Good Behavior: An MM Forbidden Romance (Wild Heart Ranch Book 2)
Good Behavior: Chapter 13

I pull into the scruffy little RV park, my head oddly silent. I can’t believe he went for it in broad daylight. I don’t know what that means.

Making my way up the stairs, I open my door. The cold cum sliding around in my underwear is uncomfortable, so I go directly to the little shower closet, shimmying out of my clothes as the water heats. When I finally step under the hot stream, I’m relieved and a little sad to wash away the evidence.

I don’t have a large enough hot water heater to indulge in a long, moody shower, so I clean myself as quickly as possible, then step out into the steamy hallway. Wiping down the mirror on the back of the bathroom door, my cock twitches at the sight of my swollen red lips.

I saw the moment he couldn’t hold back another second. I’ve never had somebody look at me like that. I lazily stroke myself to a half-hard state, remembering the strength in his arms, the way he took me in that kiss, the taste of his tongue in my mouth, and the way he gave me permission to get off against him.

As hot as our encounter was, he refused to meet my eyes after, and it’s hard not to take that as rejection. This little sharp nugget of truth makes it impossible to maintain an erection, and I release my cock, drying off before shoving my dirty clothes into the hamper.

As I slip into my favorite silky pajamas, I wonder if he scared himself. Guilt swirls in my belly, like maybe something about me makes a good man stray from his principles.

That’s stupid though. This all started with Dr. Barlowe taking charge during our sessions, and he’s the one who’s continued it on the outside. That’s not a complaint—I had no idea I’d love it so much, need it even—but I’ve been quietly going by his rules without knowing what they even are.

Dropping into the secondhand recliner that I re-covered myself—thank you, prison education—I pull up a browser window and try to figure out how to search for…whatever this is between us. I don’t even know what to call it, so the initial search results for I like it when he gets bossy are all articles on shitty boyfriends who try to boss around their significant others in a hurtful way.

Bram isn’t hurting me. Honestly, I can’t imagine he ever would. I think hurting someone else goes against his principles, not just as a therapist but as a human being. I try I like bossy men, which comes up with more of the same, plus a few articles about being attracted to dominant men.

Reading through them, it’s still not quite right. Many of the articles have to do with women being the more submissive spouse and men being more dominant. Depending on the flavor of the website, people are either pro or con, and none of it has anything to do with me.

One Psychology Today article does mention some people like domination due to boredom or impulse control issues. I never get bored, and while I like having fun, my continued sobriety proves I have a system for dealing with my impulses.

Truth be told, I don’t like being told what to do. One of the reasons I get along so well with the Jennings brothers is that once they saw how well I worked, they never tried to micromanage me.

The defiance I showed Bram in our first meeting was pretty standard for me, if a little heightened because of everything I’d been through. Still, while I was a good prisoner, I didn’t let just anybody tell me what to do. That’s a good way to get punked on the inside.

Because the word dominance comes up, I do a search on BDSM. I’m vaguely aware of what BDSM is, and I find several articles that discuss bondage and impact play but nothing on what Bram and I have going. Finally, I find a couple of non-whip-and-chain articles and run across a phrase I haven’t heard before: power exchange.

Most of that is still way beyond what we’ve done and much further than I’d ever want to go. Some people engage in total power exchange, and…yikes. That’s definitely not my yum.

Thankfully, I find a website that explains the various levels of power exchange. The basic level is conditional compliance. Finally, something that sounds familiar. I’ll comply, but only because I want to and because I hope to get something in return: his praise and approval. And maybe, hopefully, his dick buried deep inside me.

Fuck, the memory of his cock pressed against mine, even through layers of fabric…

Focus, Nacho.

It’s a little embarrassing to admit I still need approval at my age, but I’ve never had somebody be so consistently kind to me. He might get stern, and he absolutely gets bossy, but he’s never once made me feel bad about myself.

The one thing that bothers me, though, is nearly every article about power exchange stresses the importance of having conversations ahead of time.

Hell, we’re not even supposed to be doing this. How can we possibly have a conversation about it? Especially when he couldn’t even look me in the eye after.

I wonder if he even understands that this wrong thing we’re doing…we’re not doing it right. Not to mention the thought of telling him how much I enjoy his demands makes my face so hot I can’t stand it.

I mean, in general, I like a little give-and-take. I love bottoming, but topping is great too. Would I ever want to top Bram? Would he control from the bottom, or would I take charge? I have no fucking idea.

We haven’t even made it to a bedroom, and I have no clue if we ever will. Based on how turned on I get when he fusses over my sugar intake, I can’t imagine what having him in my bed would feel like.

It might blow my head clean off.

With my mind going in circles, I close out of the search engine and pull up Insta. I’ve got over a thousand likes on my H-E-B post, which cracks me up. We Texans do love our grocery store. I feel a little better about myself as I scroll through the thirsty comments.

There are always a couple of boo birds, people wondering why I post at all, saying I have no purpose for this account. It always amuses me when people feel the need to comment such things. It’s as if they don’t understand social media at all.

One commenter with a generic ab shot as his profile pic leaves a simple message: Check your DMs.

This is probably a massive catfish, but I’m feeling lonely and rejected. It can’t hurt to check.

I don’t think I could’ve been more wrong if I tried.

When I check the DM, it takes five scrolls to get to the bottom of the message, which I decide not to read in detail as the various slurs pile up.

Having had enough of that before and during my incarceration, I don’t feel the need to engage with this person. Screenshot and block, motherfucker.

This afternoon has me in my head, which is never a good place to be. I normally go to my AA meetings on Saturday mornings, bright and early, but I might need a midweek pick-me-up.

Just as I’m grabbing my keys, I remember what Ant said about Bram’s and Levy’s schedules. They always leave room for emergency sessions.

I pull up the equine therapy center’s website, and sure enough, there’s an online form for requesting a session. I type in my maternal grandfather’s name, which coincidentally is Abrahán, Spanish for Abraham, and I list my nickname as Abe. I hint at some big-T trauma, which I know is Bram’s specialty, and ask for help as soon as possible.

Within the hour, I get a response.

This is no automated Thank you for your email. We’ll get back to you soon response.

It’s a direct message from Bram himself.

Dear Abe,

Thank you for reaching out. I’m sorry to hear things have been so difficult for you, and I am happy to help you. I have a cancellation in my schedule for tomorrow evening at 7:30. I’m going to pencil you in. Please let me know if you will be able to make that time.

In the interim, if you feel you may harm yourself or others, please call my office directly or call 911. Your health and safety are very important to me.

Sincerely,

Dr. Abraham Barlowe, PsyD, NCC

I respond right away with a confirmation, which he follows up with instructions for finding the ranch and his office, along with a series of attachments I have no intention of filling out.

It’s funny, his professional voice. He’s not at all bossy or pushy. Actually, he sounds warm. Concerned. I’m a little jealous that his patients get to see that side of him.

I drop off Ant the next day, then circle around to the back of the therapy barn. I’m careful as I enter the building, avoiding Levy and everyone else. In fact, it’s so late in the evening that Bram and I may be the only two people in here.

I’m a little early as I walk into the welcoming therapy area. The waiting room is full of comfortable chairs and up-to-date magazines, and there’s even a flat-screen playing an old eighties movie on mute.

The setup is interesting. Rather than being closed off from the rest of the barn, it’s open to the equine therapy…arena, I guess you’d call it. Though the riding area is surrounded by horse stalls instead of risers. People in the waiting room can watch the horses while they wait. It’s sorta peaceful, almost like a church.

The door with his name on it is closed, but the window blinds are partially open, and I peek inside. It’s a larger office than I anticipated, with a desk off to the side, a small couch against the back wall with a TV above it, and a pair of chairs in front.

He’s at his desk, facing away from me, focused on the monitor in front of him, a pair of glasses I’ve never seen before pushed to the top of his head. I tend to think of him as stern and authoritarian in our conversations, but here, at the end of a long day, I see a man with a creased shirt and hair slightly out of place, his head tilted as though reading through something important.

His office has pretty abstract art on the walls and gorgeous bookshelves interspersed with books, plants, and small sculptures. Not that I’ve ever been to college, but it reminds me of a professor’s office, and I enjoy that way too much.

“Dr. Barlowe?” I ask, pushing open the door.

“Abe, welcome. I’ll be right with—”

The second his eyes meet mine, they narrow, and he tilts his head to the side.

“Nacho? I’ve got a patient coming.”

“I know. I’m your patient.”

He covers his eyes with a shaky hand. “No. Nacho, I can’t…not after…”

He can’t seem to finish any of his sentences or even admit what we’ve done. This is a solid start.

Ignoring his discomfort, I step into his office and close the door behind me, locking it.

His brow rises. “Why are you locking my door?”

“I want some privacy,” I say, closing the blinds.

“Nacho, not in my place of work. Please,” he begs, his eyes filled with conflicting emotions.

Fine.

“I’ll unlock the door, but I still need to talk to you.”

Dropping his chin, he gestures toward the seating arrangement. I drop onto the small couch, leaving ample room for him, but he takes one of the seats across from me.

He supports his elbow on the arm of the chair and leans into his hand, avoiding my eyes. I slouch, unsure what to say now that I’ve got him where I want him. After a few more moments of silence, he straightens his posture, and with a heavy sigh, his eyes finally meet mine.

“What would you like to talk about, Nacho?”

“So, in here, I’m Nacho?”

“It keeps things straight in my head,” he admits, his honesty surprising but not.

“I came because I missed our sessions.”

He snorts, shaking his head, and I can’t tell if he doesn’t believe me or if he thinks I’m referring to the sexual tension we’ve always played off.

“Our actual sessions, Bram. You always had good advice.”

“And you need advice?”

“Yeah.”

While he patiently waits for me to continue, I flounder for a second, trying to come up with something to say. I don’t have an agenda, maybe because I never believed I’d get this far. I don’t want to be disappointed by what he thinks about us, so I start with the thing that made me book the appointment in the first place.

“I sometimes get these racist, homophobic assholes DMing me on social media, and I’m not sure how I’m supposed to take it. Like, in jail, you take that shit seriously if you don’t wanna end up dead in the yard. But out here, I’m noticing people talk big shit all the time without backing it up. So am I supposed to prepare for a war? Or am I supposed to laugh at this motherfucker and move on?”

Bram nods along as I’m talking, and if I didn’t know better, I’d say he’s grateful for the opportunity to put on his therapy hat.

“It is hard to know what to do. Most of the time, you can pretty much ignore every word that comes out of their mouths. A lot of those people are sad little keyboard warriors who will never go beyond their mothers’ basements.”

We share a dry laugh, but when our eyes meet, his drift off again.

“Do you have a particular message you can show me?” he asks.

I nod, pulling up the screenshots on my phone before pushing it across the desk to him.

He quickly scrolls through the nonsense, shaking his head. “This guy’s not making any direct threats. He’s making reference to something about the posts, which glorify your deviant lifestyle. Do you know which posts he’s referring to?”

The answer isn’t going to make him very happy, but I kinda wanna fuck with him at this point. Chuckling, I grab my phone, navigate to my account, and scroll down to a selfie I took with Erik and the two sets of throuples we hung out with once. We’re all clothed, but the caption reads Time to get it on.

Hah. That post got me a lot of play in my DMs…which is why I posted it. Bram’s nostrils flare as he reads the comments. Finally, his eyes lock onto mine.

Score.

“I don’t know who these other people are, but that’s Oscar from the bar and Warwick, Joaquin, and Colt from Rebel Sky. And Erik.”

I bite my fingernail, grinning as confirmation.

“Did you have sex with all of them?”

I nod, trying to think back through the night. “Pretty sure I did. I think Oliver and Abel’s girlfriend sat on my cock at some point, though I was blindfolded for some of it.”

The set of his jaw is giving me life, as is the vein thumping out a rhythm on his forehead.

“Oh!” I say, holding up my finger. “Erik and I had already decided to stop fucking, so we didn’t do each other that night.”

“Wait,” he says, his chest rising and falling so rapidly I wonder if he’s about to hyperventilate. “You used to sleep with Erik? Like, regularly?”

“Sleep? No,” I answer, not bothering to keep the amusement out of my voice. Gesturing with both of my hands, I explain, “He’s hung like a moose and has stamina for daysss. I had him on my regular rotation for a few months, but, pfft, that fizzled out before the orgy.”

Bram’s fists are closed so tightly that his knuckles are turning white.

“And…”—he takes a breath to steady himself—“do you frequently engage in sex with multiple partners at once?”

“Eh. Pretty sure that night—fuck, what was that? Eight people?—was the most at once. But sure. If a threesome or foursome comes up, who am I to say no? I mean…Rick and Martha next door invite me over all the time. I’m probably not into whatever seventies hippie sex they’ve got going on, but if Rick wanted to exchange blowjobs, I suppose—”

“No,” Bram says, leaning forward to put his finger in my face. “You will not participate in that kind of sexual activity ever again.”

Ignoring his rude gesture, I go for practiced cool. “There’s nothing wrong with a healthy sex life, Bram.”

“Do you think that’s a healthy sex life?”

“Bram, are you shaming my sexual expression?” I ask, arching my brow.

He catches the smirk I can’t hide and looks off to the side. “Stop it, Nacho.”

Two can play that game, I see.

“Tell you what, Bram. Why don’t you look me in the eyes and tell me to stop.”

Slowly, as if it pains him, he brings his eyes to mine. Fuck. That’s like lightning in the vein.

Putting his finger back in my face, he orders, “You are not to get sexual satisfaction from anywhere else.”

“But why?” I ask, shimmying my shoulders, coy in a way that’s making a big vein pop out on his head.

“You know why.”

“And what do you mean by anywhere else, Bram? Is there a sanctioned, Dr. Barlowe-approved place from which I can derive my pleasure?” I ask, not-so-innocently.

“You know there is.”

Oh. I wasn’t expecting him to actually say that.

“I do.” I put on a dramatic pout before continuing. “But I wanna hear you say it. Out loud.”

His frustrated exhale becomes more of a growl and…damn. I do like spinning him up.

“Ignacio…”

“Dr. Barlowe…” I say, parting my thighs as I give him my best come-fuck-me-against-this-loveseat look.

“You cannot sleep with other people when you are mine.”

Oh…shit. Sitting up, I lean forward.

“Wait. Am I yours? Genuine question because I don’t fucking know what I am to you.”

“How could you not know? I think the parking lot made it obvious.”

“Well, it didn’t because I have no idea what the fuck is in your head.” Pointing to my ear, I continue, “I’m gonna need to hear you say the words.”

I fix him with a glare, daring him to back out now. He doesn’t. Shifting in his chair, he tightens his fists, but at least he’s still looking me in the eye.

“You belong to me, Ignacio. All of your orgasms belong to me,” he says, his rumbly words vibrating my insides.

I smile, supremely satisfied. “Now, was that so fucking hard?”

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