The cottage was dark and still, the only light the pale sliver of moon filtering through the clean windows. Duncan was sprawled on the sofa, a thin blanket thrown over his legs, the scent of scotch and sex still clinging to the air. His bed had been hijacked by Jayson, who was likely passed out cold upstairs.
At 1 a.m., his phone vibrated on the coffee table, the buzz loud in the silence. He squinted at the screen. Jake.
He swiped to answer. "Yeah?"
"Hey," Jake's voice came through the speaker, rough and frayed with exhaustion. "Just got home. Sorry it's late."
"Don't worry about it," Duncan said, shifting to get more comfortable. "Long shift?"
"Longest," Jake grunted. "Thirty-six hours feel like a week when you're running on fumes and... other things." There was a heavy pause. "How'd he do?"
Duncan let out a low chuckle, a genuine, private sound. "Oh, he did beautifully. A perfect little toy. We sat for a bit after you left, had a debrief."
"Yeah? What'd he say?"
"He's a vapid experience whore, you know," Duncan laughed, the sound warm and appreciative. "He was practically glowing. Kept asking about you. About us. He loved every second of being used."
"Good," Jake murmured, the word a low rumble of satisfaction. "He's leaving in the morning, right?"
"First thing. I'm kicking him out after coffee."
"Good. Get your bed back."
"You know it," Duncan said. "Get some sleep, Jake. You sound dead."
"Trying. Talk tomorrow."
"Night."
The line went dead. Duncan tossed the phone onto the table, closed his eyes, and drifted off.
It felt like he'd just hung up the phone when a piercing, digital shriek cut through the darkness. Jake groaned, fumbling for his phone on the nightstand and slapping the alarm off. 6:00 a.m.
He lay there for a moment, the weight of the last thirty-six hours settling into his bones. And then he felt it. A deep, insistent ache in his backside, a dull throb that was a direct echo of Duncan's paddle and the unforgiving wood of the pillory. His shoulders, too, felt extra stiff, the muscles screaming in protest from being locked in place for so long.
In the kitchen, he poured a bowl of corn flakes, eating them standing up, staring out at the gray morning light, pondering what the future looks like with Duncan in it. Whether Duncan would even want to be.
The jobsite was already buzzing with noise and activity by the time he arrived. The air smelled of sawdust and diesel. He grabbed his tool belt and got to work, trying to lose himself in the rhythm of the labor.
Around mid-morning, his foreman, a burly guy named Mick, clapped him on the shoulder. Jake winced, his shoulders protesting.
"Whoa, easy there, killer," Mick said, holding his hands up with a laugh. "You got laid, I know that look. But what the fuck did she do to you that you're all beat up? You look like you went ten rounds with a cement mixer."
Jake just shook his head, forcing a tight smile as he picked up a two-by-four. "Something like that," he muttered, turning away so Mick wouldn't see the flush creeping up his neck.
The day dragged on, a monotonous blur of sawdust, sweat, and the rhythmic thwack of his hammer. Jake found his mind drifting, snagging on the events of the last thirty-six hours like a nail on a piece of old lumber.
He'd be measuring a cut, and the ghost of Duncan's hand on his hip would flash through his mind, the way he'd been held down. He'd be hauling a sheet of plywood, and he'd remember the sight of Jayson's backside turning red under the paddle, the sound of his screams. He'd be lining up a nail, and he'd feel the phantom ache of the ball spreader, the weight of it, the sheer, humiliating vulnerability. It was a feedback loop of memory—what Duncan did to him, what Duncan did to Jayson, and the terrifying, thrilling knowledge that he had been a willing, active participant in it all.
"Hey! Jake!"
Mick's voice cut through the fog like a chainsaw. Jake blinked, looking up from the beam he was supposed to be securing. Mick was standing a few feet away, hands on his hips, his face a mask of irritation.
"Where's your head at, kid?" Mick yelled, pointing a thick finger at him. "You're spacing out all damn day. She ain't worth it!"
A few of the other guys chuckled, hammers pausing for a moment. Jake felt his face flush hot. He tightened his grip on his nail gun. "Sorry, Mick," he grunted. "Just didn't sleep well."
"Well, get your head in the game before you nail your foot to the floor!" Mick barked, turning away to bark orders at someone else.
Jake took a deep breath, the smell of sawdust filling his lungs. He forced the images away, focusing on the grain of the wood in front of him, the cold steel in his hand. He had to focus. He had a job to do. But even as he drove the nail home, the ache in his shoulders was a constant, throbbing reminder of a world that felt a thousand times more real.
Finally, at five o'clock, Mick yelled, "That's it, pack it in!" The sound was the sweetest thing Jake had heard all day. He moved like a man in a daze, stowing his tools, his body screaming in protest. Every muscle felt like it had been twisted and wrung out. All he wanted was his bed. A quick nap before he had to be at the taproom for eight.
He fumbled with his keys on the walk to his apartment door, his mind already half-asleep. He didn't even bother taking off his dusty work clothes, just kicked off his boots and collapsed face-first onto his bed. The world went black.
The next thing he knew, his phone was screaming at him from the nightstand. Not his 7 p.m. alarm. This was his 7:45 *you're going to be late* alarm. He jackknifed upright, his heart hammering against his ribs. 7:46.
"Fuck!" he yelled, scrambling out of bed. He ripped off his dusty jeans and t-shirt, not even bothering with a shower. He splashed water on his face, brushed his teeth in thirty seconds, and pulled on the clean, black polo and jeans that constituted his taproom uniform. He was out the door and in his truck by 7:55, flooring it through town.
He burst through the taproom's back door at 8:02 p.m. and was immediately hit by a wall of chaos. The place was slammed. Every table was full, the noise level was a deafening roar of laughter, shouting, and clinking glasses, and the bar was three-deep with people waving money and yelling orders.
Maria, the other bartender, was behind the bar, her face a mask of panic as she tried to fill orders, run a credit card, and grab a bottle of tequila all at once. She saw Jake and her eyes widened with relief.
"Jake! Thank God!" she shrieked over the din. "Where the hell have you been? The kitchen just fired a twelve-top and the draft beer line for the IPA is clogged again!”
Jake dove into the fray, his body moving on pure adrenaline. He grabbed an apron, tied it around his waist, and started pulling beers, his hands flying. The chaos was a blessing, in a way. It didn't leave room for thought. There was only the next order, the next shout, the next clinking glass. He was a machine, a whirlwind of motion, his exhaustion buried under a tidal wave of demand.
He was in the middle of mixing a ridiculously complicated gin cocktail for a woman in a sequined top when he felt it. A prickle on the back of his neck. A shift in the noise of the room that had nothing to do with the band starting up. He glanced up, and his heart stopped.
There he was. Duncan.
He was sitting at a small table near the window, looking completely at ease, a faint smirk on his lips as he listened to the two women with him. And they were the two most insufferable girls from their high school class—Brittany and Tiffany. Brittany, with her high, piercing laugh that could cut glass, and Tiffany, who was gesturing wildly with her freshly manicured hands, her diamond bracelet catching the light. They looked exactly the same, just older, more Botoxed, and somehow even more loud.
Just when Jake thought his day couldn't get any worse, there he was. Duncan. In the same space. A world away from the cottage, but impossibly, terrifyingly close. Duncan's eyes met his across the crowded room. He didn't wave. He didn't nod. He just gave a slow, deliberate wink, a private, mocking signal that sliced through the noise and hit Jake right in the gut.
Jake kept working, his hands moving with a frantic efficiency that belied the exhaustion clawing at his bones. He was in the zone, a blur of motion—pouring drafts, sliding bottles, slapping down coasters. He successfully cleared the clogged IPA line, earning a grateful fist-bump from Maria, and was working his way through a stack of drink tickets when he risked another glance at Duncan's table.
They were still there, a bubble of shrill laughter and entitlement in the corner of the room. Duncan was leaning back in his chair, looking bored, swirling the ice in his glass. He wasn't participating in their conversation, just observing it, a predator watching prey that didn't know it was already cornered.
About an hour later, the first wave of the dinner rush began to ebb. Jake was wiping down the bar, catching a moment's breath, when he saw Duncan push his chair back. He said something to the girls, who barely noticed, and then he stood. He moved through the crowd with an unnerving grace, his path leading unerringly toward the narrow hallway that housed the restrooms.
Jake's heart hammered against his ribs. He knew this wasn't a coincidence. This was a summons. He looked over at Maria, who was busy ringing up a tab. "I'm taking my break," he mumbled, tossing the rag onto the bar.
He didn't wait for a response. He untied his apron, threw it under the counter, and slipped through the swinging door into the back hallway, his pulse pounding in his ears.
The hallway was dim and narrow, smelling of stale beer and lemon-scented cleaner. Jake found Duncan leaning against the wall opposite the single-stall bathrooms, looking completely out of place in his expensive clothes, a predator waiting for his moment.
The lock on the bathroom door clicked. A man in a business suit stumbled out, straightening his tie, and walked back toward the bar without a glance in their direction. The second he was out of sight, Jake looked at Duncan, and they quickly slipped into the small, cramped bathroom, the door clicking shut and the lock sliding home with a decisive ‘thump.’
Before Jake could even register the smell of disinfectant, Duncan was on him. He was slammed back against the door, the hard wood digging into his shoulders as Duncan's mouth crushed his. It wasn't a kiss; it was an invasion. Jake's hands flew up to Duncan's chest, but instead of pushing him away, they fisted in the expensive fabric of his shirt, pulling him closer.
"What the fuck are you doing here?" Jake gasped when Duncan finally let him breathe, his lips bruised, his head spinning.
Duncan's hands were everywhere, roaming Jake's back, his sides, his ass, possessive and demanding. He leaned in, his voice a low, urgent murmur against Jake's ear. "I couldn't stand another second without seeing you."
He pulled back just enough to look Jake in the eye, a dark, hungry glint in his gaze. "Why else would I voluntarily go out in public with those two lovelies?" he said, a flicker of genuine annoyance crossing his face before being replaced by a predatory smirk. "I knew you'd be working. I had to see you.”
Jake tried to push him away, his hands flat against Duncan's chest, but there was no strength in it. "Well you've seen me, but please don't distract me the rest of my shift," he started to say, his voice a breathless whisper.
Duncan cut him off with another kiss, this one deeper, slower, more claiming. He stole the protest right out of Jake's mouth, leaving him dazed and weak-kneed against the door. When he finally pulled back, Jake was panting, his resolve completely shattered.
"All right," Duncan said, his voice a low, triumphant murmur. He gave Jake's ass one last, hard squeeze before stepping back, creating space between them. "That will have to hold me over until noon tomorrow, right?"
He straightened Jake's rumpled collar, a gesture that was both intimate and condescending. "Now get back to work, SubTank. Your public awaits." With a final, knowing smirk, he unlocked the door and slipped out, leaving Jake alone in the small room, his heart hammering and his lips tingling.
Jake stood in the cramped bathroom for a full minute after Duncan left, trying to get his breathing under control. He splashed cold water on his face, the shock of it doing little to erase the memory of Duncan's mouth, his hands. He took one final, deep breath, braced himself, and pushed back out into the chaos.
The rest of his shift was a blur of motion. He was on autopilot, his body moving while his mind replayed the last thirty-six hours on an endless loop. Duncan's voice, Duncan's hands, the look in his eyes when he'd winked from across the room. It was all-consuming.
When last call finally came, Jake felt like he'd been run over by a truck. He cleaned up, said a terse goodbye to Maria, and dragged himself out to his truck. The drive home was a silent, numb exercise. He stumbled through his front door, not even bothering to turn on the lights, and collapsed face-first onto his bed, fully dressed.
Six and a half hours later, the piercing shriek of his alarm cut through the darkness. It felt like he'd just closed his eyes. He groaned, a deep, guttural sound of pure protest, and slapped the snooze button. He lay there for a moment, the exhaustion a physical weight, the ache in his shoulders and backside a dull, persistent throb.
But he had to go.
He forced himself up, his body protesting every movement. He stumbled to the shower, letting the hot water beat against his sore muscles. He dressed in his work clothes, the rough denim a familiar comfort. He poured a bowl of corn flakes, ate them standing up, and headed out the door.
Another day. Same job. Same ache. And the promise of noon hanging over him like a storm cloud. He rinsed and repeated, a man caught in a cycle of exhaustion and anticipation.
Jake trudged onto the jobsite, the familiar morning sounds of hammering and saws a dull roar in his ears. He was moving on pure instinct, his body a collection of aches and his mind a fog of exhaustion. He was halfway to the tool shed when Mick's voice cut through the noise.
"Hey, Jake! Hold up."
Jake turned, bracing himself for another lecture. Mick was walking toward him, a cup of coffee in hand, a confused look on his face.
"I thought you were taking the day for the dentist," Mick said, squinting at him.
Jake's stomach dropped. He'd completely forgotten the lie he'd told Duncan. His mind raced, trying to come up with an excuse, but he came up empty.
Mick misinterpreted his silence. He looked Jake up and down, taking in the dark circles under his eyes and the stiff way he was holding his shoulders. A look of something like pity crossed the foreman's gruff face.
"Good on ya, kid," Mick said, clapping him on the arm. Jake flinched, the unwanted pressure sending a jolt through his sore muscles. "Take off. I'll mark you down for a couple of hours. Go on, get out of here."
Jake blinked. "What?"
"Go home," Mick repeated, shooing him away with his hand. "You look like death. Maybe you can finally sleep in the dentist's chair. Just don't make a habit of it."
Jake didn't need to be told twice. "Thanks, Mick," he mumbled, turning and walking away before the foreman could change his mind.
He was halfway to his truck when it hit him. He was free. He had the entire morning to himself. He could go home and sleep. Or... he could drive to the estate. Noon was only a few hours away. A slow, tired smile spread across his face. He wasn't going to sleep in. He was going to show up early.
Duncan was sipping his coffee when he heard the truck rumble up, the sound echoing against the cottage walls. He frowned, looking at the wall clock. "Is it noon already?" he asked himself. He squinted at the hands. It was only eight fifteen? He chuckled, a low, amused sound. The anticipation was getting to him.
He pushed off the counter, the coffee mug forgotten, and walked to the front door. He pulled it open, expecting maybe a delivery or a stray animal, but instead, he found Jake standing on the porch.
The younger man looked like he was falling apart. His eyes were shadowed with deep, dark circles, his shoulders slumped so far forward they looked broken, and his uniform shirt was wrinkled and stained with sawdust. He looked utterly defeated. Duncan's heart broke at the sight of him.
"Mick cut me early, said to go sleep in the dentist's chair!" Jake rasped, his voice barely a whisper, the exhaustion heavy in every syllable.
Duncan stepped out, closing the door behind them. Though he was shorter by a couple of inches, his presence was enough to steady the larger man as he swayed. He looked up at Jake, a fierce protectiveness mixing with his desire.
"Come on," Duncan said, his voice soft. "Let's get you inside."
But then he looked at the state of Jake—exhausted, aching, in need of something real. He didn't want to wait. He wanted to fix him. Right now.
"Better yet," Duncan said, his voice dropping to that low, commanding purr that made Jake's knees weak. "Get your fine ass upstairs, naked and face down on the bed. I will be there in a moment to minister to you!”
Jake didn't argue. He just nodded, a flicker of gratitude in his exhausted eyes, and turned to head upstairs. Duncan watched him go, noting the slow, heavy way he climbed the steps. Once Jake was out of sight, Duncan ducked into the bathroom, grabbing a couple of thick, clean towels from the linen closet and his favorite bottle of sandalwood massage oil from the shelf.
He found Jake exactly as he'd been told, face down on the bed, already half-asleep. Duncan quietly placed the towels on the nightstand and uncapped the oil. The warm, woody scent filled the air. He poured a generous amount into his palms, warming it, and then began his work.
He started with Jake's shoulders, which were knotted into hard, painful balls of muscle. He used his thumbs, digging deep, working out the tension from the construction site and the strain of the pillory. Jake groaned softly, a sound of pure relief, melting into the mattress. Duncan moved down his back, his hands firm and methodical, tracing the lines of muscle, easing every ache. He spent extra time on the lower part of Jake's back and his sore backside, his touch gentle but firm, a silent apology and a promise of care. Within minutes, Jake's breathing had deepened, his body going completely limp. Duncan continued for a while longer, until he was sure the other man was deeply asleep. He then pulled the duvet over him, gathered his things, and went back downstairs.
At 2 p.m., Jake woke with a start. He blinked, disoriented, the room filled with bright afternoon light. He felt... incredible. The deep, bone-weary ache was gone, replaced by a pleasant, languid soreness, like the aftermath of a really good workout. He stretched, his limbs feeling loose and light for the first time in days. He ran a hand through his hair, which was sticking up in every direction.
He sat up, feeling a hundred times better, albeit with a serious case of bedhead. He slid out of bed and padded downstairs in only his boxer briefs, drawn by the smell of fresh coffee.
He found Duncan in the kitchen, sitting at the table with a book and a mug. Duncan looked up as Jake entered, a warm smile spreading across his face.
"You look infinitely better!" Duncan said, his eyes crinkling at the corners.
"I feel it," Jake says, pouring himself a cup of coffee and sitting down. The warmth of the mug felt good in his hands.
"I've been thinking," Duncan starts, leaning forward on his elbows.
"That can't be good?" Jake asks, a tired smirk playing on his lips.
"Fuck you, big guy," Duncan smiles, a genuine, easy smile. "Put a pin in that. Anyhow, what if you quit the bar shift, and I help you make up the difference? Then you aren't burning the candle at both ends."
Jake’s expression hardened instantly. He set his mug down on the table with a sharp *clink*. "I'm not for fucking sale," he said, his voice low and dangerous. "I thought we were together, so what now I'm the house boy you tie up and fuck?"
Duncan was visibly perplexed, his smile vanishing. He held his hands up, a gesture of surrender. "Whoa, hang on. That's not what I meant at all. We only have a finite bit of time before school starts, I just want to make the most of our time together without you working yourself until you're bone-tired." He looked Jake straight in the eye, his voice raw with sincerity. "I love you. I want you. I want to help you!"
Jake's anger deflated, replaced by stunned skepticism. He stared at Duncan, his mouth slightly agape. A slow, disbelieving smile finally touched his lips. "You love me?"
Duncan’s gaze softened, his defenses crumbling. "I guess I always have," he confessed, his voice barely a whisper. "That's why I've always sought you out to tease, to be around you, to see your grimace, your smile, watch your mind work.”
Jake sat at the table, his coffee cooling in front of him. He didn't look at Duncan. He just stared at the grain of the wood, his jaw tight. He counted slowly to himself in his head. One... two... three... a deliberate attempt to rein in the instinct to lash out.
When he finally looked up, his eyes were clear, his voice level. "I love you too," he said, the words landing in the quiet room with surprising weight. "But you can be so fucking entitled and stupid that you can't comprehend a truth that isn't your own."
A slow, relieved smile spread across Duncan's face. He didn't flinch at the insult; he seemed to revel in it. "It's who I am," he said, shrugging lightly. "It's who you fell in love with." He leaned forward, his eyes dancing with a challenging, affectionate light. "I think you got the better end of the bargain, though. I fell in love with a stubborn pit-bull of a man child.”
"Be careful, pit-bull's have a mean bite, they don't let go easily!" Jake teased, a genuine warmth finally returning to his eyes as he leaned back in his chair.
"Noted," Duncan said, his smile turning predatory. He leaned forward, resting his elbows on the table, closing the distance between them. "So can we have make up sex, or do I have to beat you to get you in the mood?"
Jake's smirk widened. He reached across the table, his hand wrapping around the back of Duncan's neck, pulling him in until their foreheads were nearly touching. "Try me," he growled, his voice a low rumble. "I don't let go easily either."
Duncan met his gaze, his eyes dark with desire. "Oh, I know," he murmured. "I can see it in your eyes. You want it just as bad as I do." He leaned in the final inch, his voice dropping to a husky whisper. "Unless you want to test that theory and see if I can actually handle a pit-bull?"
