“Stay back,” Elliot warns, his voice cracking. He holds up a hand as if that alone could keep me at bay.
I smile, closing the distance between us. “Make me.”
The tension in the room thickens. We stand mere feet apart, two men in a standoff. In the business world, Elliot commands respect—the self-made gallery owner who clawed his way up from nothing. But here, stripped of pretense, his power falters against mine.
His chest heaves with each breath. I can practically taste his conflict—the desperate need to maintain his charade, warring with the desire radiating from him in waves.
I lunge forward, reaching for his wrist. He reacts with speed, twisting away and shoving me hard against the nearest mirror. The cool surface presses against my back as Elliot’s forearm pins my chest.
“I said back off,” he growls.
His resistance ignites something primal in me. I grab his shoulders and pivot, slamming him against the wall. He grunts, then drives his knee between us, creating enough space to tackle me.
We crash to the floor, a tangle of limbs and grunts. Elliot fights with the desperation of a man clinging to his last shred of denial. I fight with the patience of someone who knows victory is inevitable.
We roll across the mirrored floor, muscles straining, sweat slicking our skin. The friction of our bodies creates an unmistakable heat. His hardness rubs against mine, only his pants between us as we struggle, drawing a moan from him that he tries to disguise as exertion.
I manage to flip him onto his back, straddling his hips and pinning his wrists above his head. Our cocks align perfectly, and I roll my hips deliberately against him. His pupils dilate, lips parting.
“Stop,” he gasps, bucking beneath me. “I’m not—I don’t?—”
“Not what, Elliot?” I roll my hips again, watching him bite back a moan. “Not gay?”
“No,” he insists. “I’m not. This isn’t me.”
I pin Elliot harder against the floor, my breath coming in ragged gasps. The reflections surrounding us multiply our struggle infinitely—a kaleidoscope of desire and denial.
“Listen to me,” I say, leaning close enough that my lips brush his ear. “You think this is some binary choice? I’ve been with women. Beautiful women. I still appreciate them. But this—” I roll my hips deliberately against his, “—this is equally real.”
His eyes widen, confusion mixing with arousal.
“It’s possible to want both, Elliot. And goddamn, I’ve never seen anyone as hot as you.” I brush my thumb across his lower lip. “The way you took me in your mouth earlier. You can’t fake that kind of hunger.”
“Fuck you,” he growls, suddenly twisting frantically. He breaks my hold and shoves me sideways, scrambling to his feet.
I’m on him in an instant, tackling him against another mirrored wall. His back hits the glass with a thud, and I press my body against his, trapping him.
“Still fighting what you want?” I taunt, my hands sliding down his sides.
He struggles against me, the friction between our bodies growing more deliberate with each movement. I work my hand between us, fingers finding his belt buckle.
“Don’t—” he protests, but his hips jerk forward.
With a swift tug, I yank his pants down past his hips so there’s nothing between us—skin against hot skin. When our erections touch, Elliot’s head falls back against the mirror, a moan tearing from his throat so loud it seems to multiply in the chamber.
“Tell me again this isn’t you,” I challenge, grinding against him.
His only response is another broken sound, his eyes squeezing shut as if he can’t bear to watch himself.
I yank my mask off and slide to my knees before him, looking up to catch his gaze as I take him into my mouth. His eyes fly open in shock, meeting mine as pleasure overtakes denial.
I take Elliot fully into my throat, savoring the weight of him on my tongue. God, he’s perfect—thick, with a slight upward curve that fits against the roof of my mouth like he was designed specifically for me. I’ve had my share of experiences, but Elliot’s cock is easily among the most gorgeous.
His breathing shifts from panicked to pleasured as I take him deeper. I glance up, maintaining eye contact as I hollow my cheeks. The sight above me is exquisite—Elliot Chambers, respected gallery owner and perpetual denier of his own nature,staring down at me with naked wonder. His pupils are blown wide; his lips parted in disbelief.
“Julian...” he breathes, the word half-question, half-surrender.
I respond by taking him deeper, letting my throat relax around him. His hands hover uncertainly at his sides, unsure what to do as I systematically dismantle his defenses. I reach up, guiding one of his hands to my hair—an invitation.
