Pushing Boundaries Ch. 01

*Elliott*

I was exhausted from the workday. Eight hours of dealing with the public was enough to give even the kindest person a fucking stroke. All I wanted was to go home, shower, drink some wine, and pass out on the couch watching Netflix. That was the goal. The only thing on my mind as I got into my car was getting the hell off the lot.

And then my phone rang.

I stared at the screen, thumb hovering. It was him. I didn't want to answer. I was too tired to deal with whatever mood he was in. But I knew if I didn't, I'd regret it later. He didn't like being ignored. I sighed and picked up.

"Hello."

"Are you off?" His voice was low and steady, like always. Unbothered. Dangerous.

"Yeah," I said, pulling out of the parking lot. "Just left."

"Good. Come here."

"What if I have plans?" I asked, too sharp. "Maybe I don't jump every time you snap your fingers."

"Then cancel them," he said, as if that was obvious.

I scoffed. "You know you aren't the only person--"

"The door's unlocked. I'll be home at eight."

Click.

I stared at my phone.

Asshole.

I should've gone home. I should've ignored him, turned around, and let the evening rot in silence. But I didn't. Because I always went. Because he knew I would.

His house was forty-five minutes from work. By the time I got there, it'd barely be six. What was I supposed to do for two hours--wander around his pristine museum of a home while pretending I belonged?

The entire drive, I tried to talk myself out of it.

He didn't own me. He didn't even ask--he just told. Like he always did.

And I always listened.

When I pulled up, the house looked like it had stepped out of a luxury magazine. Elegant. Cold. A place meant to be admired, not lived in. My shitty little Honda groaned as I parked in the immaculate driveway. I shoved the gearshift into park, stared up at the towering front entrance, and for a moment--just a moment--I hated him.

Then I got out and walked up the steps.

The door was, of course, unlocked.

"Hello, Mr. Elliott!" Aiden greeted me, all practiced cheer. His suit was tailored to perfection, his smile effortless. The man was a butler in the old-fashioned sense--like something out of a goddamned noir film.

"Hey," I muttered. "How are you?"

"Well, thank you. Yourself?"

I shrugged. There was no real point in pretending. He knew what I was here for.

"May I take your coat?"

"I'll hold onto it," I said. Didn't feel right leaving a piece of myself in someone else's hands, not here.

"You'll find the usual room prepared," he said politely. "Feel free."

His voice was smooth, professional. But there was a flicker in his eyes--sympathy? Amusement? Disgust? Hard to say.

I climbed the stairs slowly. Not because I was tired. Because I was hesitating.

His room was exactly as I remembered--immaculate, expensive, and sterile. The kind of space that said nothing about who he was. Nothing personal. Nothing vulnerable.

On the bed: a note and a gift bag.

-Take a bath. Wear the clothes.-

I scoffed.

Of course. No please. No explanation. Just... do as you're told. I muttered something unkind under my breath and walked into the bathroom. The light flickered on automatically, revealing a spa-level setup: marble, chrome, a tub big enough to swim laps in. I started the water and stripped, catching glimpses of myself in the dozens of mirrored surfaces.

Pale skin. Inked arms. Collarbones sharp enough to cut glass above more images needled into my skin. My hair fell in dark curls around my face, hiding an eyebrow piercing. A bright flash of metal glinted from my septum. The bit of make-up I'd wore that day had smudged-- really highlighting the fact that I looked like I hadn't slept in days.

Probably because I hadn't.

I sank into the bath, letting the heat bite at my skin until it dulled into something bearable. Then I just floated. He always knew I wouldn't say no to a hot bath. Bastard. I stayed there until my fingers pruned. When I finally pulled myself out, I toweled off and padded back to the bedroom. The clothes were still waiting like a quiet demand. Black jeans pricey enough to have fed me for a month. A soft gray shirt. Designer boxers. And a blazer so nice I was scared to touch it. He always dressed me up like a doll. Never said why.

I put the clothes on.

I always did.

The mirror confirmed I looked... expensive. Like someone I didn't recognize. I grabbed my eyeliner from my old jeans and added the finishing touch. Might as well keep something mine.

I glanced at the clock.

7:55.

He'd be here soon. My stomach twisted--not quite dread. Not quite anticipation. Something messier. When I heard the front door, I straightened my shirt and took a breath. His footsteps echoed upstairs, slow and purposeful. When the door opened, he filled the space like he always did--tall, perfect, devastating.

"Hi," he said, voice soft.

"Hi," I answered. The word caught in my throat.

He stepped forward, cupped my face, and kissed me.

And I let him.

Because I always did.

"You look good," he murmured, brushing his fingers down my sleeve.

"You picked the clothes," I replied, avoiding his eyes.

He tilted my chin up. "But you wear them better than I imagined."

I hated that he could still fluster me.

He kissed me again, then took my hand and led me downstairs. I followed without asking where we were going. Because I never asked. And he never told. Outside, a driver waited. Of course. He opened the car door for me. I slid in. He followed and settled an arm around my shoulders. I leaned into him. Because it was easier than fighting.

"I don't like the secrecy," I muttered, voice small.

"That's what makes it fun," he said, kissing my temple.

I wiped the kiss away with the back of my hand.

"Fun for you."

He laughed and leaned close, whispering at the corner of my mouth, "I know what you're doing."

I glared at him. He grinned like it was all a game.

"It works for you," he said. "That whole moody, soft-edges-covered-in-spikes thing. It's hot."

"Fuck you," I muttered.

"Gladly," he whispered.

His voice curled down my spine like smoke. Then his hand was at the nape of my neck, massaging gently, thumb pressing circles into tense muscle.

"You're wound tight," he said.

I let my head fall forward, letting him touch me. "Work sucked. Everyone was awful."

"Tell me."

I did. A little. Vague stories about coupon moms and demanding customers. Just enough to fill the space. He listened. That was the dangerous thing. Sometimes, he did listen.

"You don't have to keep working there," he said eventually. "You could just stay here."

"You offering me a job?" I asked.

"No. I'm offering you peace."

"Sounds like a sugar daddy offer."

He smiled. "Is that such a bad thing?"

I huffed. "I'm not a pet, Spence."

His hand stilled on my neck. He leaned in. My heart skipped a beat.

His mouth brushed my ear when he said, very quietly, very gently--

"You're my pet."

The words made me shiver. He didn't own me. Except, somehow, he did. His mouth drifted lower, pressing kisses along my neck. I let him. I always did. We spent the rest of the drive in silence. His hands moved lazily over my body as I sat beside him--possessive, claiming. I hated it. I needed it. I turned my face toward the window, closed my eyes, and pretended I wasn't enjoying the closeness or the attention.

The car slowed. Then stopped.

Spencer's hand slipped away like it had never been there. He climbed out without a word. The door opened on my side. He held out a hand. I hesitated. He wiggled his fingers--impatient, expectant. I took it. He pulled me to my feet.

We were downtown. Somewhere loud. Somewhere bright. People everywhere, chatter and headlights and the pulse of music spilling from nearby bars.

I looked at him. He was smiling. Smug. Then it hit me. I knew this place. My stomach sank.

"No," I said.

"Yes," he said, too quickly.

"Seriously?"

"Yes."

"Spencer. No."

"Why not?"

There was a reason I looked like I fronted a metalcore band. Once upon a time--I did. The place we were staring at wasn't just a bar. It was a venue. A nice little spot, known for its quality open mic nights. The kind of place that had a crowd ready for anything--from garage bands to the most unexpected performances. I knew exactly what the fucker wanted. I crossed my arms, trying to keep my cool, but my voice betrayed me.

"I haven't practiced in so long."

But Spencer was already walking to the trunk, pulling out a guitar case. He handed it to me with that stupid grin still plastered on his face. I stared at the case, feeling a wave of heat and hesitation flood through me.

"You're insane," I muttered, taking it from him.

"Maybe," he said, shrugging, still that cocky smile tugging at the corners of his mouth. "But I know you. You can't resist."

I looked at the venue again. The stage was visible through the big glass doors--dim lights casting long shadows, the sound of laughter and chatter spilling out. My fingers itched. The old instinct was there, buried beneath the layers of time. But no.

"I can resist," I lied, trying to ignore the fluttering in my chest. I shoved the instrument--gently--back at him.

Spencer didn't budge, holding his hands away as if to refuse taking it. "Your name's already on the list for tonight."

I frowned, trying to suppress the spark of irritation. "You have to audition for this place."

He gave me that arrogant grin, the one that made me want to smack it off his face. "I showed them some of your old music."

"You didn't--" I took a deep breath, stopping myself from finishing the thought. Spencer wasn't stupid. But he was damn good at pushing my buttons. "All right, whatever. I'm not doing this."

"Oh, you are," he said, voice smooth as ever, his eyes glinting with mischief. "They're expecting you. Besides... when's the last time you played in front of a crowd?"

Too fucking long. That's when. I spun on my heel and grabbed for the car door, determined to escape this insanity. But of course, it was locked. I yanked at the handle a couple of times, confirming my suspicion. Then, with a growl of frustration, I snapped, "I'm not doing this, Spencer!"

Spencer didn't flinch. He didn't even look worried. He just leaned against the car, all smug and relaxed, like he was enjoying the hell out of this. "You can resist, or you can get your ass in there and show them why they asked for you."

My heart slammed against my chest. "You're a fucking bastard."

Spencer winked. Fucking. Winked.

I scrubbed my hand down my face and groaned. "What do I even play?!"

He shrugged, all casual.

"Helpful," I sneered, my voice dripping with sarcasm.

I started pacing the sidewalk now, guitar slung over my back, my hands running through my hair--whatever style I had, gone. It wasn't that I didn't enjoy playing.

I loved it--or at least... I used to. But making a living as a musician? That dream died a long time ago for some no-name fuck from the middle of nowhere. Believe me--I tried. My bandmates had quit on me right as we started to lift off the ground, and when we fell... I crashed hard. The pressure of it all--fame, money, the grind--it shattered whatever fire I had left. One minute we were on the cusp of something real, and the next? I was picking up the pieces of a dream I was never meant to have. All because-- no-- I didn't want to think about that right now. Spencer found me during the tail end of my solo career--back when I still had the balls to chase it down. But after a while, that dream died too. Not with a bang. Just... quietly. Like a song fading out before the final chord.

Suddenly, Spencer caught my shoulders and turned me to face him.

"Elliot." His voice carried weight--steady, commanding--and I couldn't look away. "You have talent that should be shared."

Then, something shifted. His expression softened, voice dropping into something rare and vulnerable.

"If you really don't want to, we'll leave... but it would mean the world to me if you played."

Damn him.

I brushed his arms off. "Man, fuck you."

But then--against my better judgment--I was walking into the club. I could feel his smile behind me. Inside, the place seemed smaller. More intimate. Low lighting, dark wood paneling. It looked more like a jazz lounge than a dive. The kind of place with a real stage, not just a raised platform in the corner. A man stepped up, extending a hand to stop me. Older, with graying hair and a beard.

"Name?" he asked.

"Um... Elliott Martin?" It came out sounding more like a question than an answer.

"Oh! You're the guy, right? Yeah, the boss is real excited about this one. Come with me."

I turned and shot Spencer a dirty look. He just smiled. What the fuck, I mouthed.

He grinned wider. Asshole. I followed the man toward a table tucked in the corner, where a few guys were lounging around. Musicians, probably. They had that look--casual but watchful, half-bored, half-sizing-me-up.

"Hey, this is the guy I was talking about," the older man said. "Our special guest."

One of them gave a low whistle. Another leaned back in his chair, grinning. "Oh yeah. I remember the vids."

A third stood and offered his hand. "Gonna do that screamo shit here?"

I felt my face flush. "Uh... no. Probably not."

Screamo shit. Unappreciative bastards. I'd like to toss them in a mosh pit just to see what'd happen. I took the empty chair at the table and set the case beside me. The conversation picked up again, drifting around me, but I wasn't listening. I was looking at the stage. The setup. The room.

Fuck.

I couldn't remember the last time I had an audience like this. Not just a handful of drunks in some shitty dive bar. This was curated. Intentional. Alive. I needed to do something with my hands, ground myself. So I reached for the guitar Spencer had forced on me. It probably needed tuning. Part of me hoped--stupidly--that he'd somehow tracked down my old, beaten-up acoustic. The one with the chipped frets and duct tape holding the binding together. The one that taught me how to bleed into music.

But Spencer being Spencer?

Yeah.

When I cracked the case, I nearly blacked out. A Collings OM2H stared back at me, rich sunburst finish gleaming like it belonged in a glass case at a museum. This--

This was not a backup guitar. This was a love letter in wood and steel. This was-- more expensive than anything I'd ever owned. My head snapped up to find him watching me from a few feet away.

"Is that okay?" he asked, suddenly hesitant. "I know shit all about guitars."

Was this okay???

"Spence, I--"

My voice nearly cracked. I had to clear my throat, force the burn in my chest down before it crawled up behind my eyes.

"This is perfect. Holy fuck."

Well, now I had to play.

_______________________________________________________________

*Spencer *

I secured a seat near the stage and ordered something top-shelf--equal parts reward and precaution. Elliott might very well never forgive me for this. I accepted that. But when he opened the case and saw the guitar... That look. It told me I'd been right. He could posture all he liked, curse my name, swear up and down he was done. But that spark in his eyes? That wasn't gone. Just buried. He was going to play tonight. And I would finally get to see the version of him the world was supposed to know.

I'd been dying to get him out of that backwoods hardware store for nearly two years. He was so much more than some shitty retail manager. Talent like his--raw, unrefined--the kind that lingered long after you caught just a glimpse. I knew what he was capable of, even if he didn't. And it was a fucking crime for him to pretend otherwise. Still, if this went sideways, I had a backup plan. I always did.

I sipped my drink and scanned the crowd. The usual suspects--people who came every week for open mic nights. A few curious newcomers. A handful of college-aged girls giggling, whispering about the cute tattooed boy and wondering when he'd play. Unfortunately for you, girls--he's mine. I suffered through the acts before him. Not awful, just... forgettable. There was only one voice I wanted to hear. Only two hands I was interested in watching--hands that could masterfully tame an instrument I'd tried and failed to learn more times than I cared to admit.

"Let's welcome our next artist to the stage," the host said, voice smooth and crowd-ready. "Elliott Martin!"

Polite applause fluttered through the room. Elliott, guitar in hand, crossed the stage to the microphone, where a single stool waited. He was nervous. I could tell. He always bit the inside of his lip when he was nervous. He sat, strummed a few chords to check the tuning, and adjusted the mic to his height.

"Hey, everyone," he said, and the room gave a warm reply. Even his spoken voice was melodic. I don't think he realized it.

"I'm Elliott. But... I guess you knew that."

That awkward smile. Cute. He cleared his throat, fingers brushing lightly over the strings.

"It's been a while, so... bear with me."

He began to strum. Something familiar. Hallelujah by Leonard Cohen.

"I heard there was a secret chord..."

His voice dripped through the sound system like honey. A quiet buzz of conversation had lingered through every act that came before--but the moment Elliott started singing? It vanished. Every ear turned. Every breath stilled. His voice wasn't just heard. It commanded. That's why we were here. Elliott's eyes were closed now. For him, the crowd didn't exist anymore. There was only the music. The story. He was lost to it--and I was lost to him.

Watching him was a religious experience. The way he moved with the notes. The way his body curved around the strings. He'd abandoned his blazer before stepping on stage, and I could see the muscles in his inked arms working the guitar like it had always been a part of him. His throat bobbed with each note. Those long, slender fingers danced over the frets like they'd been born there.

"Hallelujah..."

His voice nearly cracked with emotion--and somehow, that made it even better.

"Hallelujah..."

I caught at least a couple of the college girls dabbing at their eyes.

"Hallelujah."

When the final chord faded, the room erupted. Not the polite claps from before--this was the kind of applause reserved for something that wrecked you. For something breathtaking. Elliott opened his eyes and blinked, like waking from a dream. And then he smiled. Not the awkward one from earlier--a real one. Genuine. He was beautiful. The crowd was enraptured for the entirety of the thirty-minute slot he was given. Every song? A masterpiece.

"You've all been so kind," he said into the mic, voice steady now, comfortable. "I only have time for one more, and I hope you don't mind if it's an original."

A wave of approving murmurs rolled through the crowd. Instead of strumming chords this time, Elliott plucked the strings in a wondrously melancholic melody.

"Just give me a minute

Maybe two

I wanna laugh about it

'Til I come unglued

'Cause if it's true what they say

Laughter might keep the tears at bay

But these days, it don't feel the same

And I...

I keep trying to hold on

To a dream that's almost gone

And I'm fading--

I'm changing--

Yeah.

Who have I become?"

His voice was like the notes themselves--soft, vulnerable, haunting. He sang of losing himself, of watching the world move on without him, of wanting to stay tethered to a past that had already slipped away. It was a story of someone who was hurting, someone who had lost everything and hadn't let anyone see it. It was the first time I'd heard this song. I hadn't realized he was still writing. The thought made my chest swell with pride on his behalf. Maybe, just maybe, he hadn't let his dream go yet.

When the last notes lingered in the air, the crowd was stunned into silence. Elliott took a shaky breath, cradling the guitar like it was the only thing keeping him grounded.

"Thank you," he muttered into the mic, barely audible, before quickly fleeing the stage.

I left my table, slipping through the crowd and into the back hallway, following the path I knew would lead me to him. I found him at the end of the corridor, his back turned, head down, the guitar cradled in trembling hands. I walked up, pausing for a moment before gently resting my hand on his shoulder.

"You were incredible."

He shrugged, his movements stiff.

"Elliott..."

Before I could say more, he turned suddenly, closing the distance between us, and wrapped his arm around my neck. I was caught off guard--Elliott rarely initiated any kind of affection--but he buried his face in the curve between my neck and shoulder, his body tense against mine.

"I hate you so much," he muttered, his voice breaking.

The corner of my mouth quirked upward. "You're welcome," I replied, my arms wrapping around him in return. I pressed a soft kiss to the top of his head. "I'm proud of you."

"You fucking suck," he muttered, his words muffled against me, but there was no venom behind them.

"Mhm," I agreed, letting the moment linger, feeling the tension slowly ebb from his body.

Eventually, he stepped back, looking up at me, his eyes still a little watery.

I brushed a messy curl back from his forehead. "How about a stiff drink?"

"You're paying for it."

"Elliott, I promise you, after that? You won't have to pay for a single drink tonight."

"Yeah, yeah, whatever," he grumbled, moving to put away his instrument with a careful, almost reverent touch. "Can we put this in the car?"

"Of course."

We did. He watched intently as the driver locked the doors.

"Now," I said, sliding my hand along his back and guiding him toward the door. "Drinks?"

"Yes. Fuck, yes."

Inside, Elliott made a beeline for the bar. I followed, taking the stool next to him.

"Two whiskey sours, please."

"Top shelf," I added, shooting the bartender a grin. "Put it on my tab. Make his a double."

"Yes, sir," she replied.

Elliott shot me a glare. "Stop spoiling me."

"Stop making it easy," I said.

The bartender placed our drinks in front of us. Elliott knocked his back in nearly one go.

I raised an eyebrow. "Whoa, now."

He looked at me, the faintest smile tugging at the corner of his mouth. "Fuck you."

"Later," I replied, leaning back slightly in my stool, letting the words hang in the air.

"In your dreams."

"And what sweet dreams they are."

Try as he might, he couldn't stop the pink creeping into his cheeks. He shifted in his seat, pulling his drink closer, fingers tightening around the glass.

"I can't believe you set this up," he muttered, his gaze dropping to the napkin he was now twisting between his fingers.

"I can't believe it took me this long," I said, taking a slow sip of my own drink, watching him. "You should be playing every night."

His shoulders tensed, but he didn't look at me. "You don't think I have a life?"

I shrugged casually, letting my elbow rest on the bar as I turned toward him. "I think you have a job that makes you miserable."

"Yeah? And so does half of America. Not all of us can be trust fund babies."

I leaned in, grinning, watching the subtle flicker of emotion on his face. "Ouch."

He glared at me, leaning back in his chair, arms crossed. "You deserve it."

"Fair." I took another sip, savoring the burn. "But this trust fund baby is willing to invest in your musical career if you'd let him."

Elliott stared at me, his expression a storm of emotions--skepticism, disbelief, uncertainty, and something else lurking behind them. Fear, maybe. I didn't break eye contact.

After a moment, he scoffed, rolling his eyes as the irritation settled in. "This is a business venture for you, isn't it? Get me to play somewhere, bring people in, make a buck."

"While that's certainly a bonus, would you believe I genuinely want to see you live out your dreams?"

"No."

"Damn."

Elliott looked away, staring at his empty glass, as if the words couldn't reach him. "I don't have dreams anymore."

"That song says otherwise."

His body stiffened, and I saw the smallest shiver pass through him.

"You can't lie to me," I pressed, lightly placing my finger beneath his chin and turning his face back toward me. "I hear it in your music. I see it in the way you sing."

"Shut up," he muttered, his eyes flashing with heat, still bright with that embarrassing blush creeping into his cheeks.

"Make me," I whispered, my voice barely audible, the words a challenge.

The tension between us tightened, and for a split second, it felt like everything was about to snap. We both leaned in, but just before we could bridge the distance, a light, breathless voice interrupted the moment.

"Hi," she said, too eager, a little too high-pitched.

I glanced up, annoyed, but masking it with a cool look. "Can we help you?"

"I, um... I wanted to introduce myself." Her eyes darted nervously to Elliott. "You were really amazing tonight."

Elliott stared at her, clearly thrown off.

She extended her hand, a shy smile playing on her lips. "My name's Rachel."

After a brief hesitation, Elliott took her hand, still a bit thrown off, but managing a smile. "Nice to meet you. Thank you."

"Seriously, you have a beautiful voice. And the way you play guitar? You had my friends crying by the first song."

"Oh, god," he muttered, laughing under his breath. "That wasn't my intention."

"Well, they appreciated it. They'd love to meet you. If you want?"

My poor naive boy.

"Oh. Uh, yeah. Sure."

I watched as she led him away to her group of friends. The girls clustered around him, their questions tumbling out, fawning over his talent, his looks, everything.

I raised an eyebrow and sipped my drink, amusement lacing my voice. "I don't think she knows."

The bartender, watching the scene unfold, leaned over with a smirk. His tone was laced with amusement. "Oh, definitely not."

"Yeah, no idea." I shook my head, a soft chuckle escaping me as I glanced back at Elliott, now completely surrounded. There was something almost sweet about it, watching him try to navigate the attention, even if he seemed a little overwhelmed by it all.

"Poor thing," the bartender added, laughing quietly.

I let him suffer for a while. Watching with amusement as he stuttered and blushed. "I should go rescue him," I said, already rising from my stool.

"Probably," the bartender agreed, still entertained.

I crossed the room, my steps purposeful, and paused just a few feet away from Elliott and his impromptu fan club. Taking a deep breath, I cleared my throat. "Excuse me, ladies?"

All eyes turned toward me, and I couldn't help but smirk as I saw the surprised looks on their faces.

"Sorry to interrupt," I continued, voice light and easy, "but I'd appreciate it if I could have my boyfriend back."

The expressions on their faces were priceless--wide eyes, confused frowns, and a few looks of genuine surprise. Elliott, on the other hand, looked utterly mortified, like a deer caught in headlights. The group parted, and I made my way through, wrapping my arm around Elliott's waist and pulling him close, my grip firm, just tight enough to make a statement.

"Did you forget to mention something, sweetheart?" I asked, my voice intentionally light--almost sweet.

His mouth opened, then closed. He opened it again, struggling for words. He laughed nervously before offering, "Um... I'm gay?"

"Mhm," I replied, leaning in to press a quick, possessive kiss to his lips--a brief, yet pointed gesture, claiming him in front of the crowd. It was a mark of territory, a silent warning: Back the fuck off.

Elliott, now thoroughly flustered, shot me a sheepish glance, but the flush on his face only deepened as I stood there, arms around him, making no effort to let go.

"We're, uh, going to head out," he said, his voice cracking slightly as he cleared his throat, avoiding everyone's eyes. "Thank you. All of you."

The group murmured polite goodbyes, and we turned to leave. I was still smirking, feeling pleased with myself, when I saw the bartender grinning, clearly enjoying the entire scene.

"Since when am I your boyfriend?" he asked once we were out of earshot.

"Since now," I answered with a playful tone, enjoying the way his cheeks flushed even more.

He shook his head, sighing in exasperation. "You're so full of yourself."

"So I've been told," I replied with a grin.

"It was a dick move," he muttered, voice dropping as we approached the exit. "What if I wanted their numbers?"

The flash of jealousy that burned through me was unexpected and intense. My grip around his waist tightened as I leaned down, my voice dangerously close to his ear.

"Did you forget that you're mine, pet?"

Elliott's breath caught, and I could feel the tension in his body as he tried to resist, but it was clear he wasn't as unaffected as he wanted to seem. His face flushed deeper, his hands fidgeting at his sides, betraying the inner conflict he was trying so hard to hide.

"Don't fucking call me that," he snapped again, his words sharper this time, though there was no real venom behind them. "Not here."

I smirked, letting the moment stretch between us, the weight of his protest only making me more determined.

"Why not?" I murmured, the edge of my voice teasing as my lips brushed softly against the side of his neck, just below his ear.

Elliott shuddered, his entire body tightening, a slight tremor in his shoulders betraying how much he was trying to hold it together.

"We're not together," he said, but his voice wavered just slightly, the words almost too fast, as if he was trying to convince himself more than me.

"Aren't we?" I pressed, my lips lingering against his skin, my breath warm on him.

"No," he answered, but the tension in his body was undeniable. I could feel it in the way he stiffened beneath my touch, his muscles rigid as if he were trying to keep control, but that quiet admission--the way his body responded, the way his breath caught--spoke volumes. Elliott and I had been playing this game of cat and mouse for a while now, but it was more than a game to me. It was a way to learn the rhythm of him, the spaces where I could push, the moments when he'd finally give in, even if just a little. It was a dance I knew well: he ran, I chased. Sometimes I let him pull away, but more often than not, I closed the gap, leaving him no space to hide. And right now? He was caught. Right now, he was mine.

________________________________________________________________

*Elliott *

It wasn't the first time Spencer had pushed me to put a label on whatever the hell this was. He was always so fucking possessive, and while part of me loved it, the other part always lingered, asking, Yeah, but for how long? I'd let myself believe in things before--believe in people--and it had always ended with me staring at an empty fucking apartment wondering what the hell I did wrong. So, sure, maybe he liked the chase. Maybe he was having fun. But the second I gave him the green light, the second I admitted I was his, the second I stopped saying no... that was when it ended. And I wasn't about to let that happen. At least, that's what I told myself. He kept his arm around me, his grip that same level of possessive as always, as we walked outside. We reached the parking lot, and Spencer's hand didn't leave my waist. His grip tightened a little, the kind of hold that usually set my heart racing. Normally, I'd lean into it, but tonight? I felt every second of it. Every ounce of pressure that said, This is it. He's pulling you in. When he pulls these grand gestures like tonight or offers to take care of me while I dive back into music? Those are the moments I almost believe he's sincere. But putting that much faith in someone outside of yourself is idiotic. I forced myself to take a breath, but the tightness in my chest didn't ease. I hated that I couldn't just let go, that I couldn't trust him. Spencer had a way of making everything seem simple--like it could just be--but I knew better. The minute I let myself believe it, I'd end up alone, staring at the mess I'd made again. And I wasn't sure how many more times I could handle that reality. I shrugged his arm off and turned, trying to keep my cool.

"I can walk," I said, taking a step away. "In case you didn't notice, I'm an adult."

He looked at me, a curious expression on his face. "Do you want me to stop touching you?"

"Yes," I lied. "You're all up in my space tonight." My hands flailing around me to underline my attempted deception.

He raised an eyebrow. I knew he didn't buy it. Not for a second. I kept walking, trying to put distance between us, but every step felt like I was walking on thin ice. His eyes were still on me, the weight of his gaze too heavy, too... knowing. Spencer had this way of making everything feel too real when I just wanted to keep it casual, keep it light. His footsteps followed me, the sound of his dress shoes clicking against the asphalt, a steady reminder of how close he was--like gravity, pulling me back toward him. I was eager to get to the car, to leave the public space behind, to finally retreat to the safety of home-- even if it was his home. But when we reached the spot where our driver should have been, he was nowhere in sight. Maybe he'd gone for a smoke, or was looking for a restroom. Either way, the car was empty. I tried the door, hoping for a quick escape. Of course, it was locked.

"Damn," I muttered, casting a glance toward the venue. Still no sign of the driver.

Spencer closed the distance in an instant, stepping in front of me. His hands landed firmly on my shoulders, and before I could react, he pressed me against the side of the SUV. His arms caged me in on either side, his proximity impossible to ignore. My pulse spiked, a rush of heat flooding my chest. I fought to keep my breathing steady, to mask the way his closeness made my body react.

"Look," he said, his voice softer now, tinged with concern. "I get it. You're scared. Of me, of us, of what could come next..." He paused, as though weighing his next words. "But if you never let yourself try, what if you miss out on the best things life has to offer?"

He was too damn close, and I could feel every inch of him pressing into me, his presence a force that made my body both tense and tremble. It wasn't fair. Not in the slightest.

"Spence," I said, trying to keep my voice even, but it came out strained. "Don't--"

"No," he said, cutting me off with a finality that left no room for argument.

"What?"

"No." His voice was low, insistent.

"You can't just--"

Before I could finish, he silenced me with a kiss, his lips claiming mine with a force that left me breathless.

"I just did," he murmured against my lips.

Fuck.

I closed my eyes, my resolve crumbling in the face of him. The warmth of his body, the scent of his cologne, the way his breath teased against my skin--it was intoxicating. I hated how easily he could break down my defenses, but when he touched me like this, I couldn't stop myself from responding.

"Stop thinking," he whispered, his fingers brushing lightly over my cheek. "Just enjoy life for a bit. You're too young to be this bitter."

I snorted, the sarcasm slipping out before I could stop it. "Oh, fuck off."

He chuckled, the sound low and rumbling, and I felt the vibrations move through him, spreading right into my chest.

"That's better," he said, amusement lacing his voice.

I took a deep breath, steadying myself. The last thing I wanted was to lose control and do something stupid--like admit I might have feelings for him.

"What happens when it ends?"

I hadn't meant to ask it. But the question was out before I could stop it.

"We're 'not even dating,' and you're already talking about breaking up with me?" His voice was teasing, but the look on his face told me he understood exactly what I meant.

"Spence," I sighed, frustrated. "You know what I mean."

He raised an eyebrow, his expression unreadable. "What happens if it doesn't?"

I scoffed, trying to brush it off, but he wasn't having it.

He tilted my chin up, forcing me to meet his gaze. "I'm serious. What if it doesn't?"

"What are you, a romantic?" I snapped, trying to deflect.

He didn't answer. Instead, his lips found mine again. This time, the kiss was softer, less insistent--more like the one in the car earlier. Like he was savoring me, memorizing the feeling. His hand cupped the back of my head, fingers threading into my hair. His other arm snaked around my waist, pulling me closer.

"Elliott Martin," he breathed against my lips, his voice low, laced with something too raw to ignore. "I can't decide if you're really stupid or just that stubborn. Can you not see that I'm in love with you?"

The words hit me like a punch to the chest. For a moment, I couldn't breathe. Couldn't think. My entire world narrowed to the man in front of me--the intensity of his gaze, the weight of his confession.

"Spence, I--"

He waited, his eyes searching mine, as the silence stretched between us.

"But... why?"

Stupid question, Elliott. Fucking idiot.

Spencer shook his head, a smile tugging at the corner of his mouth.

"Why?" He laughed softly, almost to himself. "Because I saw your soul the first time I ever heard you sing, and it was the most beautiful thing I could have never imagined."

I didn't know what to say. No one had ever talked to me like that before, and the fact that it was Spencer--Spencer Briggs of all people? Eccentric, money-out-the-ass, CEO Spencer- fucking- Briggs? And me? What the hell was I? A college dropout, rockstar wannabe, thirty-year-old manager at Home Depot. I almost laughed, but it came out dry, bitter. The gap between us felt like a chasm--his world full of high-rise offices, black-tie galas, and cars that cost more than my entire student loan debt. And me? I was still living in the same shitty apartment with the leaky faucet and flickering kitchen light, clocking shifts at Home Depot while pretending I hadn't given up on bigger dreams years ago. People like Spencer didn't fall for people like me. And yet, here he was, looking at me like I... was something worth choosing.

"You're not going to tell me I'm an idiot, or that you can't imagine why, or any of the usual lines?" Spencer asked, his head tilted, amusement glinting in his eyes like he already knew I would deflect.

I huffed. "Spence, we come from two different worlds. We're not even in the same galaxy."

He shrugged, as if it meant nothing. "Maybe. But if I can afford a rocketship, does it matter?"

I rolled my eyes. "You're a real pain in the ass."

He grinned like it was the best compliment he'd gotten all day. "You like it."

"Whatever," I muttered, turning away to hide the smile that threatened to betray me.

He closed the distance anyway, pressing his forehead to mine, his voice going low and warm. "Tell me you don't feel something."

I didn't have the energy to lie. Not when his cologne still lingered on the collar of my jacket from the last time he hugged me. Not when he looked at me like I was worth the risk.

"I can't say I don't feel something," I muttered, voice rough around the edges. "You're impossible to ignore."

"And you're impossible not to love."

The words hit me hard, and I hated how much they made me ache. I let out a small groan, trying to scowl, but the corners of my mouth gave me away. He leaned in and kissed the smile off my face like he owned it.

"Even as prickly as you try to be."

"Fuck off," I muttered, giving him a half-hearted shove.

He just smirked, like he knew he'd already won this round.

I turned toward the street, searching. "Where's the damn driver?"

"Patience, pet," he murmured, voice hot and thick against the shell of my ear.

I shuddered before I could stop myself, the ripple of heat traitorous and immediate.

"Stop calling me that," I hissed, though it came out breathier than I wanted.

"I'll call you whatever I want," he whispered, his mouth brushing the sensitive skin of my neck. Then his arms came around me from behind, his fingers moving with maddening precision--tracing over my ribs, down my stomach, and finally skimming the edge of my shirt. He knew exactly where to touch, especially how to tease the damn nipple ring he loved so much. Smug bastard. I bit back a sound, my jaw clenched. He nipped my ear, then pulled back just enough to flash a grin. I shot him a glare. Then his hand slipped lower and cupped between my legs.

I gasped, startled--eyes wide.

His fingers stroked along the length of me, and this time, the sound that escaped me was something entirely different. I pitched forward slightly, catching myself against the side of the SUV. Spencer pressed in close, letting his weight settle behind me, his own growing arousal undeniable in his dress slacks. He rolled his hips slowly, deliberately. A small, helpless whimper escaped me--right as our driver cleared his throat.

"Mr. Briggs?"

Fuck. Me.

Spencer pulled back, maddeningly composed, like the interruption had been scheduled. I spun around, fumbling to rearrange my pants, silently begging my body to chill the hell out. Spencer just grinned.

I was going to fucking murder him.

"Sorry to keep you waiting," the driver said, not sounding sorry in the slightest.

"Not a problem," Spencer replied smoothly, the absolute bastard.

I shoved past him and climbed into the backseat, face on fire, dignity in shreds.

"Home," Spencer said, sounding far too pleased, and the door thudded shut behind him.

The second he was inside, his hands were on me again, tugging me close like nothing had happened.

"Stop," I muttered--weak, at best. He just pulled me sideways into his lap.

His hands slid under my shirt, fingers trailing the waistband of my jeans with maddening precision. Light, teasing. Calculated. I squirmed, the pressure between my legs impossible to ignore, my pants growing tighter by the second. He pressed his lips beneath my ear, his five o'clock stubble rough and deliciously abrasive.

"I'll make you a bet," he murmured. "If you can last the ride home, I'll do whatever you want."

It was a dangerous gamble.

"Anything?" I breathed.

"Mhm." The hum rumbled against my neck. "Just name it."

A dozen wicked ideas flashed through my head.

"But," he added, "if you can't... you're mine to do with as I please."

I shifted in his lap, fighting to keep myself under control. His hands were maddening--always just shy of too much, and never enough.

His breath ghosted over my skin. "Tick-tock, Elliott."

I clenched my jaw, trying not to grind down against him. Trying being the operative word.

"Fuck."

"Hm?"

"Fine," I growled, voice low and strained. "I accept."

"Good boy."

My pulse spiked. Those two words hit harder than I wanted to admit.

Jesus-fucking-Christ. The driver. We couldn't with him--Spencer's hands were already moving up and down.

"Spence."

No response.

"Hah--Sp... Spence."

Still ignored.

"Spencer!" I hissed, sharper this time, trying to squirm away.

He only grinned--calm, infuriatingly smug.

His hand threaded into my hair, firm but careful, anchoring me in place. Not painful. Just his. My eyes fluttered shut. Fuck. His lips brushed my neck again, teeth grazing the sensitive spot just beneath my ear, breath hot and slow as he spoke.

"Just sit there and look pretty."

Then his finger was at my mouth, tracing along my lower lip, coaxing it open. I didn't mean to. I shouldn't have. But my tongue flicked out to taste him--and he slid two fingers past my lips, slow, deliberate. I closed my eyes, trying to keep from moaning. God, I was a fucking slut. His skin was warm, the pads of his fingers rough with callouses, his nails dragging just enough to make my spine shiver.

His driver either didn't notice... or got paid a hell of a lot more than minimum wage.

When his fingers retreated, my mouth felt too empty, too cold. He chuckled--low, dark--like he could feel the need radiating off me, like he could hear every desperate, filthy thought running rampant in my head.

"What do you want, pet?"

I shook my head and panted, "You to be fucking patient."

"Ah, but you know I'm not."

His hand slid to grip my inner thigh, massaging slow and firm. I tried to ignore it. Tried to stay still.

Failed.

I bit my lip, choking back a whimper.

"Fuck," I whispered, knowing I'd already lost. "Please, just--"

"Please what?" he murmured, his lips ghosting over the shell of my ear, every syllable a taunt.

"Please... just... fuck, Spencer..."

He laughed quietly, wickedly. "You're such a good boy when you want to be."

And then he was rubbing me through my jeans again--this time deliberate. Precise.

Oh, fuck.

This man was going to make me cream my fucking pants.

"Spence--"

"You can take it," he said, voice velvet and iron all at once.

I groaned, desperate and humiliated and too far gone to care. We were close. So fucking close to being home. I just had to hold out a few more minutes. But his hand shifted lower, the press of his palm dragged against my entire length with slow, cruel purpose.

"So good," he whispered, praise dripping into me like a drug.

"I'm--fuck, Spence--"

"Mmm, not yet. Not if you want to win."

"Shit, shit, fuck."

"Come for me, pet. Be a good boy."

And the way he said it--commanded it--his voice dark and low and right there--

"I'm--oh, god--"

I couldn't stop it. Couldn't even slow it down. Mere seconds before the car jerked to a halt, I came, shame flooding me as hot and fast as the pleasure.

That. Fucking. Cheater.

He was still smiling when the door opened. The second the door swung open, Spencer slid out first, easy and unbothered, like nothing remotely obscene had just happened.

"Thanks for the ride, Tom," he said, tossing it over his shoulder like an afterthought.

"Always a pleasure, Mr. Briggs," Tom replied smoothly.

I scrambled out right after him, practically tripping over my own feet, desperate to put space between me and everything. At least my jeans were black. Still--Tom definitely knew. Hell, the whole damn city probably knew.

"See you soon," Tom added with a little salute, the bastard.

I was not having a good night.

I was having the worst night.

I stormed up the steps to Spencer's huge fucking house, trying to keep what little dignity I had left.

"Don't look so upset, pet," Spencer called after me, all smug and infuriating.

"You're a cheater!" I yelled back, not even trying to be subtle.

"I still won!" he shouted, laughing.

I didn't respond. I just bolted through the front door, already plotting to lock myself in the nearest bathroom until I could scrape some self-respect back together.

But no.

Of course not.

The door slammed open behind me and a moment later, he was there--grabbing my waist, pulling me back against him.

"Now, now," he said, his voice lilting and light, mocking. "Where are you going?"

I tried to pull away, but he didn't let me. He was stupidly strong. "To clean myself up, you big bastard."

"Oh, come now, there's no need for name-calling."

I shot him a withering glare, and he just smiled, wide and unrepentant, like a fucking fool.

"Let go," I growled.

"Never," he said--and then kissed me.

I hated him.

I hated him.

And yet--

And yet.

The moment his lips touched mine, I didn't stand a chance. I melted, just like always. I could feel his smirk. He knew. The asshole.

I bit his lip -- hard.

"Ouch!" he exclaimed, though he was still smiling, the bastard.

"Let me go," I warned, "or I'll bite harder."

"Promise?"

"Spencer!"

He chuckled, amused, and released his hold on me.

"Shower," I growled, already stalking toward the bedroom.

"Don't be long," he called after me. "I'm not done with you."

I wasn't sure if I wanted to roll my eyes, run away, or... something else entirely.

Whatever safety I found in the shower was short-lived. I'd already bathed earlier; this was just... freshening up.

Thanks for that, Spencer.

Losing the bet meant I'd agreed to be his for the night. I knew exactly what that meant. He wanted absolute submission. The thought made my heart race, my knees buckle, and my cock twitch -- because apparently, I had no self-control or self-respect where he was concerned.

"Damn him," I muttered, leaning forward to rest my forehead against the tile.

A few minutes passed. I stood there, eyes closed, trying to calm my racing thoughts. Trying not to think about how much I liked giving him control -- about the way it made me feel.

All this BDSM bullshit? That was all Spencer.

I'd just been your average top before.

Now?

I didn't know what the hell I was anymore.

"His", a small, traitorous voice whispered at the back of my mind.

"Stop it," I muttered.

It didn't listen.

I turned off the shower, still feeling vaguely like an idiot, and wrapped a towel around my waist. When I opened the bathroom door, the bedroom was dark, except for the faux fireplace. The flickering, fake flames cast long shadows over the floor and the bed-- and Spencer.

He was standing by the dresser, wearing nothing but a pair of black, fitted boxer-briefs. The firelight hit him just right, carving out the lines of his body like some artist had gotten drunk and decided perfection was a real thing.

My mouth went dry. My brain kind of did too.

Clothed, Spencer was model-perfect. The kind of guy who made strangers gawk in coffee shops. Unclothed? He was a god. A smug, asshole of a god who absolutely knew what he was doing. My eyes caught on the defined lines of his stomach, the sharp cut of his hips, the V above his pelvis-- Jesus-fucking-Christ. I stood there like an idiot, gawking, towel slipping dangerously at my hips, until he turned -- slow and deliberate -- and caught me.

Saw every second of it.

His smirk was instant. Wide. Wicked.

"You always this easy, pet?"

Heat flared up the back of my neck. I scowled and looked away, pissed at myself, pissed at him, pissed at everything.

"Get over yourself," I muttered.

He laughed, low and lazy and way too pleased.

"Don't worry," he said, voice thick with amusement. "I saw it. You don't have to say it out loud."

The fake fire crackled quietly behind him, and I stayed exactly where I was, towel clenched tight in one hand, heart beating way too fast. It wasn't fair. It was never fucking fair with him. He just stood there, half-lit by the fire glow, smirking like the whole world was already his. I shifted, hesitating, trying not to look as nervous as I felt under his stare.

"What?" I said, defensive.

His smirk widened, slow and predatory.

"Get on the bed," he said, voice low and almost gentle--like it was a suggestion.

It wasn't.

I froze, heartbeat thundering in my ears. Just for a second. Just long enough for him to notice. Spencer tilted his head, watching me. His smile sharpened.

"You won't be needing the towel," he added softly, almost sweetly. "Drop it."

The bottom dropped out of my stomach so hard I almost staggered. Fuck. My hand fumbled on the towel knot before I even realized I was moving.

Goddamn him.

The towel hit the floor with a soft thud. For a second, Spencer just stared.

Then his gaze dragged up, slow and hungry, before he said, voice rougher now, "God, you're beautiful."

I felt my face burn, heat crawling up my neck like I'd been slapped. The worst part?

I liked hearing it. Even if it made me want to crawl under the bed and never come out.

"Get on that bed, pretty boy," he purred before adding, more dangerously, "Now."

My body reacted before my brain caught up. I crawled onto the mattress, kneeling, back to him, skin on fire. The simple word punched through me, awful and addictive. I hated how good it made me feel. I didn't have long to mull it over. A moment later, the mattress dipped with his weight, and then his hands were on my back, warm and sure, his chest a solid line of heat against me.

"You did so well tonight," he breathed, lips brushing against the back of my neck.

"Mm." The sound was dismissive. I didn't want to believe him.

"You did," he said, more insistent this time.

His hand slipped into my hair, and he gave it a tug--just hard enough to make my breath hitch.

"I'm proud of you," he murmured.

I shivered, a wave of heat rippling through me, settling low in my stomach.

He could've said anything.

But it was that -- proud -- that undid me. Can someone say 'daddy issues'?

"Thank you," I breathed, not really knowing why, just knowing I needed to say it.

"You were so perfect," he continued, voice soft, coaxing. "So beautiful. So strong. So brave."

Another wave of heat surged through me, my cock twitching, embarrassingly becoming eager once again.

"Thank you," I murmured again, feeling weak and exposed, and too fucking grateful for it.

"My beautiful, talented boy," he whispered, and it felt like an oath.

I whimpered -- a quiet, broken sound -- and he just held me tighter.

"You did so well tonight," he repeated, pressing another soft kiss to my neck. "Did exactly what I asked. So obedient. You made me so happy."

"Yeah?" I choked, trying not to sound as wrecked as I felt.

"Yes," he murmured, hands sliding lower, thumbs tracing slow, teasing circles over my hipbones.

I bit my lip, fighting a moan, not sure what to say.

"I love hearing your voice," he whispered, his breath hot against my ear. "So sweet. So beautiful. Especially when you sing."

"Yeah, well--"

He cut me off, his teeth sinking into the back of my neck, a sharp sting followed by a deep, throbbing ache. I hissed, hands catching one of his arms that held me.

"Don't interrupt," he murmured, his voice low, rough.

"Sorry," I gasped.

He pressed his lips to the spot, soft and sweet, the apology clear.

"Good boy," he whispered, and I fucking shuddered.

Jesus. I was fully hard again.

"Fuck," I muttered, humiliated, my face burning.

"Beautiful," he murmured, his thumb tracing a slow line up my spine. "Every inch."

"Spence..."

He kissed the spot again, lingering. "You're beautiful, Elliott. And you're mine."

My eyes fluttered shut.

I was his.

Fuck.

"Mm" was all I managed, the sound half-whimper, half-whine.

He pressed his body closer, the warmth of his chest bleeding into my back. I felt the solid length of him through his boxers, and it sent a jolt right through me. He was just as hard. I shivered, and his lips brushed against the side of my neck, his voice low and husky.

"Can you feel how much I want you?"

"Mhm," I gasped, not trusting myself to say anything more, but I dared to push back against him letting him know that--yes, I felt him. I was rewarded with a throaty growl.

"Elliott."

"Yes?"

"Get on your back."

The command came out as a low, husky order, and the tone of it made my entire body tighten. I didn't trust my voice. I didn't want to risk a reply. Instead, I just moved--slowly, deliberately--turning until I was lying back, stretched out before him, completely naked. He gazed down at me, the hunger in his eyes undeniable, and the sight of him made my cock pulse with need.

He was breathtaking.

He stepped off the bed to stand just at the foot. Slowly he moved to disrobe completely. He watched me --our eyes locked-- as he removed his underwear. Defined muscle was decorated with dark chest hair that trailed down his abdomen and continued even further. I let my eyes follow that trail until they fell upon his cock. Fuck. It was gorgeous. A thick, long shaft with a flared, pink tip that looked absolutely delicious. I wanted to touch it, taste it, feel it inside of me.

He smiled.

I was so fucking gone for this man. He'd awakened something primal in me. A part of me I never knew existed. It was thrilling and terrifying and a million other things I couldn't describe.

"Like what you see, pretty boy?" he murmured, a hint of laughter in his voice.

He'd caught me gawking. Again.

I blinked before letting myself have half a smile, "definitely."

His lips curled up, pleased that I'd finally admitted it. "Good."

Impatient, I sat up and reached out, eager to touch him, but he caught my hand.

"Not yet," he said, his voice laced with amusement.

"But, Spencer," I whined bringing my other hand up only to be caught as well.

He tsked, a mock frown on his face. "No."

I pouted. "Please?" I leaned forward until I was close enough to drag my tongue across his chest. He sucked in a breath, and I smiled.

"Please?" I repeated. I extended so that I could trail kisses up his neck, pausing to nip at his ear.

For a second, I thought he was going to let me kiss him. Maybe our extended time apart had left him a little softer towards me? Maybe I could--

But no.

In one quick motion, he captured me completely. Spencer's grip was absolute--one hand clasping my wrists behind my back, the other holding my chin like he owned every part of me.

"Behave, Elliott," he growled, low and dark, and I knew then that playtime was over.

I swallowed hard. He felt it--his thumb brushing the pulse at my throat, slow and possessive. Everything in me screamed to push back. To bite. To bark something sharp and sarcastic. But I didn't. Because deep down, I'd already surrendered.

This--his control, his command, the weight of his attention--this was what I wanted.

Even if it scared the shit out of me.

Even if it made me feel weak and needy and completely undone.

Spencer's grip tightened just enough to remind me who was in charge. His thumb continued to trace a slow arc along my throat--possessive, practiced.

"You lost the bet," he murmured, voice soft enough to be a lullaby, dangerous enough to ruin me. "And that means you're mine. Say it."

I hesitated. Of course I did. Every part of me bristled on instinct. My pride, my fear, all the bullshit armor I wore so no one could ever get too close. But Spencer? He didn't just get close--he crawled under my skin and rewrote the rules. His grip shifted--gentle but unyielding--and his eyes bore down into mine like he already owned every inch of me.

"Say it, Elliott."

My name on his tongue was a warning. A dare.

"... Yours," I breathed, ashamed at how soft it came out.

He didn't accept it.

"Louder."

My voice cracked. "I'm yours."

That smile--the one that meant he'd won--bloomed slow and wicked across his face. "Good boy."

Fuck. Those two words shattered whatever resistance I had left. My spine bowed under it. I whimpered, pathetic and eager, heat blooming low and hot between my legs. He chuckled, deep and satisfied, like he'd known this moment was inevitable.

"Look at me, pet."

I did. And he looked at me like I was already destroyed. Like he was picking up the pieces--and would never let me put myself back together the same way.

"I'm going to take you apart," he said, soft and deadly. "And then I'm going to put you back together."

And that-- That was what undid me. I couldn't remember the last time someone had wanted me the way he did. Not just physically. Not just for a night. The last time I'd let someone this close.

He'd said he loved me.

I hadn't said it back. Not yet. Not when I was still afraid he'd come to his senses. Could someone like him really want... me? Just me?

"Stop thinking."

His voice broke through my spiral paired with a hand on the back of my neck.

I blinked. "Spence--"

"Shh."

And then he kissed me. Hard. Unapologetic. Possessive. Like he could hear every self-loathing thought echoing in my head and wanted to burn them out only to replace them with himself. I opened to him--willing, desperate--and his tongue slid into my mouth like he meant to stake a claim. His hand tangled in my hair, his grip rough, bruising, perfect. A moan escaped before I could stop it, and his fingers tightened, locking me in place. Then he let go of my wrists. Just for a second. Just long enough to guide me flat against the mattress, never breaking the kiss as he pushed me back--manhandling me like I weighed nothing, like he already knew what I'd do. My cock was leaking. My hips moved without permission, chasing friction, chasing him.

"Stay," he said, his mouth finally leaving mine.

It took everything in me not to whine at the loss. But then he was straddling my waist, braced above me, pinning me there like I was his to keep.

"Do you have any idea," he said, voice low and thick with hunger, "how hard it is not to take a picture of you right now?"

Heat bloomed across my face.

"Do... do you want to?" I asked, breathless.

He stilled--just slightly. His eyes flicked down, sharp and unreadable, like he was deciding whether I was serious or about to bolt. He'd expected a shove. A muttered fuck off. Honestly? So had I.

"I mean..." I faltered. "You want a picture of your... b-boyfriend, right?"

There it was. Out loud. The word that shattered whatever illusion of casual I'd been clinging to. The word that made this real. My throat went dry. Because calling him that meant admitting I cared. But I did. Didn't I?

He'd said he loved me.

That still scared the shit out of me... But it didn't make me unhappy. Maybe it was okay to let someone in. Maybe I could do this. For real. The seconds dragged. The silence hung heavy. Until-- His face split into a grin. Slow. Wolfish. Dangerous.

"Oh, you can't take it back now."

"Wh--"

I didn't get to finish. Because his mouth was on mine again--hard, claiming, final--

And his hand fisted in my hair, tugging just enough to knock the breath from my lungs. The kiss went on forever. Yet, it still felt too short.

When he pulled back, he was flushed, breathless, eyes wild. I was already wrecked. He hadn't even touched me. Then he smiled again--slow, wicked.

"Oh, yes," he purred. "I want many, many pictures of you."

And then his hand was between my legs, grasping, possessive. I hissed--startled, wanting.

"Especially when you're like this."

"Shit."

"Spread out. Hard. Needy. Mine."

"Spence--"

"Mmm, and look at you."

His hand stroked rough and sure. "Already leaking. So eager."

I groaned, my cock twitching under his palm.

"God, you're beautiful," he murmured. "So fucking perfect."

I closed my eyes, trying not to let the praise get to me-- and failing. Then his weight shifted above me.

"Open," he said. No suggestion in it--just command.

The blunt press of him teased my lips. Still gripping my hair, he waited. I obeyed. Mouth open, breath shaking-- and then the heat of him filled me.

"Yes," he hissed. "Just like that."

I hummed around him, the vibrations making his breath catch.

"Elliott--"

Another hum. He slid deeper, the head of his cock hitting the back of my throat. I moaned. He did it again--slow, controlled thrusts until I was gagging for it. Then he pulled back, breath ragged. And suddenly, he shifted--dragging me up, turning me, positioning me until my knees were at his shoulders, cock hovering above his mouth. I knew exactly what he wanted. And I gave it to him.

I swallowed him down again just as he took me in--warm, wet, eager. The moan that tore from my throat was raw, almost broken. I rolled my hips forward, sinking into the heat of his mouth, and he took it--greedy and patient in equal measure.

We moved together, fast to find a rhythm--giving, taking, messy and desperate.

The sounds alone were enough to undo me. Obscene. Perfect. It had been a long time since anyone had made me feel like this--like my body belonged to someone else. But Spencer had a way of stripping me bare and making it feel like worship.

His hands gripped my ass, firm and commanding, kneading, guiding.

Then I felt it--his slick fingers, teasing my rim with practiced ease.

My cock twitched hard in his mouth, dripping onto his tongue. I was already so close.

And then he pulled off--just long enough to murmur, "Don't come, pet."

The words hit me like a commandment, and when his finger pressed inside me again, I gasped and obeyed. Barely. I was shaking, hips stuttering, breath coming fast as he worked a second finger in. Every twist of his wrist made my spine arch. Every brush of his knuckle against my prostate lit me up. The pressure in my gut coiled tight--so tight--and I was barely holding on.

Then, suddenly, the heat of his mouth was gone. His fingers too. He eased me off him and sat up, leaving me wrecked--flushed, panting, cock dripping and twitching in the open air.

"Knees," he rasped, stepping off the bed.

I didn't move. He opened the drawer of his nightstand. Condom. Lube. Calm. Composed. Like this was just another Tuesday. And still, I stayed frozen.

"Do you need a reminder?" he asked, voice low and cold.

My gaze snapped to him--naked, towering, muscles carved like sin, cock slick with my saliva.

"... No," I whispered.

"Then do as you're told, Elliott."

His voice was razor-sharp. I moved, obeying, chest tight, cock aching, body trembling as I got into position. Hands and knees. Waiting. I felt him behind me, the heat of him overwhelming. His hand ran down my spine, slow and possessive.

"Are you going to be a good boy and do as your told?" he murmured.

I nodded.

He paused.

"Words, pet."

"Yes. I'll be good," I whispered.

His palm pressed to the back of my neck, guiding me down like he was laying claim to me. Then came his fingers again--slick, sure, no hesitation. Stretching me open like he owned me. Every time I thought I couldn't take more, he curled them just right--and the jolt of pleasure would take my breath away.

"Please," I begged, voice thin, broken. "Please, Spence--"

"Soon," he whispered. "But first..."

His fingers twisted again--devastating.

"... I have a few conditions for you being my boyfriend."

Boyfriend.

The word knocked the air out of me again. My stomach fluttered. My hips pushed back into his hand. God, how did he always know? How did he know every fucking button to push?

"Yes, Spence. Anything. Please--"

"Mm. Don't make promises you won't keep."

His voice was soft, but the edge was unmistakable.

His fingers kept moving--deliberate, merciless--as he began listing his terms.

"First," he purred, "you go in tomorrow and quit your job."

"But--"

"Second," he said, louder now, the pressure against my prostate increasing, "you move in here. With me."

"Spencer--"

"And third..."

He leaned in, his lips brushing the back of my neck.

"You let me give you everything you've ever wanted."

The words struck like lightning--pleasure and panic, hope and hunger--and then his fingers curled again and I shattered. A cry tore from my throat. My body locked, shuddered. I couldn't breathe. Couldn't think.

"Do you understand, pet?"

I couldn't speak. Couldn't answer. I was shaking, falling apart in his hands.

"Do you accept?"

"Yes," I gasped, my cock leaking, helpless. "Yes, please. Please."

"Good boy," he said--and I nearly sobbed.

This wasn't fair.

"One last thing," he murmured, withdrawing his fingers--and then I felt it. The thick, slick pressure of his cock nudging against me.

"I get to have this ass," he said, low and deliberate. "Any. Time. I. Want. It."

"Jesus," I whispered, dizzy with want, with the weight of his words.

"Say it," he ordered, the head of him beginning to press inside.

I groaned, eyes fluttering shut, every nerve ending alive, burning. I couldn't even think.

"Say it," he growled again--this time thrusting another inch deeper.

"F--fuck," I gasped, choking on sensation. I was so close to coming it was humiliating. A sharp slap cracked through the room. I jolted, the sting blooming hot across the left cheek of my ass.

"I own this ass, Elliott," he said darkly. "I'll fill it whenever I want. As deep as I want. However I want."

"Yes," I whimpered. "Yes, Spence--yes. Whenever you want."

"Good boy," he breathed, and then--finally--he slammed into me, burying himself to the hilt.

I shattered.

________________________________________________________________

*Spencer*

The moment I sank into him, I knew I'd never get enough. He clenched around me like he'd been made for this--like his body knew mine better than I did. And the sound he made? That long, wrecked moan of my name? It was nothing short of symphonic.

I held still for a beat. Not because I had to. But because I wanted to feel it--all of it. Not just the heat and tightness of him. But the trembling in his thighs. The way his hands gripped the sheets like they were the only thing anchoring him. The quiet little breath he tried to hold and failed.

Perfect.

He'd given me everything tonight. His voice. His trust. His submission. And I would not waste it. I leaned in, chest flush to his back, my breath hot against his ear.

"Breathe, pet," I murmured. "You're doing so well."

He shivered beneath me.

Good.

I smiled--slow, satisfied--and began to move.

Measured thrusts at first. Deep. Deliberate. Each one designed to remind him who he belonged to. He tried to meet me, hips twitching for more, but I tightened my grip around him, crushing at his hips, and held him still.

He was going to take it.

Exactly the way I gave it.

The way I knew he liked it.

Every time I sank into him, he whimpered. Every retreat earned me a soft, broken sound. And when I bottomed out, hard and full, he swore like it hurt. Like it ruined him.

So perfect.

His back arched. His fingers fisted the sheets. And I watched.

I drank in every second. Wrecked. Vulnerable. Mine. I leaned down, letting my lips brush his ear.

"You're beautiful, Elliott," I said, voice velvet-wrapped steel. "Stretched around me like this. So good. So perfect. Just for me."

"Spence--" he choked, his voice nearly lost to the sound of skin meeting skin.

God, the way he responded to praise. Like it was oxygen. Like he needed it. I could feel the way his body trembled with each word I fed him. And fuck, the effect it had on me.

I wanted to give him everything. Even if I had to tear it out of him piece by piece. Even if he hated me for it. I let that thought settle. Then I pulled back--and slammed into him, hard.

He screamed.

The sound cracked something open in me. His voice was beautiful like this, too.

Raw. Ruined. Real. My grip turned bruising. My rhythm, relentless. Elliott was unraveling, barely tethered, and we both fucking knew it.

I wasn't far behind.

No one did this to me. No one could. Except him. My right hand slid up his sweat-slicked back, across his shoulder, and settled at his throat. My fingers pressed in--just enough to slow the blood, to feel his pulse hammering beneath my palm. The power of it. The control.

If I told him to cum, right now, he would.

"Spence--" he gasped.

"Cum for me, pretty boy," I growled, voice wrecked and rough. "Let go."

His eyes snapped shut. His mouth gaped open. I tightened my grip around his throat. His scream was silent.

Fucking perfect.

He came hard, body seizing around me, cock painting the sheets below. It was the final push I needed. Three more thrusts--and I was gone.

Everything locked up, every nerve on fire. The world vanished. There was only the pleasure. The rush of endorphins. The weight of him. The feel of him. When I came back to myself, my vision was spotty, breath ragged in my chest. I was still buried in him.

We stayed there for a while, just breathing. His body had gone soft beneath me, barely able to hold himself up. Carefully, I eased out. He let out a soft, broken sound.

"Sorry," I muttered.

He grunted, which only made me smile. The afterglow was already hitting him like a freight train. He was wrecked. Loose-limbed and pliant, all the fight melted out of him. I got up, disposed of the condom, and grabbed a towel from the bathroom. When I came back, he was sprawled out on the bed--naked, flushed, glistening with sweat and cum. Eyes heavy-lidded, mouth parted, barely conscious.

Beautiful.

That was mine. He was pure art. I didn't even hesitate. I grabbed my phone off the dresser and snapped a picture. Unrepentant.

"You're not gonna use that for blackmail, are you?" he slurred, barely lifting his head.

"No."

He grunted. "Liar."

I crawled back onto the bed and pulled him into my chest.

"You don't trust me?" I asked, feigning offense.

"Not even a little."

I laughed and held him tighter.

"Mm," he sighed, curling into me like a cat.

"I'll wait till you're famous," I murmured, kissing his temple. "Then I'll sell copies."

"Fuck you," he muttered, voice already trailing off.

I grinned, brushing a hand through his damp curls.

"You just did."

His only reply was a quiet huff. I pulled him closer. He was asleep before either of us could say anything else. I lay there for a while, staring up at the ceiling, the soft crackle of the fake fireplace filling the silence.

Tonight had been a risk. A big one. I'd gambled on his voice. On his willingness. On him. He could've run. Could've folded under the pressure. Could've pushed me away again. But instead--he'd played. And he hadn't just played--he'd captivated. Owned the stage. Stolen the room.

Including the talent agent I'd paid to be there.

There was a very real chance I'd be murdered in the near future... but it was worth it.

He was worth it.