I feel the familiar tightening at the base of my spine, pleasure coiling like a spring ready to snap. But I’m not done with him yet. I break the kiss, my lips brushing against his ear.
“Be a good boy and take Daddy’s cum,” I command, my voice rough with need. “Every. Fucking. Drop.”
Theo’s entire body tenses underneath me, his cock trapped between our stomachs, leaking pre-cum onto his skin. The way he looks at me—eyes blown wide with pleasure, lips parted—pushes me right to the edge.
“Fill me up,” he moans, clenching around me deliberately. “Please, Daddy.”
That’s all it takes. With a final, brutal thrust, I bury myself to the hilt and explode inside him, my release pulsing hot and wet. The sensation of breeding him—marking him from the inside—is so intense I almost black out.
“Fuck, that’s it,” I groan against his neck. “Taking Daddy’s load so good.”
Theo’s body arches beneath me, his cock jerking untouched between us. With a desperate cry, he comes, ropes of cum shooting across his chest, some landing as high as his collarbone. I feel each pulse of his orgasm squeezing around my still-throbbing cock.
24
THEO
It’s four months to the day when I realize our Thursday coffee dates have become the highlight of my week.
I spot Victor through the window of Grind House, already at our usual corner table—the one with the best view of both entrances. His eyes constantly scan the door between sips of black coffee, a habit I’ve come to find endearing rather than paranoid. The hypervigilance of a fighter, never letting his guard down, even in a coffee shop.
I slide into the seat across from him, placing my iced latte on the wooden table. “Sorry I’m late. Label negotiations ran over.”
“Three minutes isn’t late,” Victor says, checking his watch. There’s a warmth in his eyes that wasn’t there months ago, a softness reserved only for these Thursday mornings.
“Did you listen to that Massive Attack album I sent?” I ask, settling in.
Victor nods. “Mezzanine? Yeah. Reminds me of that underground Berlin club you talked about.”
I smile, remembering how much I shared about my European tour last week. “Where I lost my passport and had to bribe the bouncer with DJ lessons.”
“Still can’t believe you taught a German skinhead how to mix tracks.” Victor laughs, the sound still rare enough to make my chest tighten.
Our conversations flow like this now, weaving through music and memories, his fighting career and my foster care nightmares. We’ve mapped the territories of each other’s lives, Thursday by Thursday, coffee by coffee.
His voice drops when he tells me about his father’s alcoholism. Mine breaks when I describe the day I was taken from my mother. We talk about business strategies and profit margins, then shift to childhood heroes and adolescent mistakes.
Victor’s fingers occasionally brush against mine when reaching for sugar packets—a subtle touch that somehow carries more intimacy than when he’s buried inside me. It’s these moments—these conversations—that I find myself craving more than the sex. The unguarded Victor who emerges in this corner table, away from his fight club persona, feels like a privilege I never expected.
I take a sip of my latte, watching Victor over the rim of my glass. Our coffee dates have become a safe space between us—neutral territory where we talk about things that matter. Maybe that’s why I decide to test the waters.
“There’s a gallery opening I’m going to tonight,” I mention, trying to keep my voice casual. “It’s for a friend of mine—Jasmine Chen. She does these amazing mixed media installations. It’s going to be a big event, lots of industry people.” I pause, heart beating a little faster. “You could come with me.”
The change in Victor is immediate. His shoulders tense, jaw tightening as his expression closes off completely. The openness from seconds before vanishes behind a familiar wall.
“Can’t,” he says flatly. “Got a thing at the gym.”
I know his schedule. Of course, I know his schedule—I’ve been memorizing it for months. “It’s Thursday night. You don’t have anything scheduled.” Usually, he comes over to mine on Thursday night.
Victor shifts in his seat, eyes dropping to his coffee. “Still can’t.”
The rejection stings more than it should. This isn’t about a gallery opening—it’s about being seen together. About stepping outside the carefully mapped territories we’ve established: his apartment, my place, secluded corners of Eclipse after hours, and these coffee dates where nobody from his world ever ventures.
“Right,” I say, working to keep my voice steady. “No problem.”
But it is a problem. It’s the same answer he gave when I mentioned Julian’s dinner party last month. And when I suggested catching a film at that indie theater downtown. Always the same wall that goes up, the same distance that snaps back into place.
I’ve never been anyone’s dirty secret before. I don’t know how to navigate caring about someone who can only meet me in shadows.
