“Wait, what?”
“Yep,” Ben said, grin stretching wider, eyes bright with disbelief and pride. “Can you believe it?”
Jordan blinked, confusion settling slow and thick in his chest. He wasn’t sure he’d heard right, Gideon Black, the Gideon Black, the one Ben had assaulted, signing him.
“Wh-how did that happen, Ben?” he managed.
“He messaged me this morning. Said he’d kept an eye on me, liked what he saw, wanted to talk business. Asked if I was free for drinks tonight. So yeah… I went.”, Ben explained, massive hands gesturing with that excited energy Jordan hadn’t seen in months.
Jordan did his best to keep his expression carefully neutral. “And just like that… you signed?”
Ben chuckled, “Pretty much. We talked numbers, strategy, collabs. He’s got plans, Jord. Big ones.”
“You didn’t think you should ask me first?” Jordan said, the words slipping out sharper than he’d meant, bitterness threading through his voice like a crack in polished glass.
Ben froze mid-motion, the easy grin faltering for the first time. His hazel eyes flicked to Jordan’s face, really looking now, and something in them shifted. Surprise, maybe the first flicker of unease.
“Sorry, babe,” he said, forcing a light laugh that didn’t quite land. “I didn’t know I needed to ask your permission.”
He tried for playful, rubbing the back of his neck with one massive hand in that sheepish way Jordan used to find irresistible. But Jordan could hear the strain beneath it, the way Ben’s voice pitched just a fraction higher.
“Not permission,” Jordan corrected quietly, sitting up straighter. “But shouldn’t you at least have asked my opinion? Shouldn’t we have talked about it together?”
“What’s there to talk about, Jord? He’s the biggest manager in the game. This is huge for me. It’s great for my career.”
“That’s what we should talk about, Ben,” Jordan said, the words coming out sharper now, edged with the bitterness he’d been swallowing all night. “Since when is this your ‘career’?”
Ben’s brow furrowed, the excitement dimming behind his glasses as he straightened, arms crossing over his broad chest
“We talked about it the other day,” he said, voice dropping a notch. “We agreed I’d keep doing the videos.”
“Sure, we said you’d keep doing the videos. But we never talked about this, about managers, contracts. Turning this into some… official operation. Do you even know what you signed away tonight?”
Ben’s jaw tightened under the beard. “Of course I know what I signed, Jordan,” he said, voice roughening with frustration. “I’m not a fucking idiot. I sent the contract to Marcus Chappel to look over. That’s why it took so damn long tonight, I was waiting on his green light before I put pen to paper.”
Jordan felt the name land like another small weight in his stomach. Marcus Chappel, the lawyer that helped them before. Ben hadn’t rushed in blind. He’d been careful, deliberate and that only made it worse. Because it meant this wasn’t impulse. It was choice.
“Okay,” he said at last, voice quieter now. “Good. That’s… good you had someone check it.”
The silence stretched between them, heavy and unfamiliar.
“I don’t know what you’re so mad about, Jord,” Ben said at last, voice quieter too, the earlier annoyance drained away into something closer to confusion. He took another small step closer, the floor creaking softly under his weight, hazel eyes searching Jordan’s face behind the faint reflection in his glasses. “I thought you’d be happy about it.”
He rubbed the back of his neck again, “I know you’ve been overwhelmed with work… and having to manage the OnlyFans stuff on top of it. This takes all that off your plate. Gideon and his team handle the scheduling, the promo, the messages, everything. You won’t have to deal with any of it anymore.”
The words were gentle, earnest, offered like a gift. They were meant to soothe, meant to fix something Ben thought was broken. And for a moment, the care in Ben’s voice, the way he’d noticed Jordan’s exhaustion, cracked the wall Jordan had built tonight. Jordan looked up at him. He wanted to say it, that it wasn’t about the workload. That it was because tonight he’d spent hours making himself beautiful and vulnerable, only to watch the candles burn out alone while Ben built something new without him.
Instead, he just exhaled, slow and shaky.
“I’m not mad,” Jordan lied, the words barely above a whisper. “It’s just… this feels like you’re pushing me away.”
Ben’s eyes widened, genuine shock flashing across his face. For a second he stood frozen in the middle of the living room. Then he closed the distance in two long strides and dropped heavily onto the sectional beside Jordan, the cushions sinking under his weight until their thighs pressed together. He reached out without hesitation, settling one hand on Jordan’s thigh, just above the knee.
“Hey, come on,” Ben murmured, leaning in until Jordan could smell the bourbon again. “It’s not like that. It will never be like that.” His brow furrowed, beard shadowing the tight line of his jaw. “I’m not pushing you away, babe. I just thought it made sense, professionally, you know? Gideon knows this world inside out. He manages this stuff way better than you or I ever could.”
Jordan stared at the hand on his thigh, the weight of it both comfort and ache. “I know that,” he agreed quietly, the admission soft, almost defeated.
The silence settled again, thinner this time, threaded with the unspoken things neither of them seemed ready to name.
“Shit, Jord, please, don’t be like that, baby,” Ben said, voice dropping into that soft, pleading register he used when he knew he’d stepped on something tender. He leaned in closer on the sectional, the warmth of his body cutting through the chill. “Look, I can’t talk about this tonight, okay? I drank way too much bourbon. My head’s all foggy, brain’s not working right. Can we table it for now? Please?”
Jordan stayed silent for a long moment, staring at the dark TV screen, the faint reflection of them both caught in the glass, Ben’s broad frame hunched toward him, hopeful, a little unsteady; his own face pale and drawn. The truth was, they could hash it out until their voices gave out and the first gray light of morning crept through the windows, and it wouldn’t change a thing. It was done. Ben had signed. And if Jordan knew anything about Gideon Black, and he did, from the whispers in certain group chats, the industry gossip that floated through the apps, those contracts were ironclad. Bulletproof. Backing out would mean penalties, legal headaches, maybe even burning bridges in a world that was now Ben’s livelihood.
Jordan was fired. Gideon would handle it now. Professionally.
He felt the ache settle deeper, not sharp anymore, just a dull, exhausting weight behind his ribs.
“Yeah,” he said finally, voice barely carrying. “Okay. Let’s just go to bed.”
He stood without meeting Ben’s eyes, the sectional creaking as he pulled away from that warm, heavy hand. Ben rose too, hesitation in his movements, like he wanted to reach out again but wasn’t sure he’d be welcome. They moved down the hall in silence, the loft dim and hushed around them. The bedroom was dark and ordinary again, the overhead light off, the candles long extinguished, but their faint sandalwood scent still lingered in the air, soft and cloying, a pathetic reminder of the night Jordan had so carefully prepared. The warmth he’d tried to build, hour by hour, now reduced to nothing more than a ghost of fragrance that clung to the sheets and curtains.
Ben didn’t notice it.
He never even paused, just kicked off his shoes by the door, peeled away the rest of his clothes with the easy fatigue of too much alcohol and excitement. Oblivious. Grateful, maybe, for the quiet end to a day that had felt triumphant to him. Jordan slipped under the covers first, turning onto his side, facing the window where the city lights blurred faintly beyond the glass, indifferent pinpricks in the dark. Ben settled in a moment later. He didn’t reach out. Didn’t pull Jordan close the way he usually did. Just a quiet, sleepy murmur of “Night, babe,” before his breathing slowed and deepened.
Jordan lay still, eyes open, the faint sandalwood curling around him like mockery. He didn’t answer. He just listened to Ben fall asleep, the space between them small in the bed but wider than it had ever been, waiting for the morning.
Gideon Black was nothing if not a professional. Even Jordan, as reluctant as he was to admit it, couldn’t deny the man’s ruthless efficiency. Over the next few weeks, Ben’s career exploded in ways Jordan knew he could never have orchestrated, no matter how many late nights he’d spent managing messages and thinking of promos.
It started with the press. Gideon lined up a pair of thoughtful, high-profile interviews for major gay publications. First came The Advocate, a heartfelt piece titled “From Darkness to Spotlight: How OnlyFans Saved My Life.” Ben opened up about the depression that had nearly swallowed him after the firing, the weight gain, the nights he couldn’t get hard even for his boyfriend. He spoke with quiet gratitude about how the camera had given him purpose again, how the fans’ desire had rebuilt his confidence brick by brick.
A week later, Gay Times ran their own feature. “Big Ben: The Bear Who Broke The Internet” This one leaned more playful: Ben laughing about his runaway origins, his accidental discovery of his own appeal, the way Jordan, carefully anonymized as “my partner”, had been the one to suggest the profile in the first place, and the comments flooded with heart emojis and marriage proposals
Then came the podcasts. The first was Gay of Thrones, the one Jordan himself had listened to religiously for years, bingeing episodes on his commute while Liam and Noah dissected pop culture, sex, and politics with razor-sharp wit. The episode dropped on a Thursday while Jordan was at the office. He didn’t even pretend to work. AirPods in, volume low, he sat at his desk refreshing the stream every few minutes until it went live. Hearing Ben’s low, familiar rumble fill his ears, nervous at first, then warming up as the hosts drew him out was surreal. They talked about body positivity, the stigma around sex work, how Ben balanced his relationship with his new public life. Ben was charming, self-deprecating, careful not to overshare about Jordan. When Noah joked, “So is your boyfriend jealous of the thousands of guys thirsting after you?” Ben laughed and said, “He’s the most secure person I know. Couldn’t do this without him.” Jordan’s eyes stung. He closed the tab and stared at his computer screen for a long time.
The second podcast was one Jordan had never heard of: the GoonCast. When Ben came home that evening, still buzzing, he explained it casually over takeout: sunglasses and balaclava on for anonymity, just him and the host, Rico, in a studio somewhere in Brooklyn. “It’s… explicit,” Ben admitted with a sheepish grin. “Like, really explicit. We just talked sex the whole time, you know, first times, fantasies, kinks.. and we jerked off on cam. Timed it so we finished together. Fans love that shit.”
Jordan had stared at him, fork paused halfway to his mouth. “You… jerked off on a podcast?”
Ben laughed, cheeks flushing under the beard. “Yeah. It was wild. It dropped a few hours ago. Already top ten on the adult charts.”
Gideon wasn’t just managing an account anymore, he was building a brand.
When it came to the long-awaited collab with Dante Montoya, Gideon didn’t wait for Montoya to move. Montoya, chronically lazy, and notoriously irresponsible, had gone radio silent after the shoot, no follow-up emails, no discussion about drop dates or captions. He didn’t even had a manager. Gideon simply took control. He negotiated the split directly with Montoya, a generous but firm 55-45 after platform cuts and orchestrated the marketing like a military campaign. Teasers started ten days out: cryptic thirty-second clips, no full faces, just glimpses of tattooed skin sliding against hairy chest, heavy breathing synced to a low bass track, the words “Coming Soon” stamped in bold white. Gideon paid for targeted ads across Twitter, Instagram, and TikTok, boosting them to every account that had ever engaged with either creator.
Two days before drop, he orchestrated a simultaneous teaser post from both accounts: it opened on Montoya, that signature lazy smirk on his perfect lips. White text faded in: “He thought he could handle it.” Cut to Ben, completely naked, Aviators perched on his nose, beard framing a predatory grin, his monstrous cock standing thick and rigid, veins prominent, heavy balls hanging low. The camera lingered just long enough to make the point unmistakable. Then the words: “He almost did.” Quick flashes followed: Montoya sweaty and wrecked, his ass flushed deep red with handprints, face contorted in overwhelmed ecstasy, body arching as he tried weakly to pull away. Ben looming over him like an immovable mountain, one massive hand gripping a hip, pulling him back onto that relentless cock with effortless power. The final frame froze on Montoya’s wide-eyed, gasping face, Ben buried deep behind him, with bold text slamming across the screen: BIG BEN BREAKS DANTE.
The reaction was seismic.
For years, Montoya had carefully cultivated his brand as the ultimate top: cocky, tattooed, dominant, the guy who flipped power bottoms like pages in a magazine and always walked away looking untouched. Fans called him “the king,” and he wore the crown comfortably. When the full video dropped, the comments sections, Twitter, Reddit, and every gay Discord server exploded. @PowerBottomKing tweeted: “Montoya got absolutely DEMOLISHED and was smiling the whole time?? I’m dead.”, and @SizeQueenNYC replied: “the moment he tapped ben’s thigh like slow down and ben just growled take it, I’ve watched that clip 47 times.” @BigBenWorshipper82 posted: “Dante reduced to a whimpering whore begging for more. We owe Big Ben a national holiday.” @VersDreamer quote-tweeted the final scene: ‘the way he looked back at Ben at the end like pure worship in his eyes… damn top card has been revoked.”
Within hours, it rocketed to the platform’s trending page. Tips exploded, $50, $100, $200 bombs from fans who’d been waiting weeks. Subscription spikes hit both accounts, but Ben’s surged hardest: 9,000 new followers in the first weekend alone.
By Tuesday night, the counter rolled over.
One million followers on Twitter.
Jordan stepped out of the elevator into the loft that night, the familiar hush broken by low, animated voices drifting from the kitchen. Ben and Gideon sat side by side at the kitchen island, both leaning toward the glow of Ben’s open laptop. An expensive bottle of Veuve Clicquot stood half-empty between them, its orange label catching the warm under-cabinet lights. Two flutes bubbled gently, golden liquid beaded with condensation on the stems. They were clearly celebrating the milestone.
Gideon, immaculate in a charcoal sweater, gestured at the screen and Ben, sleeves shoved up his thick forearms, triumphant grin on his face, nodded along. When Ben spotted Jorda, that grin stretched even wider, boyish and radiant. Yet he remained seated, one heavy arm draped along the back of Gideon’s chair, the other lifting his flute in a lazy toast. He did not rise, did not cross the hardwood in those long, familiar strides to pull Jordan into the crushing hug that had once been their daily ritual.
In a few moments, Ben explained, they would join a Zoom call with the Bryant Twins, the identicalOnlyFans stars that approached Ben for a collab in the aftermath of Ben’s debut. Gideon had targeted them for Ben’s next major collaboration. Jordan managed a small nod and told Ben he would leave them to it, that he needed a shower after the long day, and slipped away down the hallway before anyone could protest.
The call was already on when Jordan returned to the kitchen. Jordan drifted on silent feet, refilling his water glass, opening the fridge for nothing in particular, rearranging a stack of mail on the island, small, ordinary movements that let him orbit the conversation without joining it. On the laptop screen, Tommy and Timmy Bryant filled the frame, their identical heads tilted toward the camera. Jordan was almost certain those names were invented for the brand; no one that symmetrical came by “Tommy and Timmy” naturally. Yet they were surprisingly pleasant: warm voices, quick laughs, none of the cocky edge he’d half-expected after the whole Dante Montoya fiasco.
The four of them, Ben, Gideon, and the Bryants, slipped seamlessly into logistics, voices overlapping in that comfortable shorthand of people who already shared the same ambitions. Jordan caught fragments as he moved: the twins regretting that the Christmas-themed scene they’d pitched wouldn’t work with schedules, how they still hoped for something more ambitious than a simple threesome, something with concept, lighting, a loose storyline that would stand out in feeds already flooded with raw footage. They even talked about their personal lives for a while. Jordan was shocked to know Tommy and Timmy weren’t actually brothers, after all. Not even cousins. Tommy had grown up in a small town outside Detroit; Timmmy came from the Inland Empire in California. They’d met only a few years ago, both freshly arrived in Los Angeles, both aware of how eerily alike they looked: same height, same sharp cheekbones, same sun-bleached hair and disarming smiles. Somewhere along the way they’d decided to lean into the resemblance, to package it, to turn coincidence into a lucrative gimmick.
The conversation shifted at some point, the twins’ voices brightening with curiosity as they asked to meet Ben’s boyfriend, the one Ben had mentioned in interviews, the partner who’d been there from the start. Ben’s head turned toward the hallway where Jordan lingered and, Before Jordan could retreat further into the shadows of the kitchen, reached out a massive hand, catching Jordan’s wrist gently but firmly, and tugged him forward.
Jordan went reluctantly, the hardwood cool beneath his bare feet, a flush creeping up his neck as he stepped into the laptop’s unforgiving glow. He managed a small wave, feeling suddenly on display in his faded sweats, hair still damp from the shower.
The twins leaned closer to their camera, identical smiles flashing wide and genuine.
“Nice to meet you, Jordan!” one said warmly.
“Seriously,” the other added, eyes sparkling with what looked like honest appreciation, “you’re even hotter than Ben.”
There was no sly wink, no loaded innuendo about how they would be sharing Ben’s cock, no crude joke at Jordan’s expense. Just straightforward warmth that caught him off guard. One of them, Timmy, maybe, tilted his head with a playful grin, suggested they should grab drinks sometime while they were in the city. Just us bottoms, he said, light and conspiratorial, and Jordan surprised himself with a shot, genuine laugh. He felt the flush shift from embarrassment to something warmer, almost flattered, as the twins beamed back at him.
The call wrapped up soon after and Jordan assumed that would be Gideon’s cue to leave. The man was already rising from the armchair, movements crisp and efficient as he collected his wallet from the coffee table, slipped his phone into his pocket, and scooped up his car keys with a muted jingle. But halfway to his feet, Gideon paused, one hand still resting on the armrest. His gaze flicked up, sharp and direct, landing squarely on Jordan.
“Sorry, Jordan” he said, voice smooth but edged with purpose, “you got a couple minutes? There’s something we need to run by you.”
Surprised, Jordan’s gaze flicked from Gideon to Ben, searching for some hint of what was coming. But Ben kept his eyes fixed downward, suddenly absorbed in tracing an invisible pattern on the marble countertop, his broad shoulders hunched just enough to signal discomfort. Or avoidance.
“Um, yeah. Sure.”
Gideon didn’t speak right away. Instead, he thumbed something on his phone then turned the screen toward Jordan.
“So,” he said. “this is Beau Ryder.”
Jordan’s pulse stuttered, a quick, involuntary jolt beneath his ribs, as he leaned closer to the phone’s glowing screen. The photograph filled the display: a young man in his early twenties, muscular yet boyish, impossibly cute in a way that felt almost innocent. Shaggy light-brown hair fell across his forehead in careless waves, framing a pair of wide, baby-blue eyes that radiated an innocence so pure it bordered on sweetness. His smile was soft, disarming, the kind that made you want to trust him on sight. Shirtless, his skin glowed golden under the flawless spill of professional lighting, every line of his torso carved with quiet precision. He looked like the boy next door who’d wandered into a studio and accidentally become fantasy incarnate.
“Ok, and?”
“He’s a new client of mine. Just signed with him, actually, just last week.” explained Gideon, “he hasn’t made his debut yet. I had a couple of ideas but none of that felt right...”
Jordan saw where he was coming.
“You want him to shoot with Ben?” he asked.
“Yes, but that not only it. See, Beau is a virgin. 100%. Never even kissed another guy, if you can believe that.”
Jordan snorted. “Yeah, that’s hard to believe.”
“Trust me, I know when someone is bullshitting me.”, Gideon kept going. “So, yeah, I think he should debut with Ben... but that’s not all of it. We wanna stream everything, live, let people see Ben popping Beau’s cherry in real time”
Jordan sat very still, the marble cool beneath his forearms, Gideon’s words echoing in the sudden hush.
A live stream. Ben taking a virgin on camera, real time, no edits, no second takes, while thousands watched, tipped, commented, owned the moment in a way no recorded video could match.
He lifted his gaze from Beau Ryder’s innocent smile frozen on the phone screen and met Gideon’s steady eyes.
Ben still hadn’t looked up.
“Okay,”Jordan said, “so what exactly do you need to run by me?”
Gideon set the phone face-down on the marble with a soft click, as if sealing Beau Ryder’s innocent smile away for the moment. He leaned forward, elbows on the island, fingers steepled in that calm, predatory way that made Jordan’s skin prickle.
“The thing is,” Gideon began, his tone conversational yet edged with cool pragmatism, “the kid’s a virgin. Which means he’ll be nervous as hell. Cherry popped for the first time by a fucking brute like our Ben, on camera, with thousands watching. Honestly, it sounds like a shitty way to lose your virginity.”
He let the words settle, glancing briefly at Ben, before continuing.
“So the odds of something going wrong are high. He could bail last minute. He could freeze up, not perform the way everyone expects. On a regular shoot, that’s manageable. You pause, reset, give him five minutes to pull himself together, edit it out later. But on a live stream?” Gideon shook his head, a faint, knowing smile tugging at his lips. “Impossible. If Beau locks up, if he can’t take it or safewords out mid-scene, the audience won’t care that it’s his first time. They’ll be pissed. They’ve paid to watch Ben wreck him, plain and simple.”
The loft felt suddenly smaller, the warm pendant lights casting long shadows across the marble that seemed to stretch between them. Jordan felt the weight of it all pressing in: the risk, the spectacle, the cold calculus of turning vulnerability into profit. Ben’s silence stretched on, heavy and complicit, while Gideon waited, patient as ever, for Jordan’s reaction.
“The idea,” he said, “is that Ben and Beau do a little trial run first. You know, to take the pressure off. So it won’t be such a big deal for the kid when it’s the real thing, lights and cameras and thousands of eyes on him.”
“Okay,” Jordan said, the single word coming out flatter than he intended. “And what exactly does this trial run look like?”
Gideon gave a small, almost apologetic shrug, as if the answer were the most reasonable thing in the world.
“You know, they just do it. Just fuck. No crew, no cameras, no pervs watching on the screen. They get to know each other, test the chemistry, make sure Beau can handle it without the whole internet breathing down his neck.”
He let the silence stretch just long enough for the implication to settle fully.
It wasn’t the sex that twisted him.
He’d watched Ben fuck other men on camera, heard the details whispered in his ear until he came shaking in the dark. That stung, yes, but he’d learned to ride the wave of it, shame and heat braided tight. This was different, this was private. No lights. No performance. Just Ben and that wide-eyed boy alone in a room, the door closed, the world locked out.
Jordan could see it too clearly: Ben gentle at first, the way he used to be with Jordan in the beginning: slow kisses along the neck, big hands steadying trembling hips, low murmurs of “easy, breathe, I’ve got you” as he eased inside inch by inch. The patience Ben would give a nervous virgin, the careful stretch, the quiet praise when Beau finally took him all, the soft, lingering aftercare when it was over, forehead kisses, arms wrapped close, the kind of tenderness that used to be theirs alone in the dark of their loft.
That intimacy.
The part Jordan hadn’t felt in months.
Ben giving it away to a stranger.
Jordan’s chest tightened, jealousy blooming sharp and possessive, a hot ache behind his ribs that had nothing to do with the act itself and everything to do with the quiet, sacred space Ben was about to share with someone else, someone who wasn’t him.
“You’re on board with this?” Jordan asked, turning fully toward Ben, his voice quiet but edged with something brittle.
Ben shrugged, the motion slow, almost reluctant, his gaze finally steady on Jordan’s face. “I wanted to run it by you first,” he said, the words careful, “but yeah. Sure. I think it’s a good idea.”
“It is a good idea, Jordan,” Gideon cut in smoothly, leaning forward with that assured tilt of his head. “Trust me.”
Jordan didn’t look at him. He kept his eyes locked on Ben, the anger rising now like heat through his chest, sharp and undeniable.
“I’m sorry,” he said, voice low and trembling at the edges, “but how is this different from you picking up some random guy at a club and fucking him?”
“I’m sorry,” he said, voice low and trembling at the edges, “but how is this different from you picking up some random guy at a club and fucking him?”
Ben’s brow creased, a flicker of surprise crossing his face before it settled into something guarded. He rubbed the back of his neck, the gesture slow, buying time.
“It’s not the same, Jord,” he said finally. “This is work. It’s planned. It’s for the stream.”
Jordan let out a short, bitter laugh that scraped his throat.
“Work,” he repeated, the word tasting like acid. “So you’ll fuck this kid twice, once for ‘practice,’ once for the show.”
Ben’s jaw tightened beneath his beard. “We need to make sure the live thing goes smooth. You know how these fans are. If it flops, they’ll tear him apart. I’m doing him a favor.”
Jordan stared at him, the anger cresting higher, hot and blinding.
“A favor,” he echoed, voice cracking. He leaned forward, elbows on the cool marble, eyes locked on Ben’s. “Do you want to fuck him, Ben? Because it sounds like you want to fuck him and you’re just looking for an excuse.”
Ben’s hazel eyes widened behind his glasses, surprise flashing sharp before it hardened into something defensive. He exhaled through his nose, slow and controlled, but his fingers curled tighter around the stem of his champagne flute.
“That’s not fair, Jordan,” he said finally, annoyance roughening his voice. “That’s my job now. I fuck who I have to fuck. And what’s the difference, anyway? Fucking him in private or fucking him on camera? It’s fucking either way.”
Jordan didn’t know why he was so against the idea.
Ben wasn’t even that wrong. It was going to be sex either way, private or on camera, Ben’s cock inside Beau’s body, the same stretch, the same sounds, the same release. Logically, the trial run made sense: safer for the kid, smoother for the stream, better for the brand.
And yet the thought of letting them have that private moment (was it even his choice anymore?) felt deeply, fundamentally wrong.
Maybe because the cameras, the crew, the veneer of professionalism had been the only things keeping Jordan from certain realizations he wasn’t ready to face. As long as it was “work,” he could pretend it was separate from them, from what they used to have. A job. A performance. Something Ben did for money and validation, not desire.
But strip away the lights, the angles, the audience, and what was left was jst Ben and a beautiful, nervous virgin in a quiet room, no one watching, no need to perform. Just the slow, careful intimacy of a first time, the kind Ben used to give Jordan in the early days, when every touch felt sacred, when Ben’s eyes had stayed locked on his like he was the only thing in the world.
That was what Jordan couldn’t stomach. The idea that Ben would give that gentleness, that patience, that quiet worship to someone else, not for tips or views, but simply because it was needed. That Beau would get the version of Ben Jordan had been starving for, the one who whispered “you’re doing so good” and kissed away the sting and held him after until the shaking stopped.
And Jordan would get nothing.
But Jordan didn’t know how to explain it, how to put words to the wrongness twisting in his chest without sounding irrational, possessive, or worse, like he was the one holding Ben back. If Ben wanted to fuck that kid, how could he say no? Especially when it was Jordan himself who had set this whole thing in motion, who had built the account, sent the messages, encouraged the shoots, all to pull Ben out of the darkness. He had handed Ben the path, brick by brick, and now it led somewhere Jordan hadn’t foreseen, somewhere he couldn’t follow.
He felt ganged up on.
Ben and Gideon sat shoulder to shoulder on the opposite side of the island, an accidental alliance in the warm light. Two men who understood this world in ways Jordan no longer did, their shared certainty pressing against him like a physical weight. Jordan was alone on his side of the marble, the half-empty champagne bottle between them like a border he couldn’t cross.
He opened his mouth, closed it again.
“Look, Jordan, you’re getting this all wrong,” Gideon said, his voice sliding into a placating, almost paternal tone that made Jordan’s skin crawl. He raised both hands in a slow, conciliatory gesture, palms open like he was calming a spooked horse. “I asked Ben not to say anything because I know you’re not super thrilled he’s working with me. But the whole thing was my idea, okay? Beau, the live stream, the test run, all of it. Ben didn’t even want to do it. I had to convince him.”
Gideon leaned forward just enough to close the distance across the island, eyes steady and earnest behind that polished smile.
“Don’t be mad at him, alright? He’s just doing me a solid here.”
The word meant to soothe, meant to redirect the anger, meant to paint Ben as the reluctant good guy caught in the middle. The heat in Jordan’s chest wavered, the sharp edge of betrayal blunted by the image of Ben pushing back, hesitant, protective of whatever fragile thing was left between them.
“Is that true?” Jordan asked, voice low, eyes fixed on Ben.
Ben hesitated, only a fraction of a second, the tiniest pause before his answer came, but Jordan saw it. That flicker behind the glasses, the brief tightening at the corner of his mouth, the way his gaze slid sideways for an instant before returning.
“Yeah, of course,” Ben said, the words steady but a shade too quick. “I’m just trying to be professional here, Jord.”
Jordan wasn’t sure he believed him.
Jordan studied him across the marble island, searching for the tell he’d learned over years: the faint twitch when Ben stretched the truth, the way his shoulders lifted just a fraction when he was bracing for impact. There was nothing obvious. Ben held his gaze, expression that looked genuine enough to pass. But Jordan knew the shape of Ben’s silences better than anyone. And this one carried weight.
He wasn’t ready to call it a lie.
But he wasn’t ready to believe it was the whole truth, either.
“I’m not comfortable with this, Ben,” Jordan said.
“But you’re not vetoing it either, right?” he asked, voice light, almost eager.
Jordan felt the heat rise in his chest again, shame and resentment braided tight, burning hotter with every heartbeat.
“It’s not up to me to tell Ben what he can do with his body,” he answered finally, the admission soft but steady, each syllable costing him.
The loft went quieter still. Ben’s shoulders eased a fraction, satisfaction flickering across his face before he masked it.
“Great!” Gideon exclaimed, his voice suddenly too loud in the quiet loft, the word cracking the tension like a hammer on thin ice.. “It’s on, then. You’ll see, Jordan, it’s no big deal. Just sex, man. This time next week you won’t even remember this conversation happened. Trust me.”
Jordan nodded, the motion slow and absent, his gaze fixed somewhere past Gideon’s shoulder, on the dark window reflecting the three of them back like ghosts. Gideon rose from the island, smoothing the front of his charcoal sweater with practiced ease. Ben stood too, the stool scraping softly as he walked him out, the two of them moving toward the door in a rhythm that felt rehearsed, inevitable.
“Oh, one last thing, Jordan,” Gideon said, pausing at the threshold, hand already on the knob. His tone was casual, almost apologetic, but the words landed with deliberate weight. “It’s been crazy getting a room in the city this time of year. Would you mind if the trial happened here? Maybe you go out? Hit a fancy restaurant, have a nice lunch. On my dime, of course. Just to give the boys some privacy, you know?”
Jordan said nothing.
“Well,” Gideon said after a beat, voice lighter than the moment deserved, “think about it. No rush.”
The door clicked shut behind him.
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