Pushing Boundaries Ch. 03

*Elliott*

It was hilarious seeing Spencer so overwhelmingly uncomfortable and trying so fucking hard to hide it. I think he scowled after every bite. He didn't care for the place--big surprise--but this? This was exactly where I needed to be tonight. And the fact that he was here with me?

That made me happy. Genuinely happy.

I'd told him I loved him. I could hardly believe I'd said that shit out loud. But somehow-- Something about the confession made me feel so fucking light. I know I looked like an idiot. Couldn't stop smiling. Couldn't stop looking at him. But I didn't care. It felt right.

... But goddamn, it was cold in here with only half a shirt on. I was pretty sure I had a ratty hoodie in my backseat.

"I'm gonna grab my jacket," I said, sliding out of the booth.

Spencer looked at me like I'd just told him I was going skydiving without a parachute.

"You're leaving me in here alone?"

I arched a brow. "What? You scared of the big bad redneck gang in the corner?"

I kissed his cheek, patted his chest. "I'll be right back."

Who the fuck am I right now?

I was high on something--and it wasn't the coffee. That giddy, rollercoaster-up feeling where everything seems just right. Like nothing could go wrong.

Yeah. Fucking idiot.

I unlocked my car, popped the back door, leaned in for the old Motionless in White hoodie I was sure was buried in the far seat. Of course, it was on the wrong goddamn side. I reached in--half upside down--

And then I was yanked.

One second I was in control. The next, I was being dragged from my own fucking backseat. The black SUV next to me? Yeah. Not someone's ride-share. Wrong. So, so fucking wrong. I never even saw their faces. Hands grabbed my hair. Yanked my collar. Slammed me down against the seat. A black hood slipped over my head, yanked tight. Panic ripped through me. I fought. God, I fought--but there were at least two of them. Maybe more.

"ELLIOTT!"

That was Spencer. Somewhere behind me, voice sharp with fear. But too late.

They shoved me into the SUV. My boots scraped concrete. The tires shrieked as they tore out.

A cold edge pressed to my neck. Metal. Sharp.

"Mr. Martin, is it?"

I froze.

Someone on either side of me pinned my arms, their weight locking me still. My breathing rasped against the inside of the hood, each gasp pulling the damp fabric tight against my mouth. I didn't answer.

"You're a smart boy," the voice said. Too calm. Too casual. "Your boyfriend's dug himself a hole so deep, he'll be lucky to crawl out. Let's hope he doesn't drag you down with him."

They forced my arms in front of me. Plastic zip ties snapped tight around my wrists--biting into my skin, promising bruises. My hands were already going numb.

That was when the clarity hit. Cold. Numb. Heartbeat in my throat. The conversation we had just had not that long ago:

"I swear to God, I thought you were gonna tell me you were a drug lord."

"Would that be a dealbreaker?"

Fucking hell, Spencer.

What the fuck have you done?

________________________________________________________________

*Spencer*

I heard Elliott's yelp from inside the restaurant. I was on my feet instantly--but the waitress blocked the door like I was trying to ditch the bill. Big mistake. I shoved past her, tossing whatever cash I had--something near two hundred--as she stumbled sideways.

"Keep the fucking change," I snapped, already moving.

Outside, tires shrieked on pavement. I hit the parking lot just in time to see the taillights of a black SUV vanish into the dark.

Three seconds. That's all I allowed myself. Three seconds of pure, undiluted panic--white-hot, blinding terror that hollowed out my chest and left my heart clawing for purchase. Then--I shut it down. Ice filled the space where fear had existed. Rage, quiet and refined, settled like a second skin. The night air tasted wrong. Metallic. Sharp. Like blood in the water.

Elliott was gone. Someone had taken him. Which meant someone had to die.

I turned from the lot, tuning out the whispers behind me. The Waffle House might as well have been empty. A flicker of movement in the glass caught my eye--the waitress peeking through the door, flanked by rubbernecking customers. Not even one of them had called the police.

Good. I didn't need them.

Elliott's keys glinted on the asphalt. I picked them up. Closed his back door with a soft click. Slid into the driver's seat of his Honda Civic. Pulled out the phone--the one with no number, no trace, no records. The one that hummed when bad things were about to happen. Tapped the first contact.

It rang twice.

"Evening, Mr. Briggs," came the voice. Calm. Familiar.

"Heath. I have a situation."

Heath only needed the summary. Within sixty seconds, the call was done. I stared ahead. Controlled. My heart had become a clock. Every second a tick closer to violence. I didn't need to ask who. That wasn't the question. It was Jacob Stevens. He'd already threatened me once. The waterfront deal had been a warning shot--one I'd humored with grace.

But now? Now he'd touched what was mine. And he was about to learn the cost of that mistake.

________________________________________________________________

*Elliott*

We'd reached wherever the hell these psychos were taking me. I still couldn't see a damn thing. Hood tight over my face. Zip ties biting into my wrists. Heartbeat thudding like a war drum in my throat. And if I'm being honest? I was scared. Really fucking scared.

The SUV screeched to a stop, jolting me forward. Doors slammed open. Voices--low, clipped, unfriendly. Then hands. Too many. Yanking my collar, dragging me like I was a sack of trash.

The air changed the second I was out--warm, salty, thick with that grimy, industrial stink. The harbor. A warehouse. Somewhere no one would hear me scream, probably.

Awesome.

I stumbled once, then again, half-walking, half-dragged. More voices now, echoing off metal walls. Footsteps all around me. Whoever these assholes were, they'd brought backup. Great. A fucking audience.

And then--

Cold. A chair. Metal. My spine protested. My knees ached. My brain screamed. The hood came off. Light stabbed into my eyes like knives. I blinked hard, squinting as the world slammed into focus.

And there he was. A bald prick in an ill-fitting suit with too much neck and beady fucking eyes. He grinned at me--thin-lipped, mean, completely devoid of humor. The kind of smile you saw in mugshots. The kind that said I've done this before. The kind that made your stomach twist.

"You must be the little gold-digging twink I've heard so much about," he rumbled--voice like gravel soaked in whiskey and regret. And yet... somehow familiar. I couldn't place it. Not yet. "Didn't expect Briggs' flavor-of-the-week to have a dick--but hey, good for you."

The words hit like spit in the face. I stiffened. But I didn't flinch. Not for this asshole. I just stared back. Pulse hammering in my ears. Jaw locked tight. If he thought I was going to break that easy, he was in for one hell of a disappointment.

So I sat there. Still. Silent. Let him get a good look at what the fuck he was dealing with. Tension coiled under my skin, tight and thrumming. My eyes flicked through the blur around us--metal beams, loading dock, shipping crates, guy by the door in a rent-a-cop uniform...

And guns. So many fucking guns.

"Nothing to say? And here I thought you liked to sing."

Shit.

"Fuck you," I snapped. Not my best.

He laughed. Of course he laughed. One of those slow, rotted chuckles that crawled up your spine like mold.

"That's not very polite, princess."

I bristled. That condescending pet name made my skin crawl. But before I could come up with something better than fuck you again, he gave a little nod to someone behind me.

Thunk.

The back of a wooden baseball bat tapped against the metal frame of my chair. I went still. The goon stepped in front of me--massive, arms like tree trunks, spinning the bat in his meaty paws like it was a toy. He smiled, slow and dumb, like a kid unwrapping a new game.

Okay. One thing was certain: I wasn't fighting my way out of here. Panic clawed at my throat. I shoved it down.

Spencer.

Where the fuck are you?

________________________________________________________________

*Spencer*

Heath had a location within the hour. The harbor. Stevens really was that fucking stupid. I exhaled through my teeth, fingers locked white-knuckled around the Civic's shitty steering wheel. This fucking car. This whole day.

It had been good. One of the best.

I'd watched Elliott smile like he finally remembered who the hell he was. Like the world hadn't broken him. And then this.

I'd warned Stevens. Explicitly. You don't touch what's mine. And Elliott was mine. Not a fling. Not some pretty face with a tragic past. He was everything. I'd give him the world if he let me. And if anyone thought they could take that away from me--

They were already dead.

The Civic sputtered. I growled low in my throat and floored the gas. The car rattled like it was ready to die, but it moved. I was meeting my men. They'd bring something faster. Cleaner.

More important than that?

Artillery.

Time to go hunting.

________________________________________________________________

*Elliott*

They didn't start with the bat. So... small blessings, I guess.

Apparently, messing up my pretty face was step one of Baldie's supervillain monologue. Goon-the-size-of-a-mountain had fists like bricks and a talent for aiming just shy of knockout blows. Just enough to make it hurt. To make me bleed. To make a point.

My lip was split. I could taste iron and spite. One eye was already swelling shut, and I was pretty sure my ribcage was going to file a complaint.

But I didn't scream.

I would not scream.

Baldie crouched in front of me again--all bad cologne and misplaced confidence. The kind of man who thought a cheap suit and a mean streak made him important.

"Still nothing?" he asked, tilting his head like I was some stubborn dog refusing to roll over.

I spat blood at his shoes, even as the chair wobbled beneath me. My spine screamed. My vision doubled. Every breath felt like it came with a receipt. Christ--Goon had a mean fucking hook.

"Fuck. You," I hissed, because if I was going down, I was going to be loud about it.

I knew he wanted the performance. Wanted the pain, the defiance, the shaky bravado. Maybe that's why it hurt worse. Because I gave him exactly what he wanted. He made a soft tutting sound, all mock concern, and reached out like we were something intimate. His thumb dragged across my split lip, smearing blood into the corner of my mouth. I flinched before I could stop myself. That made him grin.

"God," he said, low and delighted. "The mouth on you."

He leaned in. Breath warm and sour. Close enough for me to count the broken capillaries in his nose. Close enough that the heat of him felt personal.

"Really, we just wanted to rough you up. Send a message. But now..." His voice dropped, syrupy and awful, like he was savoring it. "Now I think I'm going to enjoy breaking you."

One word. That was all I had left. Spite and blood and venom scraped up from somewhere deep.

"Bitch."

The blow that followed sent me sprawling to the cold, concrete floor. My cheek cracked hard against it. My ribs lit up in white-hot pain. Everything spun. The warehouse blurred. All I could hear was that high-pitched ringing, like the world was underwater--and screaming at the same time. My chest rose and fell in short, struggling gasps. Tight. Shallow. Panicked.

And the ridiculous part? The part that made it feel like some kind of fever dream? I wasn't even mad at Spencer. I wanted to be. I should've been. But I guess when you love someone, you can forgive them for just about anything. Even getting you kidnapped and beaten within an inch of your life, apparently.

I just wanted him to hold me.

I was really, really trying not to think about how I might be ten minutes away from my last breath.

So instead, I thought of him. Spencer. The way he looked at me like I hung the goddamn moon. The smell of his hair after sex. How he'd act so aloof and detached--until he was curling around me like a human furnace. That smug smirk he wore like armor. The weight of his limbs pinning me to the mattress. The way his voice dropped when he said my name. It would've been nice... To experience all of it again. Just one more time. Before--

Shouting.

Was that--gunfire?

________________________________________________________________

*Spencer*

One.

Two.

Three.

Each bullet found its mark. Deep in the rotten skulls of Stevens' thugs. No wasted shots. No warning. Just three heavy bodies crashing to the concrete with wet, final thuds.

The warehouse erupted in panic. Shouts. Footsteps. Gunfire--wild, frantic. Someone returned fire, but it was sloppy. Rookie mistake. He was down in five seconds. My men swept in ahead of me, tearing through the chaos like precision instruments. I didn't pay for rookies. I paid for killers. Cold, unflinching, absolute fucking professionals. We bulldozed through Stevens' pitiful excuse for muscle until there was nothing left.

Nothing-- except one trembling coward with a knife to Elliott's throat.

Jacob fucking Stevens.

"Stop right there or I kill your little fag!" the bald bastard screamed, voice cracking under the pressure. He was already breaking. Sweat poured down his temple. His hands were shaking. Desperate. Weak.

Blood dripped down the side of Elliott's face. One eye swollen shut. The other dazed. Glazed. Barely upright. Hands zip-tied in front of him, wrists raw and bloody where the plastic bit into skin. His whole body slumped like he was struggling to stay conscious.

What the fuck had they done to him?

"All you had to do was mind your fucking business, Briggs," Stevens ranted. "You fucked me over. Now pay the fucking price. I want Red Peak, and you ain't getting no five million for it--"

I didn't give him the satisfaction of finishing. I pulled the trigger. I knew I wouldn't miss. No hesitation. No warning. Just justice.

His head snapped back. His body crumpled like wet laundry. The knife hit the ground with a sharp clatter. The gunshot echoed off the metal walls like the final word in a conversation.

Then-- the only sound left was Elliott. Harsh, ragged breaths. Choking. Struggling.

"Spen..."

He collapsed where he knelt.

Two strides and I was there, pulling him into my arms, holding him like that could stitch him back together. His blood smeared across the white of my shirt, but I didn't care. I didn't even notice. I only saw him.

One of my men tossed me a knife. I caught it, sliced the zip ties. Elliott's arms curled weakly around me--just enough to tell me he was still there. Still him.

"Hey, pretty thing," I whispered, rough and quiet. "Can you hear me?"

He nodded. Barely. A slight tilt before his head dropped into the crook of my neck.

"Started to get worried," he slurred against my throat.

This man-- Beaten. Bloodied. Broken. And he was still trying to sass me.

"You should've known I'd come for you."

"Yeah..." His one good eye fluttered shut. "Love you, asshole."

Then he went still. Not gone. Just unconscious. I pressed my face into his hair. Took a breath. Ground myself in the proof that he was warm. Breathing.

"I've got you," I murmured.

Then louder, over my shoulder--voice steel again:

"Take out the trash. We were never fucking here."

"Yes, sir."

I nodded once.

Then I stood, scooped Elliott up like something sacred, and carried him out to the car.

The ER bought my he was mugged story. Thankfully, the police did too. It helps when you're me. Power and money open doors. Bypass questions. Blur inconvenient truths.

As I waited--I paced. Back and forth across the sterile tile, making phone calls no one would remember answering. Two hours. Then three. Then four. Still no word. The hospital staff kept feeding me the same line:

Family or spouses only. Give me a priest and five minutes--I could fix that.

I didn't sit. Couldn't. Not when Elliott was behind those walls, bloodied and unconscious, and I was stuck out here like some fucking afterthought. Every second ticked like a countdown in my head. A fuse already burning.

Hour five.

The doors finally hissed open and a nurse emerged--clipboard in hand, face unreadable. My head snapped up like a tether had jerked.

She scanned the room and zeroed in. "Are you here with Mr. Martin?"

"Yes," I was already halfway across the waiting room. "Yes. That's me."

She gave me a look. Not quite skeptical--just... tired. Clipped. Professional to a fault.

"It's normally against policy to allow non-family back," she said, voice cool.

I braced for the rest.

"But," she sighed, glancing down at her clipboard, "Mr. Martin is... quite insistent that you join him."

A breath rattled out of me. The tension in my spine finally cracked. That's my hellcat.

________________________________________________________________

*Elliot*

If one more goddamn nurse asked for my parents' information, I was going to steal a wheelchair and roll the fuck out of here. I was an adult, for Christ's sake. I didn't want them. I didn't want anyone except Spencer.

"Spencer--Spencer fucking Briggs--I know he's here. I want him back here with me." My ribs throbbed. Everything throbbed.

"Mr. Martin," the doctor sighed as she settled into the chair beside my bed, clipboard in hand, "I don't think you understand--"

"No. You don't fucking understand. I'm not consenting to shit until he is in here. With me."

She looked at me like I was gum stuck to the sidewalk--irritating, incomprehensible, disgusting.

Yeah. The feeling was mutual.

"It's for privacy reasons, Mr. Martin. HIPAA doesn't allow--"

"Then I'm done here." I threw off the blanket like I was making a goddamn statement... which would've been more effective if my legs didn't almost give out immediately. The bitchy doctor caught me mid-crumple.

"You've suffered significant head trauma. You need to stay for observation," she said, in that tone that made my skin crawl.

Even as she hoisted me back into bed, I didn't stop snarking.

"You can observe my ass in this gown walking out the fucking door unless you get Spencer."

She sighed. Long. Drawn out. That I'm-indulging-a-toddler kind of sigh. I stared her down, unblinking. Yes. Yes, I was a toddler. A violently concussed toddler with abandonment issues and a very scary boyfriend.

"You have a concussion. Despite appearances, it's serious. You could have a brain bleed. Or other cerebral impairments affecting your judgment."

"You have a fucking brain bleed! You want me to cooperate? GET. SPENCER."

Her jaw clenched. She scribbled something on her clipboard like it personally offended her, then turned on her heel and left.

I collapsed back into the pillow, glaring at the ceiling like it owed me money. My IV stand loomed over me like a snitch. Several drips ran into my arm, and the urge to yank them out just for dramatic effect was strong. Maybe if I started bleeding on the floor, they'd get the damn hint. And then--

"Hey, pretty boy."

The voice hit me like oxygen after drowning. Spencer. He stood there behind a scowling nurse, and he looked at me like I was the only thing in the universe that mattered. Like I hadn't just been a bloody mess in his arms a few hours ago.

"Spencer," I breathed.

And then every inch of me--every bit of fight, fury, fire--broke. The tears hit fast. Hot. Painful. I couldn't stop them. I reached for him like a fucking child. And he came. Sat at the edge of the bed like he'd been there my whole life. He was saying something--soft, low, comforting--but I couldn't hear it over the roaring in my ears.

I just needed him to hold me.

My arms wrapped around him, and I buried my face in his shoulder. His warmth soaked into me like morphine. For a single, impossible second, I believed everything might actually be okay.

"You've got to let them help you, El," Spencer murmured.

This time, the words landed--sank straight through the static and reached whatever frayed edges of me were still holding on.

"You're gonna stay?" My voice cracked. Desperate. Pleading. Too much.

I didn't care.

"Please."

"I'm not going anywhere."

And for once... I believed him.

I just nodded against his chest and tried to breathe. In and out. In and out. Like maybe if I just kept doing that, I wouldn't fall apart again. Spencer's fingers threaded through my hair--slow, careful. Like he was scared I'd vanish if he held me too tightly. That's when I one-hundred percent broke.

The sob ripped from my chest--raw, ragged, and unrelenting. It hurt. God, it hurt. My ribs screamed, my lungs burned, my face twisted, and I didn't care. I let it come. Let it crash through me like a tidal wave. Spencer held me through it. Steady. Unshaken. And then he pulled me tighter--like he could squeeze the pain out, hold the pieces together just long enough for me to remember how to be a person again.

And just like that--I let the nurses do whatever the fuck they wanted. I didn't flinch. Didn't swear. Didn't mutter under my breath or complain. Yes, ma'am. No, sir. Like a goddamn model patient. I didn't have to be a brat. They just had to listen.

I--I couldn't do this alone. Not today.

And once I stopped snarling, they actually treated me like a person. A scared, beat-to-shit person, but still. They were... gentle. Careful. Patient in a way I hadn't expected. Who knew? Maybe some people in the world just want to help. Who fucking knew.

Someone had started a morphine drip at some point, and now everything was warm and humming. My limbs felt like they belonged to someone else--heavy, distant. The tension leaked out of me one drop at a time, like air from a balloon, and my heart unclenched just enough to beat without pain.

It was the first real pain relief I'd had since getting here. I hated it. I loved it.

Morphine made me even more manic than normal--like I could cry, confess, or crack a joke at a funeral.

I blinked at Spencer through the haze.

"I feel bad about getting your clothes bloody. Could've donated that Gucci."

He snorted, shaking his head. Perched on the edge of the bed again, calm and grounding, he had one hand in mine, thumb tracing slow, steady circles on the inside of my wrist--like he was trying to pet the chaos out of me.

"Gucci?" he echoed, raising a brow.

I struggled upright just enough to glare at him through half-lidded eyes. "Did you just Gucci-shame me?"

That earned another laugh--low, warm, and real. The kind that tucked itself into my chest and refused to leave. His eyes softened as they landed on me. Deep, dark, impossibly kind. Like I wasn't just a walking disaster. Like I was his walking disaster. And damn if that didn't make me feel warm and glowy in all the places that still ached.

"You know what that asshat called me?" I slurred, blinking up at him. "A 'gold-digging twink.'"

I shook my head, frowning in--what was it? Surprise? Confusion? Existential dread?

"Am I a twink? Like, officially? How does one even know? Is there a chart? A checklist?"

He was smiling. Why the fuck was he smiling? I was being serious. This was a crisis.

"Spencer," I said, pointing an accusatory finger at his chest, "what the fuck. Am I really a twink?"

This bastard. He was laughing at me. Out loud. Like I was a joke. Like this wasn't a deeply traumatic identity revelation.

I frowned, trying to keep the petulance out of my voice and failing. "Hey. I'm asking a serious question."

He smiled through his laughter, then leaned in--his free hand lifting to cradle my face. Cool palm against flushed skin, thumb sweeping gently along my jaw.

"Pretty boy," he murmured, low and husky, "You can be whatever you want. The only thing I know you are... is mine."

Okay. Yeah. My brain short-circuited. Completely disconnected. All the circuits went poof, turned into little hearts, and did pirouettes across the control panel. I don't fucking know. It was the drugs. Or the Spencer. Probably the Spencer. Or both.

Asshole.

My eyes went wide. Then--feeling unbearably mushy--I knocked my forehead into his and just stayed there. Resting against him with the kind of dopey, starstruck awe I used to get when a celebrity signed my poster in middle school.

I fell in love so goddamn easily it was honestly a miracle I'd survived this long.

"Fuck. You," I muttered, slinging an arm around his neck and dragging him down to kiss me.

He caught the kiss with a breathless laugh, then pulled back just far enough to whisper, "You've got to get better first."

It took two days for me to get out of the hospital. Two full days of bad food, worse nighttime television, and a near-lethal quantity of hospital-grade ice chips--punctuated by needles, way too many scans (can't wait for the cancer), and morphine naps that made time collapse in on itself.

And through it all: Spencer.

Two nights of Spencer, camped out beside me. It wasn't ideal. The overstuffed, too-short excuse for a couch was a pathetic stand-in for Spencer's king-sized mattress of decadence, and by the end of it, I wasn't sure who looked worse--him or me.

That's a lie. It was definitely me. Oh well.

At least the doctors had stopped treating me like a wild animal. I think they expected me to bite at first--and honestly? Fair.

But now, they looked at me with this sort of cautious... curiosity. Like I was a science experiment that had unexpectedly learned manners. It wasn't until the third day that I started to figure it out. Spencer had money. And apparently, money could do anything. Including greasing every squeaky gear in Saint Whatever-The-Fuck Hospital until I got bumped to the front of every line.

I thought about making a scene. Raising hell just for the principle of it. But in the end? I just pretended not to notice. Turned out... being Spencer's was. Comfortable? Yeah. Comfortable. That was exactly it. Safe. Warm. Important. No one had ever just... wanted me before. Not like that.

Not like he did.

No one had ever looked at me like I mattered. Like I was something worth protecting. Something worth keeping. Definitely not someone worth kicking down the gates of some drug-den-cult-illegal-ass warehouse over. Like--what the fuck. He really did that.

He went full Bond villain meets John Wick and left a pile of bodies just to get to me. And I'd be lying if I said it didn't fry something in my brain. Because... holy fuck. Am I wrong for thinking that was hot? Yeah. Yeah, I was going to hell.

But... maybe--maybe part of me was scared. Scared of what I was letting in. Because I don't love tidy. Never have. Life is messy. If there's a brush fire, I'm the idiot standing there with a gallon of gasoline, wondering what would happen if I threw it.

I'm reckless. I push buttons I shouldn't. I poke bears just to see if they'll bite.

There's a joke in that somewhere.

Spencer had insisted on carrying me into his house. Our house? Home. Whatever the hell it was now. I didn't even pretend to fight him. And that man? He doted on me.

I'm not even sure why Aiden was there.

Spencer waited on me hand and foot like it was a sport.

Massage? On it. Water? Already in hand. Pain meds? Shaking the bottle before I asked. Cuddles? Shirt already half off and arms open. Jesus Christ.

A few months ago, I was still ignoring his calls--calls that came with a side of possessive, overbearing, freak-show intensity that used to scare the shit out of me.

Now?

Now I'm curled in his lap or waiting while he cooks me spaghetti. Yes. Spaghetti. From scratch. It's hard to complain about his stalkerish tendencies when he's in the kitchen with garlic on his cheek and murder still fresh on his aura.

I think the mess nearly gave Aiden a heart attack.

He stood there like a glorified houseplant while Spencer wielded olive oil and oregano like weapons of war. By the time he left--the kitchen looked like a food crime scene. And holy shit. That spaghetti? It was delicious... Might've been the pain meds. But honestly? I didn't care.

But as I healed, and the pain meds wore off, I started to notice things more.

His touch--once all-consuming, hot enough to sear--now landed like I might shatter beneath it. Gentle. Too gentle. Like I was something fragile he was afraid of breaking. He hadn't crept up behind me. Hadn't pinned me to a wall. Hadn't made one comment about bending me over any available surface. No teeth at my neck. No bruising grip. No cocky demands.

Just cautious hands and polite questions and "Are you sure? Is this okay?" every time I so much as blinked too slow. It was sweet. Thoughtful. And it was killing me. Because I knew what it meant. He was scared--of hurting me, of going too far, of reminding me of fists and concrete and blood that hadn't even fully faded yet.

I got it. I did... But I missed him. Us.

The version of us that burned too hot, too fast--like we might set the room on fire just from looking at each other too long. I missed his hands like I'd miss air.

But now he touched me like he thought I might vanish. It had been an entire week. Since I'd moved in? I could barely make it across the damn hallway without him stopping me. Grabbing. Pressing. Biting. Until now. Suddenly, I was spending hours alone in bed while he did whatever secretive shit billionaires did. All I knew was this distance had to stop. All the marks he'd left on me had healed, and I was devastated. We slept in the same bed, but the distance between us had become its own kind of violence. Soft. Quiet. Slowly suffocating.

So, I pushed. I was a little banged up, but I wasn't fucking dead. And what the hell good was getting kidnapped and nearly having my face caved in if I couldn't use it for a guilt-induced fuck or twelve?

He'd only gone back to work after his phone rang for literally twelve hours without stop. I didn't want to be without him, but at least Aiden was in the house. I wasn't completely alone. So, I could manage. Manage well enough to decide that Spencer wasn't getting away tonight.

________________________________________________________________

*Spencer*

It was quiet when I got home. Which was... unusual.

Elliott had informed me, more than once, that the house was "too fucking big for one fucking guy and his butler. Who the fuck are you, Batman?" So, he filled it. With music--loud music. Bass heavy enough to rattle the stairwell. Or with television, volume cranked just enough to shout back at the silence. The place never echoed anymore. Not when he was here.

But tonight? Silence. And not the peaceful kind. It had weight to it. Intention. My fingers tightened around the strap of my briefcase.

"Elliott?" I called, testing the word like a stone into water. No answer. Just the faint scent of clean linen and cedar, trailing down the hall. I set my things down with care, loosened my tie, and let the hush settle against my skin. My footsteps echoed off marble tile. The house didn't usually feel this big. Not anymore. Then--

A flicker. Movement. The faint creak of the banister above. I looked up. And there he was. Halfway down the staircase, bare feet padding on the polished wood. He wore low-slung sweatpants and one of my shirts--unbuttoned, hanging open just enough to be distracting, just enough to scream on purpose. His skin still held the glow of a long shower, and his damp hair curled slightly around his temple like it had been tugged once or twice. Probably had.

He said nothing. Just looked at me. My heart punched once-- Hard enough to rattle my teeth.

"Hey," he said softly.

Like it wasn't a loaded weapon. Like he hadn't just set a faultline cracking right down the center of my carefully restrained composure. I didn't answer. Couldn't.

I just stared--stunned, breathless--drinking him in like a man crawling out of the desert.

Barefoot. Bare-chested.

The fabric of my button-down, too big on him, ghosted his inked skin, catching on the edges of muscle and menace. It wasn't clothing--it was a countdown. He moved toward me. Unhurried. Controlled.

His hips rolled with a rhythm that didn't belong in this house, didn't belong in any civilized place. The careful distance I'd placed between us suddenly felt like the deepest chasm.

My mouth went dry.

The glint of metal at his chest--the silver of his nipple ring--caught the light like a blade. I could feel the pull of him from ten feet away, and my body was eager to meet him. But-- I backed up. Slow. Stupid. Hypnotized.

This wasn't coy. This wasn't flirtation. This was intent. He was hunting me. And I'd never felt more goddamn cornered. Because here's the truth--

I've always been the one in control. I had to be. Elliott needed room. Safety. Space to breathe after what happened. So I reined myself in. Pulled every violent instinct back behind locked doors. Because when I want him, it's not gentle. It's ruin. It's possession. But now?

Now he looked at me like he owned the key. And I couldn't stop backing up. Until--

Hard stop. My spine hit the column behind me. I froze. Pinned.

And he didn't slow. Didn't smile. Just kept walking.

The soft slap of his feet against the hardwood was the only sound in the entire fucking mansion. Everything else was static. My blood. My breath.

He stopped a breath away. Closer than was safe. That sharp honey-gold gaze dragged over my face, cataloging every inch of my restraint like he was watching it crumble in real time. I didn't breathe.

He rose on his toes.

My pulse kicked like a shotgun--

And he kissed my cheek.

"Hi," he said sweetly. Sweetly, the little shit.

Then he brushed past me like I wasn't shaking out of my suit.

"How was work?"

I didn't turn. Couldn't. Just stood there, jaw locked, lungs working overtime like I'd just run a goddamn marathon.

"The usual," I managed--ragged, wrecked. It sounded like defeat. Like want.

Had he always done this to me? Yes. Yes, he had. I was just finally seeing what it looked like when the leash got handed back.

I turned slowly, watching the trail of him as he padded into the kitchen--shirt hanging half-off, pajama pants barely clinging to his hips. He didn't even look at me when he reached for a glass and poured himself some water, like this was normal. Like he hadn't just walked in and detonated the entire atmosphere.

"I told Alfred to take the night off," Elliott said.

"His name is Aiden," I managed. He always made that same damn joke.

He shrugged. Just a shrug. And somehow that tiny motion had the fucking gall to be devastating. The oversized shirt slipped down one shoulder like it had permission. Ink bloomed across newly bared skin--lines I knew, had touched, had bitten--and now they were a map I wasn't allowed to read.

It was infuriating.

It was intentional.

(Of course it was.)

"Same difference," he said, lifting the glass to his lips. The way he drank wasn't casual--it was performance. A slow drag. A tilt of his throat that made my jaw clench and my dick twitch. That goddamn throat. That flash of silver on his tongue.

"Have you eaten?"

I blinked at him. Once. Twice. It was a ridiculous question. Out of place. Gentle in a way that landed like a punch. The devil was standing barefoot in my kitchen, with bruises still healing from my sins and concern in his eyes--and I was the one about to break.

He looked at me like I was a man, not a monster. Like I wasn't covered in filth so deep I'd never escape it. Like I hadn't killed for him. No smug grin. No sharp sarcasm. Just that soft, goddamn hurricane he carried behind his lashes and collarbones.

His gaze flicked to my hands, then back to my face. Watching me unravel. Watching the cracks show. There was no swagger now. Just a promise. A request. Maybe even a plea.

Let me pull you back in.

He was holding the leash. And he wasn't pulling. Not yet. But it was in his fist. And I wanted him to yank. It took everything I had to keep my voice level. Still, it came out like ruin--misery and need, smoke and ash.

"No."

He nodded. Like that pleased him. Like I'd passed some test I didn't even know I was taking. Then he smiled.

"Good," he said, casual, dangerous. "'Cause I cooked."

The words hit harder than they should've.

You did what.

Heat snapped through me--desire, confusion, a deep distrust that pulsed behind my ribs. I looked toward the stove like it had personally threatened me. Calculated damage. Considered the nearest fire extinguisher. Did a silent prayer to the gods of takeout.

"You?" I said slowly.

His brows pulled together like I'd just accused him of animal cruelty. "Spencer fucking Briggs," he said, scandalized. "Are you implying I can't cook?"

I blinked at him. "I am strongly suggesting you shouldn't be allowed to."

He stuck out his tongue. Petulant. Unholy. Beautiful.

But then I paused. Took a breath. Smelled it. Smoke. Garlic. Red pepper and heat. Not artificial spice. Not store-bought jar heat. Real. Rich. Familiar in a way that had nothing to do with me--and everything to do with him.

"Cajun," I said before I could stop myself. Quiet. Like it mattered. And it did. Because I remembered.

The first time I'd heard it, I thought it was a trick of the radio. A single word--axe instead of ask--slipping out when he was half-asleep and half-stripped beneath me. I'd kissed him stupid and whispered, Where the hell are you from, pretty thing?

He'd mumbled, 'Round Baton Rouge, then covered it with a groan and a muttered, Don't start.

But I did start. I demanded to know where the accent had gone. He told me he'd buried it. Ripped it out, syllable by syllable, when he started touring--when the world told him he'd sound too southern. Too gay. Too much. He'd learned to bite down on his vowels. Drown the sugar in his voice. I wanted to resurrect it. Every slow-drawl syllable. Every sticky, honey-thick consonant he'd sanded down for survival. I wanted to hear the boy he used to be--raw, unpolished, real.

Because whoever had convinced Elliott Martin that he had to carve pieces of himself off just to be palatable? I wanted to kill them. I wanted to feed them to him.

"You made this?" I asked now, softer.

"Don't act so surprised." He moved past me, slow and sure, brushing my hand with his fingers. I felt it in my teeth.

I watched him glide across the kitchen like he owned it. Like he owned me. The sway of his hips. The cocky tilt of his head. That ever-present edge in his smile that said: I might burn this place down, and you'll thank me for it.

And he was right.

Whatever trap he'd laid tonight--whatever slow-burn game-- I was walking straight into it. Still. I didn't know whether to bolt... or give him a goddamn standing ovation.

My fingers curled tight around the kitchen island, grasping for stability in an ocean of chaos. The granite bit into my palms--cold, grounding. Possibly the only thing keeping me sane.

Elliott stood across from me, pressing a finger to his lip, eyes half-lidded like he was weighing the pros and cons of letting the room catch fire.

Then, casually--like it was an afterthought:

"White wine's okay, isn't it?"

He didn't wait for my answer. Just turned and dipped down out of sight, crouching at the wine cooler.

I should've looked away. Should've walked. Should've turned off every light in this godforsaken house and exiled myself to the pool like a monk... But I didn't. I stepped around the island. Instinct.

And there it was.

That fucking ass.

Round. Perfect. Framed by those threadbare gray sweatpants that clung to him in ways that shouldn't be legal. Smooth muscle, dark ink, and the outline of temptation--gift-wrapped and bent at the waist.

I stared for three full heartbeats. Long enough to memorize it. Then my brain caught up. I didn't think it was possible. Not after everything. Not after the bruises had only started to fade and the fear had cooled. But he'd cracked me wide open again without lifting a single finger.

"Elliott," I croaked.

He looked over his shoulder, still crouched. "Hm?"

"What... are you doing?"

He straightened--to both my relief and my devastation. Turned. Met my gaze with a face full of innocence, wine bottle in hand.

"About to eat dinner with my boyfriend?"

He shrugged--subtle, soft--but his eyes? They gleamed with quiet satisfaction. A trap set. A snare sprung. He knew exactly what he was doing.

"Why, what did you think I was doing?"

Bait.

Motherfucker.

I wasn't going to fall for it.

I couldn't.

So I turned. Reached for the wine glasses. Made a show of setting them on the table he'd already dressed. Bowls of food still steaming, fragrant with heat and spice and something that told me he'd actually tried. This wasn't just a joke. This was effort. Thought. Intention.

I cleared my throat.

"Any luck writing today?"

From the corner of my eye, I caught the curve of his smirk. Lazy. Dangerous. Addictive.

"I've got a few ideas," he said.

That voice. The way he walked. He didn't need music to make the whole damn house hum. Which is to say--it was torture. Slow. Relentless. Fucking lethal.

Elliott never broke eye contact. Not once.

He spoke softly--about songwriting, weird shit he saw online, some unhinged video involving raccoons and a priest. All completely normal. All totally innocent. Except nothing about him was ever innocent. Not the way he sat--spine loose, legs spread like sex incarnate. Not the way he licked his spoon, slow and deliberate. Tongue peeking out, gliding just enough to make my brain short-circuit. And definitely not the way his lips quirked every time I blinked a beat too slow. Like he could feel my restraint fraying.

He was testing me.

Worse than that... he was enjoying it.

The bastard didn't push too far. He stayed just on the edge. Close, but never close enough. Careful. Respectful. Restrained. All with that quiet purpose... He was dangling himself like fresh meat... and I was a starving wolf.

After dinner, he migrated to the couch--like gravity guided him there. Like this was routine. He turned on some neon-lit garbage fire of a movie and threw his legs over my lap like it was owed to him. Like he was claiming space. He did it without looking. Like he knew I wouldn't stop him.

Because I didn't.

I sat there. Frozen. Every cell in my body screaming. My skin felt too tight. Like my soul was trying to crawl out of it.

Elliott laughed at the screen--laughed--and shifted. Just a little. The fabric of his gray sweatpants dragged with him. Cotton stretched and clung. Outlined everything. No underwear. I could see that now.

There weren't enough breathing exercises to control my thoughts.

He draped one arm behind his head like he was modeling for a magazine--shirt sliding up his torso to reveal the gentle lines of his abs, a teasing sliver of ink on his hip, the glint of that fucking piercing still winking through the cotton.

And his face? That fucking face? Relaxed. Mildly amused. Not a single trace of guilt. He was pretending like he didn't know what he was doing to me. But I saw it.

I felt it. The tension twisting between us. The pulse in my throat like a drumbeat of don't move, don't breathe, don't touch. The fact that I hadn't drawn a proper breath since he sat down.

And he knew. He fucking knew.

He laid a hand low over his stomach, rubbing slow, idle circles--his fingers creeping dangerously close to the waistband of those sweatpants. Too close. If he moved another inch, he'd graze my elbow. That was intentional.

I caught his wrist. Fast. Tight. Like my control depended on it. Because it did.

"I'm trying to let you get better, El." My voice was shredded silk. Soft, but wrecked. "Let me."

He scoffed. Scoffed. And then--he rolled his fucking eyes. Like I was the one being ridiculous. Like he hadn't orchestrated this entire domestic ambush just to wind me up until I snapped.

His other hand--God help me--slipped out from behind his head, lazy as sin, and reached for mine. He caught my fingers easily, pried them from his wrist like they belonged to him, and pulled my hand toward his mouth.

My brain short-circuited.

When his tongue dragged--slow, obscene--over my index finger, I forgot how to breathe. And when he looked up at me while doing it? That was the kill shot.

There was no way we were both healthy.

No way.

We had some serious mental health concerns, and I would gladly pay a psychologist whatever they asked just to name whatever this was. So long as I could fuck him on the couch afterward.

"I'm fine," he whispered.

And then his teeth sank into the knuckle of my finger. Just enough to sting. Just enough to turn my spine into barbed wire. My hand tore from his like it had hit a live wire. But it came back fast. On instinct. Possessive.

This time, it wrapped around his throat.

"Elliott." A warning. One last, desperate shot across the bow.

His smile was a slow-blooming bruise. He let me press him down into the cushions, back arching just enough to be inviting. Every breath beneath my palm vibrated with challenge.

My eyes dropped. Right where we both knew they would. He was hard.

"Spencer, please," his voice rasped.

And I was done.

________________________________________________________________

*Elliott*

Spencer had hauled me forward, ripped my sweats down like they'd personally offended him. In seconds, I was bare and spread out beneath him--legs parted, trembling, his weight over me like he was gravity itself. Like I couldn't take a full breath without his permission.

His eyes were dark. Jaw tight. Starving, like I was the only meal he'd ever wanted.

Fucking finally.

The movie still flickered behind him, but it was just noise. The only thing that existed was him--his body caging mine, his fingers at my throat like he needed to feel my pulse to believe I was real.

"Pushed me all night," he muttered, voice wrecked, feral. His other hand wrapped around my cock--tight. "Tried to be good. Tried to give you time. You think you're ready now? You think you can handle me?"

"Yes." I gasped it out so fast it tripped over itself. "Yes. Please, fuck, please."

And oh, he grinned. That grin that meant trouble. That meant I was about to get exactly what I wanted and more than I could take.

"I'd say you're a good boy, Elliott," he breathed, "but that'd be a fucking lie, wouldn't it?"

I laughed--high, messy. "Fuck no. Not even close."

The stroke he gave me in return was brutal, perfect. My hips shot off the couch, breath stuttering out of me in pieces. And when his mouth crushed mine, I let him take whatever he wanted. I needed it. Needed him.

I grabbed for his shirt, his belt loops, anything to anchor myself. I dragged him closer until I could feel him--thick, hard, hot--right where I needed him.

"Please, Spencer," I begged. "Please. Fuck me."

And the words barely left me before his teeth found my throat, biting down just enough to make me whimper.

"Do you even deserve it?" he whispered. "After what you did? Teasing me like that. Acting like some cock-drunk little slut."

"Yes--no--I don't care, yours."

"Say it again."

"Yours."

"Louder."

"Yours, yours, yours."

His hand left my throat, popped the buttons on the shirt I'd stolen like they were in his way. They clattered to the floor. Ruined like I was dying to be. Left me bare, burning, desperate.

I yanked him down by his tie, kissed him like I was drowning, like I could swallow his air. He gasped at the audacity. And when he shoved me back, caught my wrists, I laughed--sharp, needy. "I didn't ask."

He growled, but that flicker of hesitation hit his eyes. No. Not this time. I shoved him back, straddled him, hips grinding down like I was starving. His hands gripped my arms--tight, controlling, but not enough to stop me.

"Such a brat."

"Damn right."

I yanked his tie loose, slow, watching his pupils blow wide. My heart pounded so loud I could barely hear myself think. One wrong move and we'd go up in flames.

Let it burn.

"What--you think 'cause you're some big bad CEO you get to boss me around all the time?"

The grin that spread across his face was pure sin. And then? Snap.

He was up, hauling me with him, lifting me like nothing. My legs wrapped around him on instinct. I kissed and bit and rubbed against him, desperate.

"Patience," he growled, dumping me back down so hard I nearly stumbled. "You think you've earned it tonight?"

"Fuck you. Fuck me."

His laugh hit me right in the gut. Low, wrecking. "I'm not going to fuck you tonight, pet. You don't deserve my cock."

I groaned, dropped to my knees so fast my bones cracked. "Let me suck you. Please. Let me show you--please."

His hand tangled in my hair, tugged, owned.

"No, slut."

I moaned. God, I moaned.

"If you get anything, it'll be when I say. How I say. Not a moment before."

"Please. Let me see it."

"Hm... no."

And then he turned. Walked away. I made a sound I didn't know I could make--something between a growl and a gasp--but he just grinned over his shoulder, winked, and kept going.

I scrambled after him, wrecked and wild.

"You are just..." He paused at the doorway, shirt half off, slacks hanging low, grin sharp enough to cut. "... so fucking predictable."

Spencer strolled deeper into the room--unhurried, like he hadn't just left me a panting mess on my knees in the hallway. That was always him when the leash came off. Cold-blooded. God-tier. Unbothered by the wreckage he left behind.

I followed, heart hammering so loud I could barely hear myself think. I could feel the heat rolling off him, the raw edge of his restraint like a thread pulled tight and ready to snap. And then he turned.

Feet planted. Eyes so dark I could drown in them. His voice dropped, slow and dangerous. Like sin with a smile.

"Come on, El," he said. "Make your case."

Not a command. Not a request. An invitation. And holy fuck, did it land. The air between us felt too thick to breathe. My skin burned. My whole body was strung so tight I thought I'd vibrate apart. He wasn't just letting me. He was daring me. Show me. Prove it. Earn it.

And Jesus, I was already halfway there.

I stepped forward.

"Make my case?" I raised a brow, arms folded even though I was flushed and bare-assed and ridiculous. "You're the one who forgot about me."

He laughed. Low. Dangerous. The kind of laugh that curled up in my stomach and made everything worse. Or better. I couldn't tell anymore. He shrugged fully out of his shirt, slow as sin. Just the undershirt now--clinging in all the places that made my brain melt.

"Oh, is this that conversation?" he said, head tilted. "It's cute you think there was a single second I wasn't thinking about you."

"A whole week, Spence." Was I being ridiculous? Maybe. My voice cracked with it--frustration, want, all of it. "More than that. You ghosted me from three feet away."

The smile slipped off his face. What replaced it? Pure hunger. Sharp and wrecking.

"I was giving you space," he said, low. "It's my fault you ended up in that hospital bed. I cleaned your blood off my clothes, Elliott. You think I wanted to climb back on top of you and risk breaking something?"

I stepped in. "Yes," I snapped. "I don't need gentle. I need you."

And I watched it hit him. Like a blow he didn't see coming.

His eyes raked down me--slow, hot, claiming. Every bruise, every scar, every inch of ink, every hard, shameless part of me. And then I turned--because I knew he'd watch. I felt him watch. Every step toward the bed, slow and deliberate. My heart felt like it might tear through my ribs.

I crawled up onto his bed--our bed now, fuck it--and stretched out. Slow. Loose. Wanton. I didn't look back. Didn't need to. I knew. Knew his stare burned between my shoulders, down my spine, over my ass like he could brand me with just his eyes.

The shirt hung off my shoulder. Bare everywhere else. I arched my back just enough. Bent one knee just enough. Laid it all out like an offering.

Not a question. Not a request.

Come get it.

I turned my head, rested my cheek on the pillow, and looked at him down the length of my body. And fuck, he froze. Hands flexing like he didn't know if he wanted to grab or pray. His breath hitched. I could see him losing the fight to hold back.

And then?

It hit like a bomb going off. His whole posture changed. All that cold control? Gone. Not the CEO. Not the man holding back because he thought he had to. This was the man who wanted me. All of me.

He didn't walk.

He stalked.

He was stripped in an instant. His belt hit the floor, loud and sharp like a gun going off, and my grin split wide, breath ragged, heart racing like I was about to win the goddamn lottery. Because I had him now.

Unleashed.

Uncontrolled.

Mine.

________________________________________________________________

*Spencer*

I was only a man.

And if there was anyone capable of breaking the composure I prided myself on--shattering it with a smile, a look, a goddamn moan--it was Elliott Martin.

God. Fucking. Damn him.

He lay sprawled across my bed, pure temptation--shirt hanging off one shoulder, lips parted, hips tipped up, waiting for me. Wanting me. His eyes dared me to lose control.

I shoved my pants down. Briefs, too. Stepped out of them like I was shedding skin. His gaze dropped--dragged along my body--and he licked his lips. Slowly. Deliberately.

Then that smug little shit arched--pushed his ass higher, just a little. Just enough to make my restraint fracture down the middle.

When I touched his calf, he moaned.

Fuck.

He ached for me. After all the snark, the teasing, the week of delicate distance and careful glances--this was what he needed. What he'd wanted all along. And seeing him laid out for me like a reward I hadn't earned? That did something to me. Something primal. Something fucked up.

Maybe the best kind of fucked up.

I crawled over him, slow and deliberate, dragging my fingers up the inside of his thigh--until I felt the barest tremble. Until he shuddered, breath catching, body already wound tight.

"This what you want?" I asked, voice low, frayed at the edges. My hand moved higher, grazing between his cheeks--just a whisper of touch.

Then I felt it.

Slick.

He was already slick.

I paused. Blinked once. Grinned.

"You prepped yourself?" My voice was dark amusement, breathless and reverent all at once.

His only answer was a desperate groan. I gave him what he wanted--one finger, slow and precise, pressing in. His back bowed like he'd been struck by lightning.

"You've been plotting this since the second I walked out the fucking door," I growled. "The food. The wine. This outfit." I curled my finger inside him and watched him fall apart. "You were never asking me to take it easy. You wanted me angry. You wanted to be wrecked."

I slid in a second finger and his gasp nearly took me out. His hips pushed back greedily, fucking himself on my hand like he couldn't stand how badly he needed more.

"God, yes," he whimpered. "Please. Please--Spencer--"

I pumped my fingers deeper, harder, watching him unravel with every stroke. His body was a livewire, and I was the storm crawling over it. And somewhere--somewhere in all that messy, filthy desperation--one single, brutal truth split me wide open: I wasn't the one in control.

He was.

That perfect, inked little brat--spread out across my bed like an offering, eyes glassy with lust--was pulling every fucking string. Every sway of his hips. Every flutter of lashes. Every desperate, taunting sound from that sinful mouth was calculated.

He'd baited me. Set the trap. Lit the fuse. And I was burning for it. He wasn't asking me to be gentle. He was daring me to lose control. Daring me to be the monster he knew I could be. So I gave him what he wanted. What we both fucking needed.

No mercy. No gentleness. No barriers. I was going to fuck him raw. I'd make him sob. Make him scream. Fill him until he forgot his name and could only remember mine--slurred and broken and begging on his lips.

My hand dragged up his spine like a brand, fingers digging into his nape. He arched, gasping, his thighs trembling as I pushed him flat into the mattress. Bent and offered. Slick and aching.

He was ready. Fuck, he was perfect.

My cock throbbed at the sight of him--lips parted and eyes blown black with need. He looked over his shoulder, breath ragged. "Please," he whimpered. "Spence, please--fuck me. I need it. I need you."

That fucking did it.

I spread him to take one look at his little pink hole before I shoved inside him in one deep, merciless thrust. Whatever lube he used before? That was all he got.

He screamed.

Not from pain. Not from surprise.

But from the pure, blistering relief of it.

The sound went straight to my spine--hot, electric, devastating. He clenched around me like a vice, so fucking tight I saw stars. My vision blurred. My breath stuttered. I had to bite down on his shoulder just to stop myself from coming right then and there.

"Fuck--fuck, Elliott," I growled into his neck. "You don't even know what you've done."

His only answer was a shattered moan, hands clawing at the sheets, ass grinding back against me like he couldn't stand the half-second it took for me to thrust again. Elliott arched like I'd lit a fuse in his spine. His mouth dropped open on a cry that was half breath, half wrecked sob--and fuck, I hadn't even started yet.

"Goddamn," I hissed.

He was tight, so fucking tight I saw stars behind my eyes. I held still for half a second, trying to remember how to breathe, but he whined, rocking his hips like he needed me to break him apart.

Little slut.

He was mine.

"You think this is a game?" I growled, voice barely human. I dragged out slowly, inch by inch, letting him feel every second of it--before I drove back in brutal and deep, hips cracking against his ass.

The noise he made--Jesus Christ. I wanted it on repeat. Forever.

"This is what you wanted?"

Another thrust. Harder.

"You tease me. You act out. You think wearing that shirt, sucking on my fingers, parading around like a cock-drunk whore wouldn't get you fucking ruined?"

He couldn't answer. He was gone. A beautiful mess--eyes glassy, mouth open, drool on the pillow.

I reached forward, grabbed a fistful of his hair, and yanked him up so his back was flush with my chest. His entire body shook.

"Say it," I growled against his ear, voice wrecked with lust and fire. "Say who you belong to."

"Y-you," he gasped. "Spencer, I--fuck--I'm yours, I'm yours--"

That snapped something in me. I bent him back over, grabbed his wrists, pinned them to the mattress, and fucked him like I was never going to stop. Like the entire goddamn world could fall away and I wouldn't even blink. He had no purchase. I was completely in control.

His cock bounced untouched beneath him, already leaking. His thighs trembled. But I didn't care. Because I wasn't done yet.

"Come for me," I snarled.

And he did. Fucking sobbed through it. Unraveled around me. Tightened so perfectly around my cock I saw white. But I didn't stop. Because he was mine. And I was going to make damn sure every inch of him knew it.

I had him right where I wanted him--folded beneath me, hips propped, thighs trembling, his body raw and wrecked and so fucking beautiful I could barely breathe. His entire frame was vibrating with tension, his breath catching like he didn't know how to keep going, like he couldn't.

But I knew better. We were only getting started.

I shifted angle, hit that spot deep inside him again, and Elliott screamed--a broken, pleading sound, the kind that made my spine shiver.

"Sp-Spencer--please--fuck--I can't--"

His voice cracked, words gasped between ragged sobs of pleasure. I could see his hands twisting the sheets, his body locking up.

"No, no, no, pet," I purred. "You wanted this cock so badly, and now you're gonna take it."

I set my teeth against his nape, holding him in place, like a wolf pinning its prey. His whimper twisted in my heart, my cock, my veins. I already had him. Now, I just wanted to make him say it. Make him scream it. He sounded wrecked, frantic, choked on the half-sobbed vowels trying to crawl out of his throat--and-- fuck.

I leaned down, pressed my chest to his back, lips to the shell of his ear. "You begged me to fuck you."

"I--Spence--please--"

I slid one hand beneath him, down his flushed, heaving stomach, not even touching his cock--just tracing slow, dangerous circles. I wanted to feel the way he twitched and his muscles clenched while I made him fall apart.

"Please," he begged, "fuck, please--please--Spencer--"

I kept going. It was never please no, it was please don't stop.

But the man beneath me was unraveling. His breath caught, and his body tightened to breaking.

"I know, pretty boy. I know. It's too much. That's why I'm giving it to you."

I fucked deeper. Harder. Right into that spot again. He wailed.

"You wanted this cock, Elliott."

His body tried to squirm away, but I had him. All of him. One hand at his hip, the other locked around his chest, keeping him pinned, helpless.

"Too much--please--Spencer, please--"

"You don't want me to stop," I growled. "You want me to ruin you."

And then I did.

His mouth dropped open in a silent scream. He spasmed beneath me, shuddering so violently it bordered on a seizure--and I felt it. That dry orgasm ripped through him like an exorcism, like his body had been wrung out from the inside. Muscles locked. His back bowed. His hole clenched so tight around me I nearly saw god.

"Good boy," I rasped into the curve of his neck, voice wrecked and low. "So fucking good. You're doing so good for me."

He was still trembling. Still caught in the aftershock. Wrecked and dazed, his skin slick and flushed, chest rising like he was drowning on dry land. Beautiful didn't even come close.

I pulled out, just long enough to flip him--boneless and pliant--onto his back. He followed the motion like cooked pasta, limbs loose, eyelids fluttering. Gone.

But not done.

My arms hooked beneath his thighs and I lifted him, manhandled him into place until I was lined up again. Then I thrust back in--deep, to the hilt, all the way to the root--and stayed there.

And now I had the full view.

Elliott beneath me--blown wide open, lips swollen, eyes glassy and unfocused. His pupils were blown, mouth hanging slack, pink and soft. A drop of spit on his chin. A whimper crawling up his throat like he didn't even know it was there.

This gorgeous, completely fucked-out little brat--surrendered. Raw. Ravaged by a command he never obeyed for anyone else. Not like this. I pulled from him. I braced myself and yanked him forward on my cock--forceful and greedy--until I was buried balls deep inside him again. He moaned like he was dying. Or ascending. Maybe both.

"Look at me," I growled. "Eyes on me."

They fluttered open. Barely.

"I said look."

And there it was. That hazy, glassy gaze locking with mine--just barely tethered to this world. His lips parted like he wanted to speak, to beg, to breathe.

"Spence--" His voice cracked on my name.

I was so fucking close. Aching. Throbbing. I could let go now--could spill inside him and brand him with it. But I didn't. Not yet. I leaned in, hand curled around his throat--not tight, just enough pressure to remind him who he belonged to--and whispered against his mouth:

"Think you can give me one more, pet?"

He shuddered, weakly shook his head from side to side, lips parted, breath catching.

My grin was razor sharp.

"Hm... guess we'll have to see."

Then I drove into him.

Again. And again. Relentless, punishing thrusts that rattled the headboard and tore broken cries from his throat. His nails raked down my back, desperate, seeking purchase--clinging to me like I was the only thing keeping him from falling off the edge entirely.

"You feel that?" I growled, voice rough with the edge of release. "I'm going to fill you up, Elliott. So deep you're gonna fucking taste it."

A broken sound left him--half whimper, half moan--as he buried his face in my neck. His legs locked around my hips, dragging me in, taking every savage thrust with a kind of reverence that bordered on religious.

This wasn't sex anymore. It was art. It was war.

And when his body arched, convulsed, and that final orgasm ripped through him--clear fluid leaking from the flushed tip of his cock--I let go. Let myself fall into that fire. Let my release take me. I came with a curse on my lips and his name in my throat, buried as deep as I could go, claiming him in every fucking way a person can be claimed.

And he took it all.

Like he was made for it.

________________________________________________________________

*Elliott*

I think I died for a second. At the very least, I blacked the fuck out. There were tears on my face. Real ones. And it just... didn't stop. I've been fucked before. Hard. Senseless. Raw--until I swore my spine had liquefied... But never like that.

So now, naturally, I'd locked myself in the bathroom like a dramatic little goblin and crawled into a bath so hot and full of epsom salt--it felt like boiling my bones was a better option than standing upright.

Every inch of me ached. My thighs. My back. My ego.

Outside the door, Spencer was still trying to get me to unlock it. He'd been at it for a while.

"You asked for it," he said through the wood, voice smug and way too pleased with himself. "Begged for it, Elliott. You can't be mad at me."

I sank lower into the water, lips just above the surface.

"I'm not mad," I croaked. "I'm broken. There's a difference."

A pause.

Then: "You're being dramatic."

"I saw God, Spencer."

There was a beat of silence. Then laughter. That bastard was laughing at me. The muffled rumble of his amusement practically vibrated through the door. If smug had a sound, it was Spencer Briggs chuckling after turning me into a human puddle.

Sometimes, I just wanted to sit in peace and simmer--like a foul-mouthed, traumatized bath bomb. Was that too much to ask? Apparently, yes. Because a soft click sounded... and the bathroom door swung open.

The fucker had used a key.

I flung a handful of water in his direction with the full theatrical flair of a drowned raccoon. "Back, you fucking beast. Back."

Spencer--Spencer, who deserved prison time for the things he'd done to me--had the nerve to look delighted. He shut the door behind him, leaned against it in nothing but his briefs, and gave me that slow once-over. Like he was mentally framing me for a gallery.

Me. Sulking. Naked. Ass-deep in bubbles. In a tub large enough to qualify as a war crime against the modestly sized.

"You know," he said, voice low and maddeningly casual, "language like that can get you into trouble."

"My spine is more liquid than solid," I grumbled. "I'm going to be the next victim on Law and Order: SVU."

His eyebrow arched. "Really."

I jabbed a dripping finger toward him. "This is your fault. Look what you did to me. I'll never walk again. My ass has seen the face of God."

His gaze darkened, eyes narrowing with a dangerous kind of satisfaction. Amusement. He stepped closer.

Slow.

Then he knelt by the tub, scooped up the washcloth hanging on the edge, and lathered soap onto my shoulders. He then moved to my neck, scrubbing and massaging in a way that made me almost want to forgive him--almost. The asshole didn't even have the decency to react to the petulant pout I was directing at his beautiful, wicked face.

He smoothed the washcloth down my arms, running the cotton fabric between each finger. It was--ridiculous. Lovely.

"Is that so?" he asked, lifting my wrist to brush his mouth against it. "Must be why it glows. Here I thought you were just pale."

I raised a middle finger salute from beneath the water.

"Fuck you."

He grinned against my skin, eyes flickering with private amusement.

"Hm. You need me to carry you? Ass-first? Like a baby?"

"A very cute baby."

"An incredibly bratty baby."

He grazed my temple with his lips and moved to wash my chest. His hands stilled against my collarbone. His finger traced a branch I had tattooed there. It bloomed into flowers--cherry blossoms. There wasn't much meaning behind it. I just thought it was pretty. Pink petals softening the straight line of black ink. Balance. Beauty. Timeless perfection. I guess that meant I was more sappy than poetic.

"Maybe I'll let you take me to get my first tattoo," he murmured.

"Oh yeah?" I met his gaze and grinned.

"Maybe."

Silence fell. It didn't linger long--maybe a breath or two. We broke it at the same time.

"Spencer--"

"I'm sorry."

My eyes flicked up, startled. That wasn't what I expected. but I saw it--that flash of panic, the guilt he was so good at pretending he didn't feel.

"I'm the reason they took you." He shook his head and squeezed his eyes shut. "I'm the reason you got hurt."

I sighed and took his wrist, holding the washcloth in place.

"Maybe," I said quietly, then I breathed something I'd hardly let myself acknowledge. "But you're also the reason I'm still alive. Spence... you... killed for me."

He was quiet a long moment before he answered darkly, "and I'd do it again."

And I knew right then--

He meant it.