The millionaire, whose name Simon now knew was Marcus, rolled onto his side, propping his head up with one hand while the other traced the damp, muscular valley of Simon's spine. The silence of the suite was heavy, broken only by the distant hum of Mayfair traffic and Simon’s own ragged breathing as it slowly began to level out.
"So," Marcus murmured, his voice regained its smooth, predatory composure, "not quite as straight as you seem, are you? Or perhaps 'straight' is just a very expensive label for you."
Simon remained face down for a moment, his forehead pressed into the cool silk of the pillowcase. His body felt heavy, over-sensitised, and surprisingly calm. He slowly turned his head to look at Marcus, a stray lock of blonde hair falling over his eyes.
"The profile isn't a lie," Simon said, though his voice lacked its usual defensive edge. It was lower, raspy from the sounds he’d been making only minutes prior. "I've never... I’ve never done that before. Not with a bloke."
Marcus let out a soft, knowing chuckle, his fingers sliding lower to graze the firm curve of Simon’s glute, where the skin was still flushed. "And yet, you didn't exactly fight me, did you? In fact, once you got over the shock, you seemed to enjoy that quite thoroughly. I don't pay fifty thousand pounds for a performance, Simon. I pay for authenticity. I felt your pulse. I felt the way you arched into me."
Simon sat up slowly, leaning back against the ornate headboard. He didn't reach for the duvet to cover himself; the vulnerability of his nakedness felt strangely honest now. He looked at his hands, thick-fingered and calloused from the rugby pitch, then back at the older man.
"I didn't think I would," Simon admitted, his British reserve finally cracking. "I thought I’d just grit my teeth and wait for it to be over. But when you... when you were inside me... it was different. It wasn't just about the money anymore."
Marcus smiled, a thin, triumphant curve of the lips. "Most men are far more fluid than they care to admit, especially when they’re being handled correctly. You have a natural talent for this, Simon. Most 'straight' boys are rigid, bored, or terrified. You were... hungry."
"I was," Simon whispered, the confession tasting like iron in his mouth. "I think I liked not being the one in control for once."
"A heavy burden, being the big, strong jock all the time," Marcus teased gently, reaching over to pick up his scotch from the bedside table. He took a sip and offered the glass to Simon. "You’ve cleared your debts tonight, Simon. You’re a free man. But I suspect you’ve found something else you might want to explore. I have a villa in Tuscany. I think that suit would look even better against a Mediterranean sunset."
Simon took a long pull of the burning liquid, feeling it settle the last of his nerves. He looked at the millionaire, then at the opulence of the room that no longer felt like a cage.
"If the offer still stands," Simon said, a slow, confident grin finally touching his face, "I think I could be persuaded to keep the label 'flexible' for the right price. And the right company." "But first," Marcus murmured, his eyes darkening as he set the crystal glass back onto the mahogany nightstand. "Round two, my dear Simon. Don't worry, I’ll add another five thousand pounds for the privilege. Get on your back."
Simon felt a fresh jolt of adrenaline, his heart hammering against his ribs. The initial shock had worn off, replaced by a heavy, languid heat that pooled in his groin. Without a word of protest, he shifted on the silk sheets, lying flat and exposing the pale expanse of his stomach and the thick, muscular columns of his thighs. Marcus moved with the grace of a predator, kneeling between Simon’s knees and grasping his ankles. With effortless strength, he hoisted Simon’s heavy legs upward, pinning his knees toward his chest and draping Simon’s calves over his own broad shoulders.
The position left Simon completely vulnerable, his entrance puckered and glistening with the remnants of their first encounter. Marcus didn't wait. He guided his thick, rigid cock back to the salt-slicked opening and, with one steady, authoritative surge, buried himself to the hilt.
Simon’s breath hitched, a sharp gasp escaping his throat as his internal muscles gripped the invading length. The sensation of being filled so completely, so soon after the first time, sent a wave of white-hot pleasure radiating through his spine.
"Look me in the eyes, Simon," Marcus commanded, leaning forward so their faces were inches apart. He began a slow, grinding rhythm, his hips rotating to catch every sensitive nerve inside the younger man. "Tell me how much you love a man's cock in your tight little hole. Be honest. How does it feel having a real man deep inside you?"
Simon’s head thrashed against the pillow, his blue eyes locking onto Marcus’s grey ones. The blunt honesty of the question stripped away the last of his pretences. He felt the friction of the man’s shaft sliding against his prostate, a deep, rhythmic thudding that seemed to vibrate in his very bones.
"It feels... incredible," Simon choked out, his voice cracking with genuine Need. "It’s so thick... I can feel every inch of you. I didn't think... I didn't know I could feel like this."
"Tell me more," Marcus prompted, his pace quickening, the sound of their bodies slapping together echoing in the quiet suite.
"I love it," Simon confessed, his fingers digging into the plush duvet until the fabric bunched in his fists. "I love the weight of you. I love how you’re stretching me... how it feels like you're taking over my whole body. Please... don't stop. Harder."
Marcus obeyed, his thrusts becoming more violent and precise. Simon’s legs shook on Marcus's shoulders, his heavy quadriceps twitching with every impact. He watched Marcus’s face, seeing the raw power and satisfaction there, and it only fuelled his own arousal. The "straight jock" was gone, replaced by a man who was discovering that being conquered was far more intoxicating than any victory on the rugby pitch. As Marcus drove into him one last time, Simon let out a long, broken moan, his eyes never leaving the man who had just bought his loyalty—and perhaps his soul.
