Jax didn’t knock.
He never did. Not here.
The staff was long gone, the blinds pulled, the main shop dark. All that was left was low jazz drifting from the speakers and that faint scent of shea butter and clove that always lingered after Shawn had been working.
Jax walked through the back hallway like he owned the place—black hoodie, gold Cuban, dick already heavy in his sweats. He pushed open the door to the VIP suite and saw Shawn exactly where he expected him.
Down on one knee, hands resting on his thighs. No shirt, just smooth brown skin and a silver chain catching the glow of the sconces. His joggers were still on, but the outline of his dick was thick and visible. The man stayed ready.
Jax shut the door and let the silence do what it always did—speak for him.
“You been waitin’ long?” His voice came out low, rough from smoke and late-night bourbon.
Shawn looked up. Not timid. Never timid. Just calm. Submissive in posture, but solid in presence.
“Only ten minutes,” he said. “Figured you were cleaning up.”
“I was.” Jax peeled off his hoodie, revealing the sculpted weight of his chest and the ink that crept across his shoulders. “Kitchen was light tonight. Couple late resys, nothing serious.”
“You eat?”
“Not yet.”
Shawn smirked—just a little. “You hungry?”
Jax stepped forward and grabbed a handful of the back of his head, tilting it up. “Always.”
And then he dropped to his knees.
He didn’t start with his dick. Not tonight. Tonight, he wanted taste first. He gripped Shawn’s waistband and tugged the joggers down, revealing thick thighs and that jockstrap he liked—black, wide-banded, his ass framed perfectly in it like it was made to be handled.
“You wore this for me?” Jax growled, pushing Shawn back onto the velvet couch and spreading his legs wide.
Shawn breathed out. “Always for you.”
That did something to Jax’s chest. Tightened it. But he pushed it aside. Tonight wasn’t about feelings. It was about ownership.
Jax dropped his face between Shawn’s cheeks and went to work.
He licked slow. Deep. Messy. He spit, spread, sucked—nose buried, tongue sliding over every inch of Shawn’s hole like he hadn’t had it in weeks. Shawn groaned, fists clenching into the cushions, hips pushing back without hesitation.
“Fuck,” Shawn moaned, voice cracking. “You always eat it like you starvin’.”
“I am,” Jax muttered, not stopping. “Keep your legs open.”
He pushed two fingers in while he ate, curling them just right. The moan that came out of Shawn’s throat sounded like surrender. Raw. Real.
Jax pulled back just long enough to stand up and stroke his dick out—thick, veiny, leaking. It slapped heavy against Shawn’s cheek as he leaned in.
“You know what to do,” Jax said.
Shawn didn’t hesitate. He opened his mouth wide, lips stretched, tongue out. Jax fed it to him slow at first, then grabbed his head with both hands and started fucking his throat.
No mercy. Just slow strokes getting deeper, wetter, filthier. The sound of spit, breathing, and low jazz filled the room. Jax looked down, watching Shawn take every inch.
“You missed this?” he asked, hips rolling forward.
Shawn choked slightly, then pulled off, eyes glazed. “Yeah. I been leaking since yesterday. Thought about this shit all day.”
Jax grinned. “Good.”
He gripped his own base, slick with spit, and rubbed it over Shawn’s hole—but didn’t push in.
Not yet.
Instead, he reached down, stroked him slowly, and whispered, “You gonna cum just from me playin with it like this?”
Shawn nodded, panting.
“Say it.”
“I’m gonna nut just like this. Don’t even need to stroke myself.”
“Good boy,” Jax growled.
He kept teasing, deep strokes between Shawn’s cheeks, pressure just under the rim, rubbing that spot until Shawn’s whole body shook.
“Fuck… Jax—Jax—I’m about to—”
“Let it go.”
And just like that, Shawn exploded. Thick ropes shot up across his stomach, chest, and neck—his hole twitching, pulsing, leaking around nothing but Jax’s pressure. He collapsed back against the couch, breathing hard, legs still spread.
Jax leaned down, tongue flicking over the dripping mess, tasting his boy’s nut like it was earned. Then he kissed him—slow, filthy, dominant.
“You always this easy for me?” he whispered against his lips.
Shawn exhaled. “Only for you.”
Jax pulled his sweats back up and stood over him. “Next time, I’m fuckin’ you over that mirror.”
Shawn didn’t move. Just smirked up at him like he’d already be waiting.
The kitchen at Char & Smoke was silent except for the low hum of the fridge compressors and the steady rhythm of Jax’s chef knife against the board.
6:13 a.m.
He’d been here since 5:30. Didn’t need to be. Brunch wasn’t till 10. But he’d needed the silence—the routine—the control. Especially after what he did last night.
The edge of his blade slid clean through a slab of raw ribeye, slow and precise, just how he liked it. Marbling was perfect. Cut like velvet. Still, his hands felt tight.
He hadn’t jerked off this morning.
Didn’t need to.
Every time he thought about it—about Shawn’s thighs shaking, about the way that nut hit his own chest when Jax told him to let go—his dick would twitch in his sweats again. Heavy. Satisfied. Possessive.
He wiped the blade, then his brow. The prep line still smelled faintly of oakwood from last night’s char.
The back door swung open.
“Morning, Chef,” came a voice—Derrick, his GM. Early 30s, ex-Marine, ran the floor like a drill sergeant. Loyal. Sharp.
Jax gave a nod without looking up.
Derrick watched him work a minute. “You alright? You movin’ like you already halfway into dinner rush.”
“I’m fine,” Jax said flatly.
“You just… focused,” Derrick added, smirking. “That or you got laid last night.”
Jax didn’t pause the knife, but the tension in his forearm spiked just a beat too long.
Derrick laughed. “Aight. Say less.”
Jax finally looked up. “You check in with fish delivery yet?”
“Yeah. Salmon came clean. Oysters too.” Derrick raised a brow. “You want me to run the kitchen today?”
“I got it.”
“You sure?” He motioned around. “You usually don’t slice steak yourself unless you tryin’ to work something out.”
Jax stared at him for a beat, then said low, “I said I got it.”
Derrick raised his hands, backing off. “Bet. Just let me know if you need anything.”
The door closed behind him.
Jax exhaled.
He wiped his hands and pulled out his phone.
One unread message.
Shawn
Still leaking. You nasty for what you did to me.
Jax smirked. Rolled his tongue along his molars. That damn man.
He typed back:
You cleaned up? Or you still sittin’ in it like I told you to?
Three dots. Then:
Still sittin’.
Jax’s jaw clenched. His dick pressed against his waistband again, thick and aching.
He stared at the screen for a moment, then locked it and tossed the phone onto the steel prep counter.
Not today.
He had a full dining room to lead, food critics watching the brunch menu, and two private events on the books. No time to think about tight jockstraps soaked in his nut, or how that man tasted when he was begging for more.
Except… he was thinking about it.
And he couldn’t stop.
Because every time he wiped down a counter or leaned into a flame, he could still hear Shawn’s voice from last night:
“Only for you.”
That shit echoed.
Three years ago
Char & Smoke – Grand Opening Night
11:48 p.m.
The place was still buzzing.
The last of the VIP guests had just cleared out. Tables half-wiped. Champagne flutes scattered like afterthoughts. The air was thick with smoke, laughter, perfume, and pride.
Jax stood behind the bar in the private lounge—his lounge now—loosening his collar, top button undone. He hadn’t taken a single sip of the bourbon someone gifted him at the ribbon-cutting. He was still riding the high.
Ten years of grind. Seven of them silent. Four in culinary school by day, bar-backing by night. Another three selling plates out of his grandma’s house on 81st.
Now? Char & Smoke was real. His name on the door. Five-star buzz before the first Yelp review.
And the first person to show up?
Shawn.
Fresh cut. Tight gray blazer over a black tee. Gold watch. The kind of confidence that walked ahead of him and made people move. He didn’t have to say it, but Jax knew—he was proud.
Now, he was the only one left.
“You still workin’?” Shawn leaned against the side of the bar, sipping slowly. “Ain’t nobody left to impress, Chef.”
Jax smirked. “You still here.”
Shawn raised a brow. “I don’t count?”
Jax poured a neat shot of Uncle Nearest and slid it to him. Then one for himself.
They clinked. No words.
The silence between them had always said more.
Same block. Same high school. Same back-of-the-bus jokes. Same night they got caught stealing Black & Milds from the corner store—and the same ride back home from Jax’s grandma every Sunday.
Shawn had always been there. And tonight, Jax needed that.
“You good?” Shawn asked, softer now.
Jax nodded. “More than good.”
“You look it.” His voice dipped, eyes holding Jax’s just a beat too long. “Like you own the whole block.”
Jax looked down, smirked, shook his head.
But when he looked back up, Shawn was still staring.
Neither one of them moved.
The air shifted. Tightened. Got thick.
“You remember prom night?” Jax asked suddenly, voice rough.
Shawn blinked. “Where the fuck that come from?”
“You remember it or not?”
Shawn laughed, low. “I remember you wearin’ them busted-ass gators and still pullin’ a girl that wasn’t even from our school.”
Jax leaned forward. “I remember catchin’ you starin’ at me in the locker room after the game that week.”
Shawn went still.
A beat passed.
“You trippin’,” Shawn said—quiet, but his voice had changed. Throat dry.
“You ain’t deny it, though.”
Jax stepped out from behind the bar. Shawn didn’t back up.
Just stood there.
Waiting.
“I ain’t trippin’,” Jax said low. “But I been thinkin’ about something for a minute now. And I’m tired of thinkin’.”
Shawn swallowed, chest rising.
“What you thinkin’ about?”
Jax didn’t answer.
He kissed him.
Hard.
One hand to the back of Shawn’s neck, the other gripping his jaw. Their teeth clashed for half a second before Shawn groaned and grabbed the front of Jax’s shirt, pulling him closer, lips open, tongue slick and hungry.
They stumbled into the leather booth in the corner, still kissing, hands grabbing, shirts lifting.
“You sure?” Shawn asked between breaths.
Jax pulled his shirt over his head. “Nah. But I ain’t stoppin’.”
Shawn didn’t say another word.
Jax pushed him back, dropped to his knees, and pulled his pants down slow.
He didn’t expect it to taste this good.
Didn’t expect Shawn to gasp like that when he licked up the underside of his shaft and let his tongue drag across his balls.
Didn’t expect to enjoy hearing Shawn beg.
“Fuck… don’t stop… please—”
Didn’t expect his own dick to leak like it had a mind of its own just from hearing it.
He sucked him slow. Deep. Let Shawn buck his hips. Let him come with a raw groan that filled the booth like a prayer whispered through gritted teeth.
When it was over, Jax stood and wiped his mouth.
Shawn sat there, shirt halfway off, breathing hard, chest rising like he’d just finished a run.
“What the fuck was that?” he asked.
Jax leaned close.
“First course,” he said.
And walked away.
Shawn stood in front of his chair, clipper in one hand, spray bottle in the other—but his mind wasn’t here.
The aftershave in the air. The jazz on the speakers. The faint heat from the steam towel drawer. All of it felt too soft. Too warm. Too much like the way Jax’s breath had felt on his hole last night, tongue working like he was starving, fingers curling deep until Shawn came without touching himself.
Even now, standing here mid-fade on a client, his thighs still ached. His throat was sore. His jock was damp—still. And he was pissed at himself for liking it.
“You alright, boss?” one of the barbers asked, looking over.
Shawn blinked back into the room. “Yeah. Just thinkin’.”
He wasn’t thinkin’. He was remembering.
The way Jax had said it: “You always this easy for me?”
And the way he had answered: “Only for you.”
Shawn swallowed hard, trying to focus as he lined the man’s beard. One wrong move and he’d nick someone—but his own pulse was making his fingers shake.
Thirty minutes later, with the last cut out the door, he was in the back of the shop, wiping down the VIP suite. The scent of sex still lived in here. Faint. Faded. But real.
He reached under the counter to grab a fresh towel—and bumped into somebody.
“Damn,” he muttered, standing quick.
“Didn’t mean to sneak up on you.”
Tre.
New hire. Young. Tight fade. Arms tatted and thick. Shirt fitted too perfectly. Maybe 27, maybe 28. Smooth voice. Eyes like he knew he was cute.
“You always clean up solo like this?” Tre asked, voice dipping.
Shawn didn’t answer at first. Just folded the towel. “I like it a certain way.”
“Makes sense.” Tre leaned against the wall. “This place got your name all over it. Feels like you.”
Shawn raised a brow. “What’s that mean?”
Tre smirked. “Just sayin’. Strong. Clean. Masculine.”
The silence stretched.
Tre’s eyes dropped to Shawn’s waist. “You always walk like that?” he asked, tone slick.
Shawn tensed. “Like what?”
“Like somebody had you grippin’ sheets last night.”
Shawn let the towel drop.
“I got it from here,” he said flatly.
But Tre didn’t move. He took one step closer. Just one.
“You got somebody, boss?”
The question hung in the air. Too bold. Too dangerous.
Before Shawn could answer, his phone buzzed on the counter.
He glanced. And froze.
Jax:
Don’t nut today. And don’t let nobody touch you. You know better.
Shawn’s face burned.
Tre leaned over and glanced at the screen—just for a second too long.
Then he grinned. “Right. My bad.”
He walked out, slow. On purpose. Like he was letting it linger.
Shawn stood there, hard, aching, jaw clenched.
He snatched his phone and typed fast:
That lil’ mf just tried me. Didn’t touch him. But he saw the text.
Jax replied two seconds later.
Don’t nut. I’m dealing with you later.
9:17 p.m.
Shop closed. Lights off in the front. Shawn was in the VIP suite.
Door locked. Shirt off. Pants down. Plug in. Stroking slow.
His knees were spread wide on the couch, jockstrap pushed to the side, hole twitching around the slick black plug Jax told him to keep in. One hand stroked his thick shaft, leaking over his abs. The other gripped the base, trembling with restraint.
He moaned softly. Bit his lip.
Thought about Jax’s voice. That growl when he said, “You leak like you need to be owned.”
He sped up. Got close.
Didn’t hear the door.
Tre. Quiet. Back again. Said he forgot his watch. Saw Shawn’s car outside. Didn’t knock.
He pushed the door open just a crack.
And saw everything.
Shawn on the couch. Plug in. Stroking like he couldn’t breathe. Whispers of “Jax… fuck…” coming from his lips.
Tre froze.
Didn’t move. Didn’t say a word.
Just watched.
Eyes wide. Chest rising. Jaw clenched.
And then—he backed away. Quiet as he came. Left the door cracked. The energy in the room thick with something he shouldn’t have seen—but couldn’t forget.
10:12 p.m.
Shawn was still on the couch. Breathing heavy. Still hadn’t finished.
He couldn’t. Not after that.
Phone buzzed again.
Jax:
I’m coming to the shop tomorrow. Don’t clean up the couch. Don’t nut before I get there.
10:43 a.m.
Shawn sat in his car outside Crown & Steel, engine running, head leaned back against the seat. He stared at the last text from Jax.
Jax:
Can’t make it. Wife pulled the “we never go anywhere” card. Gala tonight. Handle the shop. I’ll deal with you tomorrow.
Tomorrow.
Shawn exhaled hard, chest tight. His hole was still twitchy, plug still in like he was told. His jock was damp. And now he had to go through the whole day like this?
Jax hadn’t said he could nut. Which meant he couldn’t.
“Fuck,” he muttered.
The day dragged.
Every client felt like a delay. Every towel, razor, and neck strip was a distraction from the weight between his cheeks and the ache between his legs. Every step felt too slow, too exposed. He tried not to think about Jax’s tongue. Jax’s voice. Jax’s hands.
But when the last appointment left and the shop cleared out, the silence almost swallowed him.
He walked into the VIP suite, shut the door, and leaned back against it.
His hand went straight to his waistband.
But before he could touch himself—
Knock. Knock.
He froze.
“Yo, it’s Tre,” came the voice. Muffled, casual.
Shawn didn’t respond. Didn’t move.
“Just forgot my slides,” Tre added.
Shawn cursed under his breath and opened the door halfway. “They in the locker.”
Tre didn’t move.
He looked Shawn up and down—shirt off, sweats low, sweat on his neck.
“I ain’t here to play you,” Tre said. “But I saw you last night.”
Shawn went still.
“I ain’t mean to,” Tre continued, voice lower now. “But I saw the car. Came in quiet. You ain’t hear me.”
Shawn’s jaw tightened.
“I ain’t tell nobody,” Tre added. “Won’t, either.”
Silence.
Tre stepped back. “But… if you ever wanted someone to just watch… I’d sit quiet. Ain’t gotta touch nothin’. Just… I’d respect it.”
Shawn stared at him. Eyes hard. Mind racing.
He’d never messed with anybody he worked with. Had men try him before. Some bold, some discreet. He always shut it down.
But Tre? There was something about him.
Too calm. Too smooth. Too damn confident.
And his body—tall, cut, dark skin inked from shoulder to forearm, neck to hand, tattoos moving like shadows across his muscles when he shifted.
And Shawn was weak today.
Real weak.
His phone buzzed.
Jax:
Still got the plug in?
Shawn stared at the screen. Then at Tre.
Then back.
He typed fast:
Yeah. Still holding.
Jax replied:
Good. Don’t nut. But if you need help not touchin’ yourself… get creative.
Shawn swallowed hard.
Turned to Tre.
“One rule,” he said. “You can look. But you can’t touch.”
Tre stepped inside. Quiet. “Bet.”
Shawn laid back on the couch, sweat already building at his collarbone.
He peeled down his sweats slowly, jock still stretched across his hips, plug buried inside, glistening at the edge. His cock hung thick and leaking against his stomach.
He grabbed it and started stroking. Slow. Breathing shallow.
Tre sat in the leather chair near the mirror—legs spread wide, eyes locked in.
Shawn didn’t look at him. Just kept going. Plug shifting inside him, strokes getting faster.
He moaned low, jaw clenched. “Shit…”
Tre shifted. Adjusted.
Shawn glanced sideways—and caught it.
Tre’s dick.
Hard.
Huge.
Easily ten and a half inches, thick, dark, veins running up the shaft—and pierced. A silver ring curved through the head, glinting under the overhead light. He stroked it slow, steady. Eyes never left Shawn.
“You a freak,” Shawn muttered.
Tre smirked. “You lettin’ me watch.”
Neither spoke for a minute.
Just breath. Lube sounds. Stroking. Tension.
Tre’s eyes dropped to Shawn’s hole. The way the plug slid just a little with every stroke.
“You ever ride wit’ that still in?”
“Shut up,” Shawn hissed—but his voice cracked. He was too close.
Tre kept stroking. “You almost there?”
Shawn nodded. “I can’t…”
“You holdin’ it like a pro.”
Shawn squeezed his shaft hard, legs shaking, moaning as he tried to stop himself from cumming.
Then—
Click.
The door.
Jax.
Standing there in a black button-down, sleeves rolled. No expression.
Just stillness.
His eyes dropped to Shawn—plugged, leaking, panting—and then to Tre, stroking slowly with that pierced monster of a dick.
Shawn froze. Tre stopped too. Not guilty. Not smug. Just still.
Jax didn’t say a word.
Didn’t blink.
Didn’t move—for a full five seconds.
Then he shut the door behind him.
Soft.
Final.
The door clicked shut with a sound that carried weight.
Jax stood just inside the VIP suite, eyes locked on the scene in front of him—Shawn on the couch, pants off, plug still in, jock twisted, dick leaking. And Tre, seated near the mirror, stroking a fully erect, thick 10.5-inch monster of a dick, pierced clean through the head. His hand had stopped moving—but the evidence of what he’d been doing was clear.
Neither of them spoke.
Jax didn’t either.
He stepped forward slowly. Calm. Quiet. No rush. He unbuttoned the cuffs of his black dress shirt, rolled each sleeve up to his elbows like he was preparing for a long, dirty job.
Then he looked directly at Tre.
“Stand up.”
Tre obeyed. No hesitation. His dick stood heavy, throbbing between his thighs.
“Put it away,” Jax said. “You ain’t earned the right to touch yourself in my presence.”
Tre froze—then tucked himself back in, carefully. Silently. Chest rising, gaze low.
Jax nodded toward the leather chair. “Sit. Stay quiet. Watch what happens when my boy forgets who the fuck owns him.”
Tre sat again. Slower this time. Respect settling into his posture.
Jax turned toward Shawn.
“You lettin’ employees see what’s mine now?”
Shawn swallowed. “I didn’t—he said he just wanted to watch.”
“And you said yes.”
Shawn didn’t answer.
Jax stepped in close, towering over him. “Get up.”
Shawn stood, shaking slightly. Jax walked behind him and grabbed his waistband, yanking the plug out in one slow, wet pull.
Shawn gasped. Nearly collapsed forward.
“Turn around,” Jax growled.
Shawn faced the couch.
“Hands on the cushion. Ass out.”
He obeyed.
Jax spit in his palm and stroked himself once. Then again. His cock was thick, full, pulsing. He lined up—then paused.
Looked back at Tre.
“You see how open he is for me? That’s not about sex. That’s submission. That’s trust.”
Tre nodded once, eyes wide, jaw tight.
“You ever had a man give you his whole body without askin’ questions?”
“No,” Tre admitted quietly.
“You ever deserved it?”
Tre said nothing.
Jax pressed in.
One long stroke. Then another.
Shawn moaned into the cushion. Loud. Needy.
Jax gripped his hips and leaned down, voice in his ear. “You think anyone else gets to see you like this?”
“No,” Shawn breathed.
“Say it louder.”
“No, sir.”
Tre shifted in the chair. His jaw clenched, but his hands stayed down—just like he was told.
Jax started to move. Deep. Steady. Slow strokes that pushed Shawn forward with every thrust. The room filled with the wet sound of skin on skin. Moans. Breaths. Pressure.
“You gonna cum without touching again?” Jax asked, voice rough.
“I—I’ll try.”
“You will. Because I’m gonna ruin you in front of him. Make him remember who the fuck you belong to.”
He reached around and gripped Shawn’s shaft, tight, stroking in rhythm with each deep thrust.
Shawn was shaking, eyes rolled back, mouth open.
“I’m gonna fill you so deep you’ll taste it. And he’s gonna watch every damn second.”
Tre didn’t blink. He sat still, hard again beneath his pants, breathing through his nose, watching like he was watching a lesson.
And maybe he was.
Shawn came first—no hands—nut shooting across the cushion, crying out into the room.
Jax came next. Deep. Rough. Buried inside. He didn’t pull out.
Just stayed there.
Breathing.
Sweat slicked down his back, his jaw tight, fingers digging into Shawn’s sides.
Then he slowly pulled out—cum dripping from Shawn’s hole.
He turned to Tre.
“You clean him up.”
Tre looked up—surprised. Silent.
“I said clean him up. With your tongue. Or you walk out now and never come back.”
Tre stood.
Walked over.
Dropped to his knees.
And leaned in.
Shawn woke up face-down, the plug still inside him, thighs sore, the sheets twisted around his waist like evidence.
He didn’t even remember Jax putting it back in.
What he did remember was the way Tre looked when he got on his knees.
Not greedy. Not slick.
Just… focused.
The ache between Shawn’s legs wasn’t just physical. It was mental. Emotional. A stretch in his chest that he couldn’t explain. Not guilt. Not pride. Just a deep pull like something inside him had been opened and hadn’t closed all the way yet.
The smell of sweat and cologne still lingered in the air. A faint line of dried nut trailed across his stomach. And still—still—his dick was hard.
He reached for it. Barely wrapped his fingers around the base.
His phone buzzed.
Jax:
Be ready tonight. No touching. No talking.
Shawn exhaled and let go.
At Crown & Steel, the vibe was different.
He didn’t say anything. Neither did Tre.
But the energy between them was thick.
Shawn noticed the way Tre stood straighter. Quieter. Still confident—but respectful. He didn’t stare. Didn’t flirt. Didn’t joke.
And that said more than words.
Tre walked past him once and said, low:
“Thanks for trusting me.”
Shawn paused—then nodded.
Didn’t smile.
Didn’t explain.
He didn’t need to.
They both knew something had shifted.
The kitchen at Char & Smoke was dim, golden under the under-counter lights. Jax moved like he always did—precise, silent, powerful. Bare forearms, apron tied, a slow pour of Uncle Nearest in a thick glass.
Tre stood across from him. No phone. No words. Just ready.
“You know why I brought you here?” Jax asked, slicing limes.
Tre shook his head. “Not fully.”
“I saw the way you watched him. But I also saw you listen.”
He looked up. “You didn’t move without permission. You held it together. That’s rare.”
Tre said nothing. But his body spoke—shoulders squared, mouth firm.
“You got a powerful dick, but that don’t mean shit without control,” Jax said, voice quiet but firm. “You think dominance is about size, voice, stroke count. It’s not. It’s about what you don’t do.”
He set the knife down and stepped around the island. “It’s about what you hold back.”
Tre nodded slowly.
“If a sub trusts you with his body, you better know how to carry that shit like a king, not a boy.”
He reached out—briefly—fist tapping Tre’s chest once, solid. “This is where it starts.”
Tre’s eyes lit with something deeper than lust. Something like purpose.
Jax checked the time.
“Grab your bag,” he said. “We’re not done.”
10:13 p.m.
Hotel Coltrane
Room 1802
Tre stepped off the elevator in all black. Fresh tee, fitted jeans, his scent a subtle mix of oud and skin.
He knocked once.
Jax opened the door. Black crewneck. Nothing else.
Inside, the suite was low-lit. Candles on the table. Jazz humming from a speaker. One man—muscular, brown-skinned, kneeling on the rug. Naked. Plug in. Collar on.
Tre froze for half a second.
Jax leaned in close to his ear. “This one’s been waiting.”
Tre’s eyes moved over the submissive—calm posture, hole twitching, cock untouched but hard.
Jax stepped back and locked the door. “He’s yours tonight. Show me what you’ve learned.”
Tre walked in slowly.
The submissive looked up. “Sir…”
Tre said nothing.
He circled. Calm. Measured.
“You play by my rules tonight,” he finally said. Voice low. Steady. “No speaking unless I ask. No nut unless I say.”
The submissive nodded.
Tre removed his tee. His chest flexed, ink catching the candlelight. He pulled out his thick, pierced dick and let it hang—heavy, commanding. The air shifted.
From the corner, Jax sat in a leather chair. Silent. Watching.
He didn’t speak. Didn’t move.
Just watched.
Tre pushed the submissive forward, laid him chest-down on the bed. Spread him wide. Fingers first. Then tongue. Then dick.
Long strokes. Deep breaths. Voice in the boy’s ear like velvet sandpaper.
“You take what I give. Nothing more.”
It was art. Controlled, dominant, intentional.
And Jax felt it.
Felt it so deep in his chest it dropped lower—into his gut, then to his dick.
He shifted in his seat, unzipped his pants, and—for the first time—wrapped his hand around himself while someone else did the dominating.
He stroked slow, watching Tre take command.
The way Tre held the sub’s neck. The way he paused mid-stroke to whisper directions. The way he denied him the nut. Then gave it. On his terms.
Jax came silently, jaw tight, breath locked in his chest. Cum spilled into his hand, still watching, still aroused by the control.
11:42 p.m.
Suite quiet. Submissive asleep in the other room.
Tre stepped out of the shower, towel wrapped around his waist. Jax was at the window, shirt back on, sipping water.
Tre spoke first. “Didn’t know you’d watch.”
Jax turned slowly. “Didn’t know I’d stroke.”
That made both of them laugh, but just for a second.
“You’re getting good,” Jax said, tone even.
Tre nodded, unsure how to respond.
“Not just sexually. Your voice. Your stillness. That’s what dominance is. Not performin’. Presence.”
Tre nodded again, more confidently now.
Jax stepped close, clapped a hand to his shoulder. “Stay close. You’re not just a student anymore. You’re becoming dangerous.”
He let go.
Tre’s eyes locked in. “Dangerous how?”
Jax smirked. “The kind of man who doesn’t need to raise his voice… to own a room.”
