“Say it,” Young-gi barks, his tone more aggressive than it’s been all day. I snap out of my doodle-induced hypnosis and freeze, wary and ready for anything.
Young-gi’s posture hasn’t changed–he’s still leaning back in his chair, appearing at ease with his power–but only an idiot would miss the shift in the atmosphere. Something’s going down. When no one responds, he leans forward, pinning one particular man in place with a heavy stare. And the thing about Young-gi’s stare is that there’s very little anger in his expression, but that blankness is so cold and terrifying.
He tilts his head like a hawk spotting prey. “You want to get something off your chest, Andrey? Go ahead.”
I follow his gaze. There are seven men sitting at the table, and all of them look pretty badass and tough, grizzled and older, like they’ve been around the block a few times. But right now, not one of them looks confident. Two of them are visibly shrinking back, and everyone is leaning away from one guy in particular, who is flushing red. That’s the one Young-gi’s singling out. Andrey. His eyes dart to me and away again, and I tense, wondering what the hell that look was about. He swallows hard, and starts saying something in Russian.
“English,” Young-gi interrupts. “You want to talk about him? Then you’ll say it in a way he can understand, like a man.”
The realization that this is aboutmehits me like a train, because that was not on my bingo card. They’re talking about… me? Why? What did I even do?
I make an aggrieved, annoyed sound in the back of my throat. “What the fuck is the problem? You got something you want to say to me?”
“I don’t–” the man mutters, then loses steam. His red cheeks get darker as he transitions from embarrassment to anger, andhe blusters while he works up his courage. “I-I just, I don’t understand why we have an outsider here. It takes years of vetting to be at this table. We’ve earned it. Who is this boy?”
I slide my eyes to Young-gi, wondering what he’s going to say. He gestures for me to speak for myself, and I scowl at him because fuck him for thinking I need permission to speak, and fuck me for looking for it in the first place. Defiance flashes in me, along with a healthy dose of curiosity and excitement, and bitterness and neediness, and ugh–it’s just a lot. And fuck him for doing this to me.
And so I get an idea.
Knowing it will annoy him, and maybe wanting to provoke him, wanting to see what he’ll do about it, I shrug. “I’m his prostitute.”
Yosef coughs hard into his cup of coffee, and one of the computer-hacker-spy guys knocks over a flask that hits the ground like a fucking bomb going off. I smirk, pleased at the reaction.
Will Young-gi care if they think he’s gay for me? It can’t hurt to plant the idea, right? Maybe he’ll give it some thought. Because honestly? If he fucked me with a little of that Daddy-ish discipline, I’d definitely get hard. Maybe even finish. God, it’s been so long.
I’m feeling pretty cocky, but I’m humbled immediately when Young-gi’s hand lands on the back of my neck. I can feel the rebuke and the warning in the stern grip, the way he presses down on me so I have to bend under his hand.
I push back, but not that hard, and he’s fucking strong. I bet I look like an idiot, straining like a kid in an arm wrestling match as he just keeps pushing on me. And that embarrassing thought, that image, is nasty hot, which is tripping me out.
Although I could do without an audience.
I put my hands on the table, but I’m not at a good angle to shove myself up.
“Okay, okay!” I blurt, annoyed, as he corrects me, as heDaddiesme, in front of all these random guys. I lash out and smack his chest as best I can. “Ugh, fuck you, Young-gi, get your fucking hands off me, crazy bastard! I get it!”
I think I hear someone gasp, as if in this crazy situation, whatI’mdoing is unbelievable. It cracks me up, and I laugh roughly, the sound bouncing right back to me from the tabletop inches away from my eyes. This whole thing is insane, and I can’tnotlaugh.
“Tommy, what are you to me?” Young-gi asks, his voice chilling and biting and firm, not laughing at all, and I suddenly get the feeling that he’s completely forgotten about anybody else.
He’s just making a point tome.My little joke about being his prostitute was one of those self-insults he keeps telling me not to make, and I did it anyway. Like maybe I was kinda hoping he’d correct me… but goddamn, really? Did it have to be like this?
He’s decisive, I’ll give him that. Makes my dick hard, which I know, it’s weird. Luckily it’s under the table so no one can see it. I don’t give a damn what they think, but I don’t want them seeing that. What if they think I want them? That I want it, that I want them to–but I never wanted it– No–no–
Don’t think about anything else. Focus on Young-gi.
“Um…” I stop fighting the pressure on my neck and end up with my forehead pressed against the tabletop, my hands flat on either side of my head. My erection is flagging with the weight of other people’s eyes on me, but something about Young-gi being between them and me makes it easier to hold back the fear, to just ignore the audience.
With his hand on the back of my neck, I feel… honestly? Kinda… weirdly relaxed.
Safe.
I’m such an idiot. Safe?Ugh.
“Tommy,” Young-gi warns sternly, getting me back on track. “You’ll stay here all day until you get it right.”
Goddamn, he knows just what to say.So much for being cool in front of the bratva bosses. Whatever, fuck them. I don’t care. Don’t think about them, they won’t touch me, don’t think about them, they won’t touch me, I won’t let them touch–stop thinking!
The only thing here that I give a fuck about is Young-gi, and his patience, and wearing it down to nothing. Because I’m a masochist freak like that, I guess.
