oldloveyoungheartsfinalAugust was at his desk, dress shirt open at the collar, tie and suit jacket absent. Ruthlessly beautiful. His idea of casual somehow still left him looking powerful and business-like. He plucked his rimless reading glasses off with a smooth gesture, but tension lingered in his expression.

After six months, Cyril could tell when something was wrong.

“Have a seat,” August suggested with strained formality.

Less than an hour ago, he’d been edging Cyril to the brink of climax and back again, relishing his cries like a true sadist.

Their bedroom dynamic was too overwhelming to set aside at a moment’s notice. Cyril complied, annoyed with himself for the meek show of obedience.

“Thought we already debriefed…”

“It’s not about that.” August folded his hands. “It’s about our arrangement.”

Cyril’s heart slid lower into his knees. The wide stretch of a sturdy wooden desk divided them. It was an effective visual barrier; Cyril could pretend he’d been summoned to a supervisor’s office rather than his lover’s. The similarities were striking.

“I’ve enjoyed these past months… I’d like to think that you have, as well.”

“Yes,” Cyril blurted out.

Don’t say it. Please don’t say it.

August pressed his lips into a thin line. “I don’t know if you’ve had a chance to count this week’s fee—”

“You want to end it.”

August hitched his brows as though surprised by Cyril’s trenchant conclusion.
“I wouldn’t quite—”

“You can just say so. I’m twenty-eight, for god’s sake, not sixteen. I can take it.”

Steel slid into August’s voice. “I’m perfectly aware of that.”

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