smudged frosting or a slightly burned edge, those were nothing. But the warrior wanted to give the one watching him the best of himself. As if his best wasn’t his obedience, and grace, and beauty, and how he wanted to offer the treats in the first place.
He’d have to be protected from himself, allowed to suffer but to not truly injure himself. Then fed his own desserts in between kisses and told how good he was. Spoiled rotten with everything he wanted.
Trevor stopped his daydream again.
He should thank G.G. for the pastries. No, he should make it clear to G.G. that his only mistake was not being clear andthenthank him for the pastries.
Trevor did not have permission to make anything clear to G.G. how he might want to. But G.G. had special ordered a dozen treats for him and was probably waiting, like a fantasy warrior, and the longer he waited, the more he might worry that he’d made too big of a mistake.
Silly poodle, Trevor thought with sudden fondness,someone should spank some sense into him.
Chapter Eighteen
He knocked on G.G.’s door while holding a biodegradable grocery bag that contained a covered dish of spaghetti with meatballs and one pastry in a sandwich baggie. His grandmother hadn’t felt like cooking much after snacking on cakes and bars all afternoon. Trevor couldn’t blame her there, and they’d had the meatballs already made.
He hadn’t eaten any of the dinner himself. He’d snacked on too many pastries right along with her, but also his stomach was doing the occasional nervous flip that made him decide eating again was a bad idea.
