INTRODUCTION
A forbidden, slow-burn wedding saga about a mouthy young brat and the man he was never supposed to want.
It’s supposed to be the happiest week of Nathan Monroe’s life - a luxury wedding at a countryside estate, surrounded by friends, family, and enough champagne to keep everyone glowing until vows are exchanged.
But for Mason, the groom’s younger brother, it’s something else entirely.
He’s back in town, trying to behave. Trying not to look too long at Calvin Hale - Nathan’s best friend since high school, and now the best man. Mason spent years pretending he didn’t have a thing for him. Spent most of his twenties trying to forget the Instagram photos, the fantasies, the heat he never got over. But now they’re at the same guest house for the wedding.
And Calvin?
He only got hotter.
Big. Broad. Tattooed. The kind of man who doesn’t say much but when he looks at you, it’s already too late. Mason talks back, plays it cool, stretches in his tight yoga pants like it’s nothing. But the moment Calvin calls him Pretty Boy in that low voice?
He’s wrecked.
This is a story about control. About slow teasing. About tension so thick you could cut it with a knife. It’s about the wedding week Mason thought he’d survive with a little yoga and some sarcasm and the best man who’s about to break him open, one filthy, whispered order at a time.
Mason Monroe: 29. Boyish, beautiful, big problem, secretly obedient. The kind of guy who talks back just to see how far he can be pushed. Spent most of high school pretending he didn't have a thing for his brother’s best friend. He’s back home for the wedding now, trying to behave. But the guy he used to crush on? He’s only got hotter.
Calvin Hale: 33. Broad, bulky, tattooed. One of those quietly dangerous men with big hands, big arms, and no patience for teasing. Has full blackwork across his shoulders and chest, maybe more. Doesn’t talk much, but when he does, it lands. Was once just Nathan’s best friend. Now he’s the Best Man. And he’s watching Mason like he knows exactly what he wants from him.
Nathan Monroe: 32. Golden boy. The kind of brother everyone loves. Engaged, excited, and deeply unaware of the tension pulsing through his guesthouse. He thinks this is just a normal week of family, vows, and celebration. He doesn’t know Mason’s been crushing on Calvin for years.
He doesn’t know what they’re about to do.
An erotic, filth-soaked slow-burn about power, control, and the man you were never supposed to want.
One room. One bed. One mistake you’ll beg not to regret.
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Part 1: Welcome to the Estate
I arrived three days before the wedding, freshly stretched from a yoga retreat that had left me calm, tan, and exactly zero percent prepared to be back here.
The estate was huge; the kind of countryside property with winding gravel roads, white stone archways, and someone’s Pinterest mood board brought to life with strings of lights and overpriced flower arrangements. My brother’s fiancée was going all in. And knowing Nathan, he was probably helping her fold napkins into swans.
I wasn’t here for the swans. I was here because I was the younger brother. Which meant family photos, polite nods, awkward hugs, and pretending I hadn’t spent half my teenage years jerking off to his best friend’s Instagram. And that man; the reason I learned how to clear my browser history.... stepped out of the guesthouse right as I pulled up.
Calvin Hale.
He was worse now. Broader. Tatted. Shirt half-buttoned, black slacks hanging low, forearms massive. Sunglasses hooked into the front of his open collar. He looked like he’d been hired as security for the estate and just decided to stay for the view.
My mouth went dry before he even opened it.
"That you, Monroe?", Calvin’s voice cut through the air, low and rough as he walked towards the car.
Before I could think of some sarcastic or halfway-witty reply, the front door opened again and Nathan came jogging out like a golden retriever off-leash.
“Mase!” he beamed, running straight at me. His hair was a little longer now, cheeks flushed, shirt rolled up like he’d been lifting boxes or charming the catering staff. “You look… like LA threw up on you.”
“I missed you too,” I muttered into his shoulder.
He pulled back, grinning, still too warm and too perfect. Then he turned and casually threw an arm around Calvin’s massive shoulder like the size difference between them wasn’t shocking. “You remember Calvin, right?” Nathan said. “He's my best man.”
Oh, I remembered.
I remembered every shirtless post, every smug gym selfie, every thirst trap he used to drop like he wasn’t fully aware of what he was doing. The way his chest looked when it was soaked in sweat, the tattoos curling across his shoulders like they were drawn there just to make you stare. I used to jerk off to those pictures in the middle of the night with my phone angled low and my sheets pulled tight. And now he was right in front of me, bigger, broader, real.
The mere sight of him made my cock throb against the inside of my pants, thick and twitching already, like my body remembered what to do before my brain caught up. One glance at his arms, the way that tight shirt hugged his chest, and I was hard enough to embarrass myself if anyone looked too closely. I looked him up and down as they bro-hugged.. Calvin’s shoulder stretching his shirt so tight it looked painted on.
“Yeah,” I said. “Supposed to be me, but sure... go with the walking muscle porn.”
Nathan laughed. Calvin didn’t.
He turned toward me, sunglasses now dangling from his fingers, and looked me over again...slower this time. From the half-unbuttoned shirt down to the way my pants clung to my thighs. His eyes didn’t rush. They took their time.
“Masey-boy,” he said, dragging it out like he wanted me to flinch. His voice was low. Lazy. Like he already knew something I didn’t. Then, with a smirk that curled at the edges, he added, “Trust me. We’ll figure out a good use for you, pretty boy”
What the fuck was that supposed to mean?
If he meant to be used by him; bent over, face down, ruined on crisp white guesthouse sheets... then yeah, sure. Sign me up.
But guys like Calvin? They were straight. Fucking a new girl every time they opened their mouth. Tattooed, cocky, probably hadn’t questioned shit since high school. The kind of man who didn’t even have to try to destroy you.
I gave him nothing. Just grabbed my bag, kept my head high, and followed them toward the guesthouse.
The gravel crunched under my shoes. The sun was still too bright. And Calvin was walking in front of me, broad shoulders flexing beneath that damn shirt.
God help me. This week was going to ruin me..... if Calvin didn’t do it first.
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The rest of the afternoon blurred into estate logistics. Groomsmen arrival times. Cake tasting. I was told where to be, when to smile, and how not to get grass stains on my cream-colored shirt. I kept catching glimpses of Calvin -clipboard in one hand, pen tucked behind his ear, shirt sleeves rolled and clinging to arms that did not belong at a wedding.
Every time I caught a glimpse of him moving across the garden, the fabric of that white dress shirt strained at his back like it was barely surviving. The tattoos on his forearm flexed as he wrote something down. His mouth stayed tight and focused, except for the occasional smirk when someone tried to micromanage him.
By early evening, I was halfway through a glass of wine, leaning against a column in the garden when Calvin passed by in a deeper blue dress shirt, this one tighter, opened a little too low.
“New shirt?” I asked, eyes blatantly on his chest.
He didn’t look up from the schedule. “You’re obsessed with me already, Pretty Boy?”
I blinked. “Did you just call me that again?”
He finally looked up. Smirked. “Fits, doesn’t it?”
There was no wink. No laugh. Just that quiet confidence, like he knew exactly how I’d take it. Like he could see the flush blooming under my collar.
I hated how good it sounded coming from his mouth. Pretty Boy. Said like a challenge. Like he’d already figured out what I looked like on my knees.
I wanted to say something smart. Something cutting. Instead, I watched him walk away, broad back stretching the seams of that shirt. I wanted to punch him in the chest and suck his dick in the same breath.
Later, I was helping Nathan carry some of his stuff into the guesthouse when he dropped the news. “Hey, slight change,” he said casually, adjusting a duffel. “Tessa’s family arrived early. The guest rooms are filling up faster than we planned.”
I froze halfway up the stairs.
“…Okay? And?”
“You’ve got one of the bigger suites, figured we’d use the space,” Nathan said, adjusting his duffel like this wasn’t a bomb. “I already asked the staff to move your stuff to Calvin’s room. Hope you don’t mind, baby brother.”
My stomach dropped through the floor. I didn’t even have time to fake an objection. He was already walking away, yelling something about table linens. I stood there like an idiot with a hard-on I was pretending not to have. Down the hallway, Calvin’s voice drifted from the room:
“You coming, Pretty Boy? Or just standing there thinking about it?”
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