I stroke myself lazily, appreciating the aesthetic of their coupling. The fight club owner looks almost primal now, his earlier protests forgotten as he growls and bites at Theo’s neck. Theo’s performance is flawless as always—he knows exactly how to arch his back, how to moan at precisely the right pitch to drive his partner wild.
Yet as I continue touching myself, I realize the display isn’t affecting me the way it should. My thoughts drift to Elliot—how his eyes had widened when I entered him, the broken sounds he made when overcome with pleasure. The vulnerability in his expression when he finally stopped fighting himself.
Without conscious decision, I reach for my phone. I angle it downward to capture my hand wrapped around my cock, the head glistening with pre-cum. Cool-off period be damned. The moans from across the room provide a fitting soundtrack as I compose a text to accompany the photo.
Missing your mouth around this. Your ass too. Nothing else compares.
I hit send, then set my phone aside. Even as I continue stroking myself, watching Theo throw his head back while Victor pounds into him, all I can think about is Elliot’s response—whether he’ll be shocked, aroused, or both.
My phone vibrates on the side table. Ignoring the spectacle of Victor and Theo, I glance at the screen to find Elliot’s response:
That was a dick move. I’m out with friends, and now I have a hard-on. Thanks for that.
Something cold and unfamiliar curls in my chest. Out. With friends. Without me.
I set my whiskey down harder than intended, drawing a curious glance from Jenson. I ignore him, focusing on the surge of possessiveness burning through me.
Where?
I reply, not bothering with pleasantries.
The response comes quickly.
You don’t need to know.
I grit my teeth, thumb hovering over the keyboard before punching out.
I claimed you. I absolutely need to know.
The three dots appear, disappear, then reappear. I can almost feel his frustration through the screen.
We’re in the cooling-off period, remember? That’s the rules. I’m allowed to have a life outside of whatever this is.
Whatever this is. The phrase grates against my nerves like sandpaper. As if what happened between us could be dismissed so casually.
Who are you with?
Three dots again. A pause. Then:
Mike and Derek. My school friends. Are we done with the interrogation?
Relief mingles with irritation. At least he’s not with other men who might want him. But the defiance in his tone—that’s new. That’s problematic.
Send me a picture.
No.
The single word rejection hits me with surprising force. No one says no to Julian Frost. Especially not someone I’ve claimed.
You’re mine for a year. That was the agreement.
His response is immediate:
The agreement was for the Hunt. Not for you to control my entire life. I need space to process what happened.
I stare at my phone, the defiance in Elliot’s text getting under my skin. This isn’t how this should be going. I claimed him—publicly, thoroughly—yet here he is, asserting independence mere hours after I marked him as mine.
Around me, the sounds of pleasure continue as Victor’s grunts and Theo’s theatrical moans fill my penthouse. Normally, I’d be fully engaged in watching or participating, but now they barely register. My entire focus narrows to the device in my hand and the man at the other end of these messages.
