Author's note: I'm sorry for the delay in delivering this chapter. I took the last few days to finish the other story I'm publishing, Siren Song, so I needed to drop Jordan and Ben for a while. But the wait is over! if you guys want me to publish Siren here at GayDemon too, let me know, but you can check it on my Substack profile.
Breakfast was a quiet affair at the loft that Wednesday morning, the kind of quiet that pressed in from all sides, thick and heavy enough that Jordan thought he could slice it with a knife.
He and Ben were… okay, Jordan thought. They’d dropped the matter that night with Gideon and never took it up again, agreed that Ben and Beau would do the so-called trial run in the loft later that evening. Officially, they were on the same page. Ben had even kissed him goodnight, a soft press of lips that lingered like an apology, before rolling over and falling asleep with his back to Jordan. And yet Jordan had lain awake for hours, staring at the faint glow of city lights through the curtains, feeling the wrongness settle deeper in his chest, something that was cold and stubborn, impossible to name.
When he drifted into the kitchen just past eight, Ben was already there, seated at the island like a small mountain of muscle and appetite. Plates crowded the marble in front of him: scrambled eggs fluffy and golden, thick strips of bacon glistening with fat, a tall stack of pancakes drowning in maple syrup, hash browns crisped to dark edges, even a side of sausage links he must have grilled while Jordan showered. The air smelled rich and smoky, the kind of breakfast Ben only made when he was hungry in more ways than one. Ben glanced up as Jordan padded in barefoot, hair still damp, already dressed for work. His hazel eyes softened behind his glasses, the beard framing a small, careful smile as he wished Jordan good morning.
Jordan slid onto the stool opposite him, the marble cool against his forearms. Ben pushed a plate toward him without waiting: half the eggs, two strips of bacon, a pancake already cut into manageable pieces. Put some protein in you, he said, nudging the fork closer.
Ben had dropped the diet completely after Christmas, and Jordan had learned that it was another of Gideon’s ideas. Gideon had explained it with that aggravating professional certainty: Ben’s differential was that he was a big bear. It was right there in his Twitter handle. If Ben shed the extra weight, carved himself back to the low-body-fat, sculpted-abs version of years ago, he’d become just another muscle head in the business. There were thousands of those, all ripped and interchangeable, but there was only one Big Ben. At first, Jordan wasn’t so sure about that idea. He had seen, firsthand, how the extra pounds had shaken Ben’s confidence during the worst of the depression, how the mirror had become an enemy. He soon learned how wrong he was. Now, with over a million people online thirsting after him, it was unlikely that confidence would crack again. And Ben loved it. He had always hated dieting, hated skipping bacon and pizza, hated measuring every gram of chicken breast and rice. The freedom to eat what he wanted, to grill thick steaks and stack pancakes high, had brought back the boyish grin Jordan hadn’t realized he’d missed so much.
The new approach had already shown results. Ben’s belly was only slightly bigger, a soft, rounded swell that pushed gently against his T-shirts, but the muscle underneath looked like it had tripled. Shoulders broader, arms thicker, chest heavier, thighs like tree trunks. Ben was a mountain of a man now, solid and imposing in a way that made strangers turn on the street and fans flood his DMs with worshipful filth.
Jordan watched him across the island, fork cutting through a stack of pancakes drowning in syrup, bacon disappearing bite by bite, and felt the familiar tangle tighten in his chest: pride in how alive Ben looked again, resentment that it took the eyes of a million strangers to get him there, and something quieter, more complicated, at the way Ben’s body had changed into something even more magnetic, even further from the man who used to come home smelling of sawdust and needing only Jordan.
Ben caught him looking, paused mid-bite, and flashed that easy, lopsided grin. Jordan smiled back, small and automatic.
Inside, the knot pulled tighter.
The wrongness was still there, even in those small, sweet moments, when Ben brushed his hand across Jordan’s back as they passed in the hallway or the casual kiss he pressed to Jordan’s temple while poured coffee. More than once, Jordan had opened his mouth to say it: that he’d changed his mind, that they should drop the trial run, that Beau could practice on a fucking dildo for all he cared if it meant keeping that private intimacy from slipping further away, and every time, he held his tongue, not knowing why.
Maybe it was pride. Ben had made it clear he didn’t understand the distinction, why Jordan drew a line between fucking in front of a camera and fucking behind a closed door. Either way, camera or no camera, I’ll be fucking him, he’d said, voice edged with frustration, as if Jordan’s objection was irrational, unnecessary. Jordan didn’t want Ben to see how deeply it cut. He didn’t want to be the one who cared too much, the one left vulnerable while Ben moved forward with the calm certainty of a man whose body was no longer just his own. He didn’t want to hand Ben the proof that this, whatever this had become, was breaking him in ways he couldn’t hide.
He knew it could be poison to their relationship if he let stupid pride block the words they needed. Honest communication had always been their strength, the thing that carried them through moves and money troubles and Ben’s long, dark months of silence. Keeping this locked inside would only let the resentment fester, widen the quiet distance already growing between them.
And yet… he said nothing.
“So,” Ben said, conversational as if they were discussing weekend plans, “what are you doing later today? Gideon said whatever it is, he’s paying.”
Jordan felt his stomach drop, a slow, sick lurch that made the eggs suddenly sit heavier. Later that day. He forced his voice to stay light, matching Ben’s tone.
“Haven’t decided yet,” he answered, trying to sound just as casual. “Been thinking of going to the Linden House
Ben let out a low whistle, good-natured and teasing, the way he used to when Jordan suggested something extravagant back when money was tight.
“Shit,” he said, grinning, “they say they make the best prime rib on the East Coast. Kinda wish I could go with you.”
You can go with me, Jordan wanted to scream. The words clawed at his throat, hot and desperate. You can go. Just drop this stupid idea and come with me.
“Yeah, well,” he said instead, “maybe we can go there a different time.”
Ben’s smile widened.
“Fuck yeah, babe” he said. “I’m making so much money now we won’t even need Gideon to pay for it.”
Jordan managed a nod, the smile on his face feeling stapled in place.
“Oh,” Ben added, glancing at the (new) Cartier watch on his wrist, the same one Jordan had to convince him no to buy that the after Christmas. “Beau should be here by six. I don’t think it’ll take that long, couple hours max, but I’ll text you when he’s gone, okay?”
Jordan cringed at how easy he sounded, like he was talking about a delivery, or a quick errand. Jordan’s fork paused halfway to his mouth. He set it down carefully.
“Yeah,” he said. “Okay.”
Suddenly his appetite vanished. He had nearly finished the plate of eggs and bacon and pancakes now, and the food now sat like lead in his stomach. He thought he could slip away without Ben noticing anything was wrong, and stood from the stool, murmuring something vague about brushing his teeth, already turning toward the hallway. Before he could take a step, Ben’s hand closed around his wrist.
“Look,” Ben said, tugging gently until Jordan faced him again. “I know you’re not sold on this trial-run thing. So I want to thank you for being supportive anyway, okay? You’ll see, Jord, it’s no big deal. You’ll get home tonight and nothing will be different. I promise.”
Jordan said nothing. Anything he might have answered would have been a lie or the spark of a fight, and he wanted neither. Not this morning. Not before leaving the loft to Beau. He just nodded, the motion small and mechanical, and forced a smile that felt brittle on his lips, as Ben searched his face for a moment longer, thumb brushing once across Jordan’s knuckles before letting go. Then Jordan turned away again, the ghost of that touch lingering on his skin as he walked down the hall, the promise echoing behind him like something already broken.
Work was work, normal as ever. Jordan had surprised himself by how steady he felt. He wasn’t a bundle of nerves, buzzing with anxiety over the thought of his boyfriend fucking another man that very evening. He wasn’t distracted; he performed perfectly: emails answered with his usual crisp efficiency, provenance notes on a newly consigned Basquiat typed up without a single error, phone calls to collectors handled with the calm charm that had made him Evan’s favorite.
But all day long, a quiet, separate part of him stayed tuned to Ben like a radio left on in another room. He reviewed the shipping manifest for a pair of Warhols heading to a private collector in London, double-checking crate dimensions and insurance values, while in the back of his mind, he pictured Ben at the gym, pushing through another heavy leg day, sweat darkening the gray tank top, thighs straining against his shorts as he squatted deeper, chasing the pump that made him even bigger. He sat in on a short team meeting about upcoming auction previews, nodding at the right moments while Evan outlined calendar conflicts, but behind his polite smile, he saw Ben stepping out of the gym shower, towel slung low, stopping by that little barber shop on 9th Avenue he’d started frequenting, the one with the old-school pole and the Lebanese owner who knew exactly how to shape Ben’s beard into that perfect, thick frame that made his jaw look even stronger. Then he finalized payment terms with a hesitant seller from Massachusetts, negotiating gently until the deal closed with a satisfied sigh on the other end of the line, and in the quiet between words, he imagined Ben back at the loft, maybe tidying up a bit, changing the sheets, setting out fresh towels, water bottles and lube, preparing the bedroom like it was any other shoot day, only this time there would be no crew, no cameras, just the two of them and whatever happened in the hush Jordan wouldn’t witness.
Lunch came and went. Jordan declined his colleagues’ invitations to join them at some trendy spot in Midtown, murmuring vague excuses about deadlines and a conference call. Instead, he ordered a lonely sandwich from an app on his phone, turkey and brie on sourdough, something he usually liked, and ate it at his desk, the bread tasting like nothing in his mouth . The office hummed around him, keyboards clacking, phones ringing softly, the occasional burst of laughter from the break room, but Jordan felt sealed off, like he was watching everything through glass.
Then afternoon arrived, slow and inevitable. Three p.m. slipped by while he stared at provenance photos on his screen without really seeing them. Four p.m. found him refreshing his messages inbox for no reason, thumb hovering over the message thread with Ben that had stayed quiet all day. Five p.m. crept in, the winter light outside fading to bruised purple, the office emptying as people gathered coats and called goodbyes.
Jordan was half-minded to stay. He could just remain at his desk, advance tomorrow’s work, put in the kind of after-hours that had been common when he started at Harrison & Hale, back when leaving before ten p.m. felt like cutting out early. He could bury himself in spreadsheets and condition reports until the city went dark, until the loft was safe again, until whatever happened there was over and done.
He turned his eyes to his phone the exact moment the clock on his screen flipped to 6:00 p.m., as if the universe itself wanted to make sure Jordan knew the hour had arrived. Beau would be at the loft any minute now. Maybe he was already there, too eager to wait, buzzing the intercom a few minutes early, heart hammering with nerves and excitement.
Jordan wondered how Ben had greeted him. Had Ben dressed up a little, dark slacks, a crisp button-down stretched across his chest, that subtle cologne Jordan loved lingering in the air when he leaned in for a hello? Or had he opened the door in nothing but his trademark robe, open bare, letting the fabric fall just enough to give Beau a long, deliberate look at the cock waiting for him, the one that had made a million strangers lose their minds? Had Ben offered drinks? Maybe poured a glass of water, or maybe something stronger to calm the guy’s nerves while they made small talk on the sectional, Beau perched on the edge, blushing at every question? Or had they skipped the pleasantries entirely, Ben’s hand already on the small of Beau’s back, guiding him down the hallway saying “Bedroom’s this way.”
When Jordan realized he had been staring at the same provenance note for almost ten minutes without reading a single word, he admitted to himself that no work would get done tonight. He shut down his computer, gathered his coat and scarf, and said quiet goodbyes to the few colleagues still lingering at their desks. His phone was already in his hand as he stepped into the elevator, the ride down to the lobby feeling longer than usual. He could walk to Linden House, it wasn’t far, but if Gideon was bankrolling the evening, he could damn well pay for transportation too. Jordan opened the app, typed in restaurant’s address, thumb hovering over the button to call the ride.
Then he hesitated.
In the list of pre-saved addresses, HOME stared back at him like a dare, like a locked door he wasn’t sure he wanted to open, a bruise he couldn’t stop pressing. He stood on the sidewalk in the cold January dusk, city lights flickering on around him, breath clouding in the air.
What if he just… went home instead?
Jordan dismissed the idea almost immediately. No, he knew he couldn’t. He had agreed to give Ben and Beau privacy. Ben might even be angry at him for disrespecting their agreement, for barging in on something they’d already decided was necessary, professional. Even so, even so, the thought lingered, stubborn and seductive. What if he just went home. He didn’t even have to stay. He could slip in quietly, just for a bit. Just long enough to see it with his own eyes, to confirm it was real. To make the abstract concrete, stop pretending he could keep living in the space between knowing and not-knowing.
His thumb hovered over the address field. The cursor blinked.
Jordan tapped HOME and called the ride before he could change his mind.
His heart was drumming like crazy in his chest when he arrived at the building. A neighbour was walking out of the building as Jordan walked in and nodded to him, but Jordan barely managed a tight smile in return, hands shoved deep in his coat pockets to hide the faint tremble. The elevator ride felt like the longest he’d ever endured. Mr. Lang, seventy-something, retired violinist from the apartment two doors down, stepped in on after Jordan, cane tapping softly against the brass rail. He was dressed for his evening walk, scarf knotted neatly, the same camel coat he’d worn for years. He greeted Jordan with his usual warmth, asking about the holidays, mentioning something about his granddaughter’s new puppy and how the little thing had chewed through an entire Bach score he’d left on the coffee table. Jordan nodded at the appropriate moments, murmured vague agreements about puppies being trouble, but none of it registered. The words washed over him like static, his pulse too loud in his ears, every floor ding dragging him closer to the inevitable.
He knew what he would find. It was almost seven now. Whatever was going to happen tonight between Ben and Beau had certainly already started.
The elevator opened on their floor with a soft chime and Mr. Lang wished him a good evening as he stepped out toward the opposite end of the hall. Jordan stood frozen for a second, staring at their door at the far end, the familiar matte-black paint, the brass numbers slightly crooked since the day he’d moved in. Ben kept saying he’d fix that, but never did. Jordan took one slow breath, then another, and walked forward.
Je stepped into the loft and let the door click shut behind him with a soft, final sound that echoed too loudly in the hush. The place was dark, the living room stretching empty before him: sectional undisturbed, kitchen island cleared of everything, the faint city glow filtering through the floor-to-ceiling windows the only light. For a brief, dizzying moment, relief flooded him, warm and desperate. Maybe it had been canceled. Maybe Beau had gotten cold feet at the last second, or, even better, Ben had changed his mind, texted Gideon some excuse, decided it wasn’t worth the complication. Jordan stood frozen in the entryway, coat still on, breath shallow, clinging to the fragile hope like a lifeline, when he saw it: a thin beam of golden light spilling from the hallway that led to their bedroom, cutting across the hardwood like a blade. The door was ajar, just enough for the warm glow to escape, soft and intimate, the kind of light Ben turned on when he wanted the room to feel safe, close, theirs.
Their bedroom.
Not the guest room down the hall, perfectly comfortable with its own en suite and fresh linens they rarely used, but their bedroom. The only place in the world that had ever truly belonged to just the two of them. The room where they’d held each other through sleepless nights, whispering plans for a future that once felt certain: trips they’d take, the kids they’d adopt, the quiet life they’d build when the chaos settled. The room where they’d made love, bodies tangled in sheets that smelled of them, Ben’s weight pinning him in the way that made Jordan feel claimed and cherished all at once.
That sacred space, now open to someone else.
The relief curdled instant and cold in Jordan’s chest, turning to something sharper; Betrayal, bruised, that left him breathless. He stood there in the dark living room, coat heavy on his shoulders, staring at that strip of light like it was a wound.
Later that night, Jordan would swear he’d told his brain to turn around and walk away. He’d meant to. He’d pictured it clearly in the elevator: coat hung neatly in the closet, a glass of water from the kitchen, the bedroom door left undisturbed behind him until it was over. Safe and civilized, the agreement honored. Yet somehow, as if that thin strip of golden light spilling from the bedroom door was one of those beams from old alien movies, the kind that lifted cows silently into the night sky, Jordan stepped toward it, toward the bedroom door, toward Ben and Beau.
His shoes made no sound on the hardwood. The loft was too quiet, every small creak of the floorboards amplified in his ears by heartbeat he couldn’t slow. The air felt thicker in the hallway, warmer, and Jordan swore he was hallucinating, feeling the faint trace of Ben’s cologne mixed with something new, nervous sweat, maybe, or the clean scent of someone else’s skin. He stopped just outside the door, hidden in the wedge of shadow where the hallway light didn’t reach. His hand rose, trembling, fingers brushing the cool wood, and opened it an inch. Slow, terribly, terribly slow. Just enough for the light to widen.
Jordan’s pulse thundered in his throat. He pressed closer, the door easing another fraction under his fingertips, until the gap was wide enough to see.
It wouldn’t be the first time Jordan’s body betrayed him that evening.
Breakfast was a quiet affair at the loft that Wednesday morning, the kind of quiet that pressed in from all sides, thick and heavy enough that Jordan thought he could slice it with a knife.
He and Ben were… okay, Jordan thought. They’d dropped the matter that night with Gideon and never took it up again, agreed that Ben and Beau would do the so-called trial run in the loft later that evening. Officially, they were on the same page. Ben had even kissed him goodnight, a soft press of lips that lingered like an apology, before rolling over and falling asleep with his back to Jordan. And yet Jordan had lain awake for hours, staring at the faint glow of city lights through the curtains, feeling the wrongness settle deeper in his chest, something that was cold and stubborn, impossible to name.
When he drifted into the kitchen just past eight, Ben was already there, seated at the island like a small mountain of muscle and appetite. Plates crowded the marble in front of him: scrambled eggs fluffy and golden, thick strips of bacon glistening with fat, a tall stack of pancakes drowning in maple syrup, hash browns crisped to dark edges, even a side of sausage links he must have grilled while Jordan showered. The air smelled rich and smoky, the kind of breakfast Ben only made when he was hungry in more ways than one. Ben glanced up as Jordan padded in barefoot, hair still damp, already dressed for work. His hazel eyes softened behind his glasses, the beard framing a small, careful smile as he wished Jordan good morning.
Jordan slid onto the stool opposite him, the marble cool against his forearms. Ben pushed a plate toward him without waiting: half the eggs, two strips of bacon, a pancake already cut into manageable pieces. Put some protein in you, he said, nudging the fork closer.
Ben had dropped the diet completely after Christmas, and Jordan had learned that it was another of Gideon’s ideas. Gideon had explained it with that aggravating professional certainty: Ben’s differential was that he was a big bear. It was right there in his Twitter handle. If Ben shed the extra weight, carved himself back to the low-body-fat, sculpted-abs version of years ago, he’d become just another muscle head in the business. There were thousands of those, all ripped and interchangeable, but there was only one Big Ben. At first, Jordan wasn’t so sure about that idea. He had seen, firsthand, how the extra pounds had shaken Ben’s confidence during the worst of the depression, how the mirror had become an enemy. He soon learned how wrong he was. Now, with over a million people online thirsting after him, it was unlikely that confidence would crack again. And Ben loved it. He had always hated dieting, hated skipping bacon and pizza, hated measuring every gram of chicken breast and rice. The freedom to eat what he wanted, to grill thick steaks and stack pancakes high, had brought back the boyish grin Jordan hadn’t realized he’d missed so much.
The new approach had already shown results. Ben’s belly was only slightly bigger, a soft, rounded swell that pushed gently against his T-shirts, but the muscle underneath looked like it had tripled. Shoulders broader, arms thicker, chest heavier, thighs like tree trunks. Ben was a mountain of a man now, solid and imposing in a way that made strangers turn on the street and fans flood his DMs with worshipful filth.
Jordan watched him across the island, fork cutting through a stack of pancakes drowning in syrup, bacon disappearing bite by bite, and felt the familiar tangle tighten in his chest: pride in how alive Ben looked again, resentment that it took the eyes of a million strangers to get him there, and something quieter, more complicated, at the way Ben’s body had changed into something even more magnetic, even further from the man who used to come home smelling of sawdust and needing only Jordan.
Ben caught him looking, paused mid-bite, and flashed that easy, lopsided grin. Jordan smiled back, small and automatic.
Inside, the knot pulled tighter.
The wrongness was still there, even in those small, sweet moments, when Ben brushed his hand across Jordan’s back as they passed in the hallway or the casual kiss he pressed to Jordan’s temple while poured coffee. More than once, Jordan had opened his mouth to say it: that he’d changed his mind, that they should drop the trial run, that Beau could practice on a fucking dildo for all he cared if it meant keeping that private intimacy from slipping further away, and every time, he held his tongue, not knowing why.
Maybe it was pride. Ben had made it clear he didn’t understand the distinction, why Jordan drew a line between fucking in front of a camera and fucking behind a closed door. Either way, camera or no camera, I’ll be fucking him, he’d said, voice edged with frustration, as if Jordan’s objection was irrational, unnecessary. Jordan didn’t want Ben to see how deeply it cut. He didn’t want to be the one who cared too much, the one left vulnerable while Ben moved forward with the calm certainty of a man whose body was no longer just his own. He didn’t want to hand Ben the proof that this, whatever this had become, was breaking him in ways he couldn’t hide.
He knew it could be poison to their relationship if he let stupid pride block the words they needed. Honest communication had always been their strength, the thing that carried them through moves and money troubles and Ben’s long, dark months of silence. Keeping this locked inside would only let the resentment fester, widen the quiet distance already growing between them.
And yet… he said nothing.
“So,” Ben said, conversational as if they were discussing weekend plans, “what are you doing later today? Gideon said whatever it is, he’s paying.”
Jordan felt his stomach drop, a slow, sick lurch that made the eggs suddenly sit heavier. Later that day. He forced his voice to stay light, matching Ben’s tone.
“Haven’t decided yet,” he answered, trying to sound just as casual. “Been thinking of going to the Linden House
Ben let out a low whistle, good-natured and teasing, the way he used to when Jordan suggested something extravagant back when money was tight.
“Shit,” he said, grinning, “they say they make the best prime rib on the East Coast. Kinda wish I could go with you.”
You can go with me, Jordan wanted to scream. The words clawed at his throat, hot and desperate. You can go. Just drop this stupid idea and come with me.
“Yeah, well,” he said instead, “maybe we can go there a different time.”
Ben’s smile widened.
“Fuck yeah, babe” he said. “I’m making so much money now we won’t even need Gideon to pay for it.”
Jordan managed a nod, the smile on his face feeling stapled in place.
“Oh,” Ben added, glancing at the (new) Cartier watch on his wrist, the same one Jordan had to convince him no to buy that the after Christmas. “Beau should be here by six. I don’t think it’ll take that long, couple hours max, but I’ll text you when he’s gone, okay?”
Jordan cringed at how easy he sounded, like he was talking about a delivery, or a quick errand. Jordan’s fork paused halfway to his mouth. He set it down carefully.
“Yeah,” he said. “Okay.”
Suddenly his appetite vanished. He had nearly finished the plate of eggs and bacon and pancakes now, and the food now sat like lead in his stomach. He thought he could slip away without Ben noticing anything was wrong, and stood from the stool, murmuring something vague about brushing his teeth, already turning toward the hallway. Before he could take a step, Ben’s hand closed around his wrist.
“Look,” Ben said, tugging gently until Jordan faced him again. “I know you’re not sold on this trial-run thing. So I want to thank you for being supportive anyway, okay? You’ll see, Jord, it’s no big deal. You’ll get home tonight and nothing will be different. I promise.”
Jordan said nothing. Anything he might have answered would have been a lie or the spark of a fight, and he wanted neither. Not this morning. Not before leaving the loft to Beau. He just nodded, the motion small and mechanical, and forced a smile that felt brittle on his lips, as Ben searched his face for a moment longer, thumb brushing once across Jordan’s knuckles before letting go. Then Jordan turned away again, the ghost of that touch lingering on his skin as he walked down the hall, the promise echoing behind him like something already broken.
Work was work, normal as ever. Jordan had surprised himself by how steady he felt. He wasn’t a bundle of nerves, buzzing with anxiety over the thought of his boyfriend fucking another man that very evening. He wasn’t distracted; he performed perfectly: emails answered with his usual crisp efficiency, provenance notes on a newly consigned Basquiat typed up without a single error, phone calls to collectors handled with the calm charm that had made him Evan’s favorite.
But all day long, a quiet, separate part of him stayed tuned to Ben like a radio left on in another room. He reviewed the shipping manifest for a pair of Warhols heading to a private collector in London, double-checking crate dimensions and insurance values, while in the back of his mind, he pictured Ben at the gym, pushing through another heavy leg day, sweat darkening the gray tank top, thighs straining against his shorts as he squatted deeper, chasing the pump that made him even bigger. He sat in on a short team meeting about upcoming auction previews, nodding at the right moments while Evan outlined calendar conflicts, but behind his polite smile, he saw Ben stepping out of the gym shower, towel slung low, stopping by that little barber shop on 9th Avenue he’d started frequenting, the one with the old-school pole and the Lebanese owner who knew exactly how to shape Ben’s beard into that perfect, thick frame that made his jaw look even stronger. Then he finalized payment terms with a hesitant seller from Massachusetts, negotiating gently until the deal closed with a satisfied sigh on the other end of the line, and in the quiet between words, he imagined Ben back at the loft, maybe tidying up a bit, changing the sheets, setting out fresh towels, water bottles and lube, preparing the bedroom like it was any other shoot day, only this time there would be no crew, no cameras, just the two of them and whatever happened in the hush Jordan wouldn’t witness.
Lunch came and went. Jordan declined his colleagues’ invitations to join them at some trendy spot in Midtown, murmuring vague excuses about deadlines and a conference call. Instead, he ordered a lonely sandwich from an app on his phone, turkey and brie on sourdough, something he usually liked, and ate it at his desk, the bread tasting like nothing in his mouth . The office hummed around him, keyboards clacking, phones ringing softly, the occasional burst of laughter from the break room, but Jordan felt sealed off, like he was watching everything through glass.
Then afternoon arrived, slow and inevitable. Three p.m. slipped by while he stared at provenance photos on his screen without really seeing them. Four p.m. found him refreshing his messages inbox for no reason, thumb hovering over the message thread with Ben that had stayed quiet all day. Five p.m. crept in, the winter light outside fading to bruised purple, the office emptying as people gathered coats and called goodbyes.
Jordan was half-minded to stay. He could just remain at his desk, advance tomorrow’s work, put in the kind of after-hours that had been common when he started at Harrison & Hale, back when leaving before ten p.m. felt like cutting out early. He could bury himself in spreadsheets and condition reports until the city went dark, until the loft was safe again, until whatever happened there was over and done.
He turned his eyes to his phone the exact moment the clock on his screen flipped to 6:00 p.m., as if the universe itself wanted to make sure Jordan knew the hour had arrived. Beau would be at the loft any minute now. Maybe he was already there, too eager to wait, buzzing the intercom a few minutes early, heart hammering with nerves and excitement.
Jordan wondered how Ben had greeted him. Had Ben dressed up a little, dark slacks, a crisp button-down stretched across his chest, that subtle cologne Jordan loved lingering in the air when he leaned in for a hello? Or had he opened the door in nothing but his trademark robe, open bare, letting the fabric fall just enough to give Beau a long, deliberate look at the cock waiting for him, the one that had made a million strangers lose their minds? Had Ben offered drinks? Maybe poured a glass of water, or maybe something stronger to calm the guy’s nerves while they made small talk on the sectional, Beau perched on the edge, blushing at every question? Or had they skipped the pleasantries entirely, Ben’s hand already on the small of Beau’s back, guiding him down the hallway saying “Bedroom’s this way.”
When Jordan realized he had been staring at the same provenance note for almost ten minutes without reading a single word, he admitted to himself that no work would get done tonight. He shut down his computer, gathered his coat and scarf, and said quiet goodbyes to the few colleagues still lingering at their desks. His phone was already in his hand as he stepped into the elevator, the ride down to the lobby feeling longer than usual. He could walk to Linden House, it wasn’t far, but if Gideon was bankrolling the evening, he could damn well pay for transportation too. Jordan opened the app, typed in restaurant’s address, thumb hovering over the button to call the ride.
Then he hesitated.
In the list of pre-saved addresses, HOME stared back at him like a dare, like a locked door he wasn’t sure he wanted to open, a bruise he couldn’t stop pressing. He stood on the sidewalk in the cold January dusk, city lights flickering on around him, breath clouding in the air.
What if he just… went home instead?
Jordan dismissed the idea almost immediately. No, he knew he couldn’t. He had agreed to give Ben and Beau privacy. Ben might even be angry at him for disrespecting their agreement, for barging in on something they’d already decided was necessary, professional. Even so, even so, the thought lingered, stubborn and seductive. What if he just went home. He didn’t even have to stay. He could slip in quietly, just for a bit. Just long enough to see it with his own eyes, to confirm it was real. To make the abstract concrete, stop pretending he could keep living in the space between knowing and not-knowing.
His thumb hovered over the address field. The cursor blinked.
Jordan tapped HOME and called the ride before he could change his mind.
His heart was drumming like crazy in his chest when he arrived at the building. A neighbour was walking out of the building as Jordan walked in and nodded to him, but Jordan barely managed a tight smile in return, hands shoved deep in his coat pockets to hide the faint tremble. The elevator ride felt like the longest he’d ever endured. Mr. Lang, seventy-something, retired violinist from the apartment two doors down, stepped in on after Jordan, cane tapping softly against the brass rail. He was dressed for his evening walk, scarf knotted neatly, the same camel coat he’d worn for years. He greeted Jordan with his usual warmth, asking about the holidays, mentioning something about his granddaughter’s new puppy and how the little thing had chewed through an entire Bach score he’d left on the coffee table. Jordan nodded at the appropriate moments, murmured vague agreements about puppies being trouble, but none of it registered. The words washed over him like static, his pulse too loud in his ears, every floor ding dragging him closer to the inevitable.
He knew what he would find. It was almost seven now. Whatever was going to happen tonight between Ben and Beau had certainly already started.
The elevator opened on their floor with a soft chime and Mr. Lang wished him a good evening as he stepped out toward the opposite end of the hall. Jordan stood frozen for a second, staring at their door at the far end, the familiar matte-black paint, the brass numbers slightly crooked since the day he’d moved in. Ben kept saying he’d fix that, but never did. Jordan took one slow breath, then another, and walked forward.
Je stepped into the loft and let the door click shut behind him with a soft, final sound that echoed too loudly in the hush. The place was dark, the living room stretching empty before him: sectional undisturbed, kitchen island cleared of everything, the faint city glow filtering through the floor-to-ceiling windows the only light. For a brief, dizzying moment, relief flooded him, warm and desperate. Maybe it had been canceled. Maybe Beau had gotten cold feet at the last second, or, even better, Ben had changed his mind, texted Gideon some excuse, decided it wasn’t worth the complication. Jordan stood frozen in the entryway, coat still on, breath shallow, clinging to the fragile hope like a lifeline, when he saw it: a thin beam of golden light spilling from the hallway that led to their bedroom, cutting across the hardwood like a blade. The door was ajar, just enough for the warm glow to escape, soft and intimate, the kind of light Ben turned on when he wanted the room to feel safe, close, theirs.
Their bedroom.
Not the guest room down the hall, perfectly comfortable with its own en suite and fresh linens they rarely used, but their bedroom. The only place in the world that had ever truly belonged to just the two of them. The room where they’d held each other through sleepless nights, whispering plans for a future that once felt certain: trips they’d take, the kids they’d adopt, the quiet life they’d build when the chaos settled. The room where they’d made love, bodies tangled in sheets that smelled of them, Ben’s weight pinning him in the way that made Jordan feel claimed and cherished all at once.
That sacred space, now open to someone else.
The relief curdled instant and cold in Jordan’s chest, turning to something sharper; Betrayal, bruised, that left him breathless. He stood there in the dark living room, coat heavy on his shoulders, staring at that strip of light like it was a wound.
Later that night, Jordan would swear he’d told his brain to turn around and walk away. He’d meant to. He’d pictured it clearly in the elevator: coat hung neatly in the closet, a glass of water from the kitchen, the bedroom door left undisturbed behind him until it was over. Safe and civilized, the agreement honored. Yet somehow, as if that thin strip of golden light spilling from the bedroom door was one of those beams from old alien movies, the kind that lifted cows silently into the night sky, Jordan stepped toward it, toward the bedroom door, toward Ben and Beau.
His shoes made no sound on the hardwood. The loft was too quiet, every small creak of the floorboards amplified in his ears by heartbeat he couldn’t slow. The air felt thicker in the hallway, warmer, and Jordan swore he was hallucinating, feeling the faint trace of Ben’s cologne mixed with something new, nervous sweat, maybe, or the clean scent of someone else’s skin. He stopped just outside the door, hidden in the wedge of shadow where the hallway light didn’t reach. His hand rose, trembling, fingers brushing the cool wood, and opened it an inch. Slow, terribly, terribly slow. Just enough for the light to widen.
Jordan’s pulse thundered in his throat. He pressed closer, the door easing another fraction under his fingertips, until the gap was wide enough to see.
It wouldn’t be the first time Jordan’s body betrayed him that evening.
Ben ate Beau’s ass with the same voracious hunger Beau had shown his cock, relentlessly, unapologetic, starving for it. His big hands gripped the boy’s glutes hard, fingers sinking deep into the soft flesh, holding the cheeks spread wide so nothing was hidden. He didn’t tease; he dove in, tongue punching deep into the tight, thrusting with deliberate force, curling and twisting to open Beau up. The moan Beau let out would haunt Jordan for the rest of the week, long and almost tortured, rising from deep in his chest as if the pleasure was more than his body could contain at once. It cracked in the middle, turning breathless and broken, Beau’s back arching sharp before his arms gave out. He toppled forward, catching himself clumsily on Ben’s meaty thigh, fingers digging into the thick muscle for balance as his body shuddered, overwhelmed.
Ben didn’t stop. He ate like a man possessed: nose buried against Beau’s skin, beard scraping the sensitive cheeks red, tongue fucking in steady, rhythmic strokes that made Beau’s entire body tremble. Every time Beau clenched or gasped, Ben growled low against him, and spread him wider, thumbs pulling the rim open so his tongue could spear even deeper, tasting every inch, claiming it.
It was beautiful.
It was unbearable.
Beau started pushing back against Ben’s tongue, his perfect bubble butt twerking shamelessly against Ben’s face, circling with desperate need, chasing more depth, more pressure, more of everything Ben was giving him. Soft, needy whimpers spilled from Beau’s lips with every roll of his hips, his body begging in a language Jordan knew by heart: the instinctive arch of the back, the tremble in the thighs, the way pleasure built until it bordered on too much. Jordan knew exactly what Beau was feeling. He knew, better than anyone. how lethal Ben could be with that tongue: the licks that mapped every sensitive inch, building to deep, punishing thrusts that curled and twisted inside until you were shaking, clenching, reduced to nothing but want. The way Ben would hold you open in all possible ways, refusing mercy until you broke apart on his mouth.
Jordan’s own hole clenched in helpless response. He was pure envy. Raw, burning, all-consuming envy, for the boy getting the slow, worshipful devotion Jordan hadn’t felt in months, for the way Ben poured himself into Beau without holding back, like this was new, like this mattered. He missed it. God, he missed it, the way Ben used to rim him like that, starving, like Jordan’s body was the only thing that could satisfy him. The way Ben would pull back just long enough to murmur “you taste so fucking good, Jord” before diving in again, deeper, hungrier. ]
That used to be his.
His hole clenched again, desperate and empty, missing the stretch, the burn, the fullness of Ben buried deep and moving like he never wanted to leave. He missed being fucked like that, he missed being the one Ben couldn’t get enough of.
Jordan patted his bulge again, the light pressure sending another fierce jolt through him, and suddenly it was too much. He couldn’t resist anymore, couldn’t keep denying what his body craved, what it had been screaming for since the first moan drifted down the hallway. His hands scrambled to his belt, shaking badly, fingers fumbling like he was sixteen again, sneaking a frantic jerk-off session in the bathroom while his parents waited outside for dinner. The buckle clinked too loud in the quiet loft; he froze for a heartbeat, ears straining toward the bedroom, but the wet sounds and soft gasps from inside never faltered. He unpopped the trouser button, lowered the zipper with a rasp that felt deafening, and shoved both trousers and soaked underwear down just enough for his cock to spring free. .The cool air hit his overheated skin like a shock, but it was nothing compared to the bolt of pleasure when his fingers finally wrapped around his erection. He had to bite down hard on the heel of his free hand to stifle the moan that tore up his throat, teeth sinking into flesh as pure ecstasy shot through him, overwhelmingly fierce, almost painful in its intensity.
He stood there in the shadowed hallway, pants bunched at his thighs, eyes locked on the golden-lit scene through the crack in the door. Shame burned hot in his chest, but the pleasure drowned it, wave after wave, as he gave in completely to the cuck he’d become.
“Look at this fucking hole,” Ben growled. Beau whimpered, hips twitching forward, but Ben held him steady, eyes dark with hunger. “You taste so fucking good, Beau.”
One thick finger traced the slick rim, circling slow, teasing the clench before pressing in, slow, careful, coated in his own spit. Beau gasped, back arching sharply as the finger breached him, sliding deep in one smooth push.
“You like my pussy, Ben?” Beau asked, voice trembling, needy, the Southern drawl wrapping the words in desperate sweetness.
“I fucking love it,” Ben growled.
Crooking the finger inside, Ben stroke that sensitive spot until Beau’s thighs shook. He leaned in again, tongue flicking over the stretched rim around his finger, tasting himself on the boy’s skin and Beau moaned brokenly, pushing back, greedy for more. Then Ben added a second finger, working it in alongside the first, scissoring slow to open him wider, stretching the tight heat with patient, unending pressure. Beau’s breath hitched, body tensing then melting as Ben twisted deeper, curling both fingers to massage inside, preparing him for what came next.
“It’s better than Ezra’s?” Beau gasped, voice cracking on the name, like he needed to hear it.
“So much better than Ezra,” Ben said, low and certain, pumping his fingers in a steady rhythm now, spit dripping down to ease the glide, the wet sounds filling the room as Beau’s hole fluttered and clenched around him.
“It’s so… so go… oh shit, Ben, don’t stop!” Beau whined, the words tumbling out broken and breathless, his voice cracking on a high, desperate note as his hips jerked back against Ben’s fingers. “It’s all yours, Ben, my pussy, it’s all yours!”
“All mine?” Ben teased, thumb circling the stretched hole, drawing another shudder from Beau’s body.
“Yes, yes, yes!”
“Gonna fuck that pussy so good, Beau,” Ben promised, fingers now buried deep, curling relentlessly against that sweet, swollen spot inside him that made Beau’s whole body jerk. “You gonna feel me so fucking deep, you’ll never forget it. Gonna fucking breed you, Beau. Put my load so far inside you, you’ll feel it for days. Want me to do that? Huh? Want me to put my babies in you?”
Beau’s answer came breathless and desperate.
“Yes, Ben, please, put a baby in me, Ben, please…”
Jordan had never heard Ben talk like that, not once. The words, pussy, breed, put a baby in you, they’d never crossed Ben’s lips in all their years together. Ben had always been rough when he wanted, gentle when Jordan needed, but the dirty talk had stayed grounded: take my cock, you feel so good, fuck, you’re so tight. Masculine, direct, the kind that made Jordan’s chest swell with pride as he took it like a man. He’d been proud of it, proud of taking cock hard and deep, of matching Ben’s strength, of being the one who could handle everything Ben gave without breaking. He’d assumed that was what Ben wanted too. Needed. An equal, an partner. But this, those growled promises, thy’re were new. Foreign. Filthy in a way that twisted something deep in Jordan’s gut.
He wondered, the thought slithering in uninvited and vicious, if Ben had always wanted this, a more feminine bottom. Someone soft and yielding, whimpering for babies, offering up a “pussy” to be bred. Someone who melted under that kind of talk, who begged for it like it was oxygen, Jordan had never been that, had never even thought of it, but now, watching Ben’s eyes darken with real hunger as Beau sobbed those words, Jordan wondered if he’d been wrong all along… If Ben had always craved this, someone smaller, sweeter, more submissive. Someone who let him play the full fantasy: breeder, owner, the one who put babies in willing holes.
What if Jordan had just asked?
What if, years ago, he’d let himself be softer, more open, whimpered those words, played the role, given Ben the fantasy he might have been holding back? Would things have turned out differently? Would the distance in their bed have narrowed instead of widened?
It made no sense, of course.
Their problems, the long dry spells, the nights Ben couldn’t get hard, the slow drift apart, had nothing to do with unfulfilled kinks or roads not taken. It was depression, the weight of unemployment and shame crushing the life out of them both, but Jordan was way past rational thought now. He was drowning in jealousy and envy, bone-deep afraid that he’d never be good enough for Ben again.
That the man he loved had found something in that boy he’d never found in Jordan.
That he never would.
Jordan didn’t fully masturbate. His hand moved in slow, hesitant strokes along his aching length, the friction sending sparks of pleasure through him, but something held him back, a cold anchor dragging against the heat. He didn’t feel like he deserved it, as if the scene unfolding was a sacred rite he had no right to steal from, even in secret. He was the intruder here, the shadow in the hallway, peering into a world where Ben poured out tenderness like it was infinite. His cock throbbed in his fist, begging for more, for tighter grip, for the release that hovered just out of reach, but Jordan denied it. He patted the head lightly instead, the brief jolt making his knees weaken against the doorframe, breath hitching silent and sharp.
Unworthy.
The word echoed in his head, unbidden and cruel. Unworthy of the pleasure, because what kind of man got off watching his boyfriend claim someone else’s first time? What kind of man stood in the dark, hand down his pants, while the love of his life whispered promises to a stranger in their bed?
He wasn’t worthy of Ben anymore, not the way Beau was, fresh and untouched, earning that gentle worship with his nervous eagerness. Jordan had been replaced, sidelined, reduced to spectator in his own life. The shame of it burned just as hot as the arousal, twisting the heat in his gut into something punishing, a pleasure laced with pain he couldn’t chase to the end.
Tears pricked at his eyes, but he kept watching anyway, unworthy of it, but unable to stop.
Ben’s voice dropped to a gravel command.
“Get on the bed, Beau. Time to make you my bitch.”
Beau didn’t need to be told twice. In a heartbeat he scrambled into position, flipping onto his back and scooting up the mattress until he lay spread open in the center of the bed, their bed, legs falling wide like a virgin bride on her wedding night, knees bent, offering everything without hesitation. Ben rose to his knees between them, impossibly huge, towering like some ancient god carved from muscle and hunger. His cock jutted up thick and angry, flushed dark, veins standing out in sharp relief, looking like it might burst at any second. He gripped Beau’s ankles, big hands wrapping easily around slender bones, and pushed them back and apart, spreading the boy even wider until Beau’s thighs trembled and his pink, spit-slick pussy clenched visibly in the golden light.
“Such a pretty pussy,” Ben growled, eyes locked on it, voice thick with desire. Then, casual as asking for the remote, he nodded toward the nightstand. “Hand me that lube, kid.”
Beau’s gaze flicked to the drawer, then back to Ben, a defiant spark flashing in those baby-blue eyes.
“Nah,” he said, voice steady despite the flush riding high on his cheeks. “I don’t need that shit.”
Ben laughed darkly, amused, and shrugged one massive shoulder like he was humoring a rookie who didn’t know better, as if to say your funeral, kid.
He shifted forward, lining up, spreading saliva on his cock so it wouldn’t go in totally dry. The head of his cock nudged against Beau’s slick, fluttering entrance, no barrier, no mercy, just the promise of what came next. Jordan’s hand still wrapped tight around his own aching cock, every word, every movement searing into him like brands.
He couldn’t breathe.
He couldn’t move.
He could only watch as finally, fucking finally, Ben slid into Beau’s heat.
He was unbearably gentle, easing forward inch by inch with a control that made Jordan’s chest ache. But there was something else there too, a hardness Jordan had never seen in his boyfriend before. A steely determination in the set of Ben’s jaw, in the unrelenting push of his hips, as if this moment was inevitable, non-negotiable. He didn’t stop, didn’t pause to check if Beau was okay, if he could take it, if the stretch burned too much. No murmured reassurances, no gentle questions. Just that slow, sure thrust forward, as if, somehow, Ben already knew. As if his body was tuned to Beau’s in a way that went beyond words, beyond hesitation, reading every clench and gasp like a language only they spoke. And he was right, too, because Beau could take it. Jordan watched, unblinking, transfixed, as Beau’s moan spilled out like pure decadence: broken and needy and desperate all at once, a crude, shattered sound that started low in his chest and rose into something almost animal, echoing off the walls. His eyes rolled back in his skull, whites flashing briefly in the golden light, fingers gripping the sheets so hard his knuckles blanched white, the fabric twisting in his fists like he was holding on for life. But he never complained. Never begged for mercy or slower or stop. He only took it, inch by inch, body arching, pussy yielding, as if it had been made specially for Ben’s cock, crafted to stretch and clench and welcome it as if it was coming home.
Ben’s face was a mask of pure strength, forehead furrowed in concentration, drops of sweat rolling down the side of his temples and tracing paths through his beard like rain on stone. His hazel eyes were fierce behind his glasses, primal, a lion claiming its prey, muscles tense and straining under his skin as he held back just enough to savor the moment. With a final, deliberate push, he sank in all the way, buried balls-deep in Beau’s body, and stopped, breath ruined, voice strained with the sheer force of staying put, of not giving in to the animal urge to rut.
“All good, kid?” he asked, the words gritted out through clenched teeth, one hand braced on Beau’s thigh, thumb stroking slow circles to ground him.
“Y-yeah…” Beau answered, voice distant and dazed, as if his body had slipped to some other plane of existence, floating in the overwhelming fullness. “Keep… keep going. Don’t stop.”
Ben’s smirked, eyes darkening with raw pleasure.
“You love that, don’t you, Beau?” he murmured, hips giving a shallow roll, testing, teasing. “You love my cock inside you.”
“I love it so fucking much, Ben,” Beau confirmed, the words spilling out on a breathless whine, his baby-blue eyes glazed and adoring.
“Fucking take it then, kid,” Ben growled. “It’s all fucking yours.”
And then he started moving, hips rolling back slow, dragging out every inch with deliberate torture, only to sink in again, deep and sure. He did it once more, building the rhythm, and on the next thrust he drove in with sudden strength, hips snapping forward hard enough to jolt Beau’s body up the mattress.
Beau let out an anguished wail, the sound tearing from his throat like pure agony, and Jordan’s heart seized, certain it had been too much, that the boy was breaking. But then he saw it: Beau’s face splitting into a wild, ecstatic grin, eyes rolling back in bliss, giggles bubbling up through the moan like he’d discovered something divine.
The wail hadn’t been pain, but pure, overwhelming ecstasy.
Ben smirked too, dark and triumphant, clearly loving it, the boy’s surrender, the way Beau took him like he was made for it. He raised the rhythm then, thrusts coming faster, harder, hips pistoning with that relentless power Jordan knew so well, the bed creaking under the force as Beau’s moans turned to broken cries.
Ben fucked Beau with abandon, no more restraint, no more leash on the raw power of his body, as if thrusting into that boy’s tight heat was his only mission on Earth. Deep strokes, hips snapping forward with brutal precision, pulling back just enough to make Beau whimper for more before slamming home again, the mattress groaning under the force, sheets twisting damp beneath them.Suddenly, Jordan’s hand was following that very same pattern, up and down his own aching cock, as Ben went in and out of Beau’s pussy, every plunge into Beau mirrored by a desperate stroke that sent fire racing through his veins.
Pleasure lit up every nerve in Jordan’s body, a powerful thing, sweet as nectar, deadly as poison. It coursed through him like liquid fire, electric and all-consuming, making his thighs tremble and his breath hitch ragged in the shadowed hallway. But it also twisted with torture, a cruel duality that tore at him: the ecstasy of watching Ben claim Beau so completely, the boy’s wails of bliss echoing what Jordan had once felt, clashing against the agony of knowing it wasn’t for him anymore. Each stroke of his hand brought waves of bliss that made his vision blur, toes curling against the hardwood, but it poisoned him too, the shame of getting off on his own exclusion, the hollow ache of being reduced to this, a voyeur in his own home, hard and leaking while Ben poured everything into someone else. He hated how good it felt, how his body’s betrayal amplified the heat until he was shaking with it, pleasure and pain braided so tight he couldn’t tell where one ended and the other began, loving the sight of Ben unleashed, hating that it was for Beau, loving the fire in his veins, hating himself for stoking it.
Jordan wasn’t sure if he loved or hated it, but all he knew was that no force in the universe would be strong enough to stop his hand from moving. He dropped to his knees at the same moment the first tears spilled from his eyes, hot and silent, tracing paths down his cheeks like accusations he couldn’t outrun.
Kneeling there in the shadowed hallway like a faithful devotee before two deities entangled in worship with one another, Jordan never stopped stroking. His hand moved desperate and mechanical on his aching cock, the friction a punishment and a prayer, slick with the mess of his own betrayal. He never stopped hating it, and he never stopped needing it. Then, in one terrible moment, Ben’s head shifted to the side, just an inch, a fractional turn amid the haze of sweat and motion, and for a paralyzing, exhilarating second, Jordan was absolutely sure Ben’s hazel eyes locked on his.
Caught.
The world narrowed to that gaze, Ben’s face flushed and fierce, sweat beading on his brow, expression unreadable in the golden spill of light, and Jordan’s heart seized, breath frozen in his lungs. He wanted to jump back, bolt down the hall, out the door, into the cold anonymity of the city streets. He wanted to sink further into the shadows, melt into the wall, protect himself and what little pride he had left…. but he stayed frozen, hand still sliding across his throbbing cock.
That moment stretched through eternity, time unraveling merciless in the shadowed hallway, and then it was over. It had to have been a figment of Jordan’s imagination, his fractured mind conjuring a world where Ben still thought of him, still sought him out even in the heights of ecstasy with another man, because Ben gave no indication of having seen him. No pause in the rhythm, no flicker of surprise or shame. He just kept moving, his massive frame lowering like a wave over Beau’s trembling body, melting their forms into one seamless shape, skin on skin, breaths mingling in one.
With renewed vigor, Ben drove into Beau again, hips snapping forward in a punishing cadence that shook the bedframe, the mattress creaking in protest under their combined weight. He buried his face in the crook of Beau’s neck, growling things meant only for Beau’s ears, filthy promises Jordan would never know, words that made Beau’s moans fracture higher, more desperate, his nails raking red trails down Ben’s broad back and arms, digging deep enough to mark, to brand Ben as his like Ben had branded him in return.
Beau’s cries grew louder and louder, higher and higher, ecstatic wails that filled the loft like a symphony of surrender, as both of them hurtled toward climax, bodies locked in that final, frenzied push, sweat glistening gold in the lamplight, the air thick with the musk of sex and unspoken, terrible things.
And then the world exploded.
Not with a bang, but with the guttural roar that tore from Ben’s throat as his orgasm erupted like an atomic bomb, shattering the fragile veil of the moment. Jordan didn’t see it, he couldn’t, tears burning his eyes so fiercely that the golden-lit bedroom blurred into a distorted chaos of light and shadow. But he felt it, every second of it: Ben’s body tensing like steel, hips slamming forward one last time, burying himself impossibly deep as he emptied into Beau, hot, endless pulses that Jordan could almost sense through the air. Jordan came too, of course he did. His hand flew to his mouth, biting down hard on the collar of his shirt to muffle the sob that ripped from his throat, teeth sinking into fabric as pleasure crashed through him like a tidal wave, fiercer than anything he’d ever known. His cock pulsed in his fist, spilling hot and helpless onto the hardwood floor in front of him, each spurt wrenching him harder, deeper, until his knees buckled and his vision whited out behind the tears. It was the most powerful orgasm he’d ever had, harder than the first time he’d come hands-free on Ben’s cock, shaking and sobbing in Ben’s old apartment as Ben held him through it; harder than that forgotten night in the back of a Rolls Royce a million years ago, when Ben had whispered filthy promises and stimulated him slow until the world dissolved.
This one didn’t dissolve him.
It shattered him, pleasure poisoned by the grief flooding his chest, the shame of kneeling in the dark like a beggar at a feast, spilling himself alone while Ben gave everything to someone else. The tears kept falling, hot and relentless, as the bedroom echoes faded into heavy breaths and soft murmurs Jordan couldn’t make out. He stayed on his knees, spent and shaking, the floor cold beneath him.
Alone.
Suddenly, the need to escape crashed over Jordan like a wave he couldn’t outrun, desperate, all-consuming, his body moving before his mind could catch up. Crying now, hot tears streaking unchecked down his face, he bit his lip hard to muffle the sobs clawing up his throat, the metallic tang of blood blooming on his tongue. He yanked his shirt free from his trousers, $2,000 worth of tailored silk, a ridiculous extravagance from a gallery bonus he’d once splurged on, and used it to mop the sticky mess he’d spilled on the hardwood floor. Disgusting, degrading, the fabric soaking through with his own shame. He’d have to destroy it later, burn it, along with every reminder of this night, every scrap that might drag him back to this low, this pathetic hollow where he knelt in the dark jerking off to his boyfriend fucking someone else.
He got to his feet, legs unsteady, stumbling toward the door like a man fleeing a fire. His belt still undone, trousers sagging low on his hips, buttons popped open on his shirt, the cool air hitting his damp skin like a slap. He wasn’t careful about noise anymore; the loft could burn for all he cared, the whole world could. His footsteps thudded heavy down the hall, away from the golden light, away from the aftermath of Ben and Beau’s joined orgasm. Jordan took the stairs, he couldn’t make himself wait for the elevator, couldn’t stand still in that metal box while the world upstairs stayed poisoned. He needed to move, just move, just keep moving, down the steps two at a time, hand gripping the rail so hard his knuckles ached, breath ragged in the dim emergency lighting.
The stairs stretched below him, endless in the quiet. He kept moving. Home wasn’t home anymore, and he couldn’t stay there.
He pushed on, down into the dark, the sobs finally breaking free in the empty stairwell.
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