on a woman.
There had never been any doubt—in the secret part of his heart where he’d locked
away what he’d desired in favor of what he could reasonably expect to have—that he
was a lover of men.
As a child, he got an indefinable guilty thrill spying on his father’s friends when
they didn’t realize he was looking. Watching older boys running or playing sports, he’d
always known the sight of men stirred him.
He’d loathed his body’s betrayal when even the hated German soldiers heated his
blood. But Ben… Ben wore his uniform like a young god. Ben was kind and good. He
took his mother to church and looked after the citizens of Los Angeles like a shepherd
looks after his sheep.
Ben had rocked him back on his heels like the concussion from a bomb blast.
“There’s no doubt you were right about me and what I want,” Rafe admitted into
the silence and the anonymous darkness of the night.
“And that makes you so unhappy?”
Rafe shook his head. “No.”
Z. A. Maxfield | Secret Light
80
“Then what?” Linens whispered as Ben turned his head.
“For a moment, I was so happy, I couldn’t bear it.”
Z. A. Maxfield | Secret Light
81
Chapter Ten
December 13, 1955
Tendrils of dawn light stretched into Rafe’s room, giving Ben his first opportunity
to explore the sleeping man beside him. Rafe wore plaid pajamas, an oddly festive red
and green holiday tartan that seemed utterly incompatible with his normal, natty
business suit and silk-tie attire. He’d buttoned it around the sling. The pale skin of his
shoulder showed, freckled and forlorn. There were no bruises to Rafe’s face from the
attack, but from what Ben had heard, they bloomed all over his body.
Pure and primal rage filled Ben. He was coldly determined that no one was going
to get another shot at Rafe. LAPD’s detectives were working the case, but little would
come of their efforts. They were currently stumped by such a random-seeming attack.
If Rafe had any enemies, the detectives would find them. But for such a private
man, it must be unbearable to be under that kind of scrutiny.
At last the light reached Rafe where he lay on the bed, still sleeping. Its rays
burnished his blond hair to a sparkling, radiant gold. The color found its echo on the
tips of Rafe’s long eyelashes. In sleep, he still looked flushed, but on his nose and
forehead, freckles floated over pale creamy skin. His beard was coming in, coppery and
more plentiful than Ben imagined it would. A brush of Ben’s knuckles confirmed it was
softer and finer than his own sandpapery jaw.
Rafe’s eyes fluttered open. His chest rose on a deep breath and then fell with a sigh.
Ben counted the seconds until Rafe became aware he wasn’t alone.
Another deep breath followed by a smile.
That was good, that smile.
Z. A. Maxfield | Secret Light
82
Ben looked back at him, and for the space of a few breaths they gazed at each other.
“Hello,” Rafe murmured.
“Hello yourself.”
“I hardly know—”
Ben leaned forward and pressed his lips to Rafe’s before he could say more. First
contact electrified him. Rafe’s touch was hesitant but as sensual and pliant as Ben
remembered. There was no fluke here; he and Rafe had something together. Warmth
filled him as his body resonated to the welcome in Rafe’s eyes.
Ben exerted gentle pressure, and with something like surprise, Rafe opened to him,
lips parting, his good hand coming up to caress the side of Ben’s cheek. Rafe’s heart
thudded against the palm of Ben’s hand, strong and sure, and he caught a quick breath
before rising on one arm to deepen the contact.
Ben insinuated his leg over Rafe’s thigh. Knees bumped as he settled half on and
half off Rafe’s long, lean body. Ben throbbed with need, so much that his hands shook,
enough to shorten each breath. His heart hammered, causing his blood to drown out all
ambient noise—everything except the sweet sighs and moans Rafe
There had never been any doubt—in the secret part of his heart where he’d locked
away what he’d desired in favor of what he could reasonably expect to have—that he
was a lover of men.
As a child, he got an indefinable guilty thrill spying on his father’s friends when
they didn’t realize he was looking. Watching older boys running or playing sports, he’d
always known the sight of men stirred him.
He’d loathed his body’s betrayal when even the hated German soldiers heated his
blood. But Ben… Ben wore his uniform like a young god. Ben was kind and good. He
took his mother to church and looked after the citizens of Los Angeles like a shepherd
looks after his sheep.
Ben had rocked him back on his heels like the concussion from a bomb blast.
“There’s no doubt you were right about me and what I want,” Rafe admitted into
the silence and the anonymous darkness of the night.
“And that makes you so unhappy?”
Rafe shook his head. “No.”
Z. A. Maxfield | Secret Light
80
“Then what?” Linens whispered as Ben turned his head.
“For a moment, I was so happy, I couldn’t bear it.”
Z. A. Maxfield | Secret Light
81
Chapter Ten
December 13, 1955
Tendrils of dawn light stretched into Rafe’s room, giving Ben his first opportunity
to explore the sleeping man beside him. Rafe wore plaid pajamas, an oddly festive red
and green holiday tartan that seemed utterly incompatible with his normal, natty
business suit and silk-tie attire. He’d buttoned it around the sling. The pale skin of his
shoulder showed, freckled and forlorn. There were no bruises to Rafe’s face from the
attack, but from what Ben had heard, they bloomed all over his body.
Pure and primal rage filled Ben. He was coldly determined that no one was going
to get another shot at Rafe. LAPD’s detectives were working the case, but little would
come of their efforts. They were currently stumped by such a random-seeming attack.
If Rafe had any enemies, the detectives would find them. But for such a private
man, it must be unbearable to be under that kind of scrutiny.
At last the light reached Rafe where he lay on the bed, still sleeping. Its rays
burnished his blond hair to a sparkling, radiant gold. The color found its echo on the
tips of Rafe’s long eyelashes. In sleep, he still looked flushed, but on his nose and
forehead, freckles floated over pale creamy skin. His beard was coming in, coppery and
more plentiful than Ben imagined it would. A brush of Ben’s knuckles confirmed it was
softer and finer than his own sandpapery jaw.
Rafe’s eyes fluttered open. His chest rose on a deep breath and then fell with a sigh.
Ben counted the seconds until Rafe became aware he wasn’t alone.
Another deep breath followed by a smile.
That was good, that smile.
Z. A. Maxfield | Secret Light
82
Ben looked back at him, and for the space of a few breaths they gazed at each other.
“Hello,” Rafe murmured.
“Hello yourself.”
“I hardly know—”
Ben leaned forward and pressed his lips to Rafe’s before he could say more. First
contact electrified him. Rafe’s touch was hesitant but as sensual and pliant as Ben
remembered. There was no fluke here; he and Rafe had something together. Warmth
filled him as his body resonated to the welcome in Rafe’s eyes.
Ben exerted gentle pressure, and with something like surprise, Rafe opened to him,
lips parting, his good hand coming up to caress the side of Ben’s cheek. Rafe’s heart
thudded against the palm of Ben’s hand, strong and sure, and he caught a quick breath
before rising on one arm to deepen the contact.
Ben insinuated his leg over Rafe’s thigh. Knees bumped as he settled half on and
half off Rafe’s long, lean body. Ben throbbed with need, so much that his hands shook,
enough to shorten each breath. His heart hammered, causing his blood to drown out all
ambient noise—everything except the sweet sighs and moans Rafe
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