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I thought I might pass out.

I had no idea how long the beautiful torture went on, but eventually I couldn’t stand it anymore. I began to yell as he pulled out enough to stretch my rim, then smashed back in, fucking me so hard the desk rattled.

Too good, too good, it’s too much.

He slammed in deep and hard.

“Oh! Uncle Bowie!” Too much. I fell off the cliff into bliss with a rush I’d never experienced. All I could do was shout and quiver while cleansing, erotic fire destroyed every part of me. I felt drunk by the time he eased out of my body. A dribble of cum, or maybe lube, started to leak from my hole, but something was stuffed into me—a plug. It didn’t feel huge, but I definitely wouldn’t forget it was in there.

Uncle Bowie dressed me again, leaving me uncomfortably filthy with lube and cum, then plopped something on the desk that was shiny with sex filth. It was an odd red-and-green bulb, a toy obviously, with a band that must’ve gone around Uncle Bowie’s nutsack to hold it in place. It was big, but it had felt a hell of a lot larger when it was in my hole. Carefully, I straightened, and my ass ached in what was beginning to be a familiar way.

He sat down in his chair again and went back to ignoring me.

“What am I supposed to do all day?” I asked, half terrified of the answer. Too late I remembered I wasn’t supposed to ask questions and slapped a hand over my mouth. He snorted and grinned for once.

“Go downstairs and get back in the Yukon. The driver will take you to that hovel you refer to as an apartment. I’m sending movers. Tell them what you want packed and taken to my house. Everything else will be donated.”

My stomach sank as he went back to work. I wasn’t sure I would be able to remind myself of why I was doing this without Uncle Bowie around. Instead of voicing any of my thoughts out loud, I simply left the room to follow orders, since it wasn’t like Uncle Bowie would ever change his mind because of anything I said. He didn’t love me or care about me; I was just someplace for him to dump his load.

An actual dog would probably get more consideration.

7

RIDGE

“Are you fucking serious?” Jury blinked at me from where he sat on the other side of the stainless steel island, eyebrows drawn in confusion. We had law books spread across the surface, and most of the evening had vanished, since we’d been studying for the last few hours. With a test coming up in a few weeks, we had to cram as much information as we could because it had a huge influence on our final grade. “Since when?”

I grabbed a glass of Coke that sat beside my Intro to Property Law textbook and took a drink. After I swallowed, drawing the moment out so I could watch the irritation tighten his lips, I answered his question. “A couple of days ago. When I left the club, I saw him working at that French restaurant near Bar Row. You know the one. It’s kind of new. Everyone was going there to try it last year.”

“And what happened?” Jury nodded. He had forgotten about studying the moment I’d mentioned Saint’s name and the fact that he was staying with us now. His eyes nearly bugged out of his head as he leaned forward, elbows on the island and shoulders hunched.

“I told you.” I shrugged, amused, and took another sip of my Coke. “He got the shit kicked out of him by a Harlot, and Dad agreed to pay back the money his parents owe them.”

Jury didn’t believe me if the twist of his mouth said anything. “Come on. I know your dad. He doesn’t do anything out of the goodness of his heart. My parents can’t stand him. What does he want in return?”

I smirked and offered him indifference, lounging back on my stool with my glass in front of my mouth.

Jury picked up a pen and threw it at me, his dark hair flopping onto his forehead, and I laughed, dodging it. “What. Does. He. Want?”

As if on cue, the sound of the doggy flap on the nearby door whooshed and Jury turned to frown. He knew we didn’t have a dog, and when he’d seen the new hole in the door as he’d first arrived, he’d asked me about it. I’d shrugged in answer and changed the topic. Now he would see what, or rather who, we used it for.

Saint crawled into the kitchen on his hands and knees, then froze the moment his gaze met Jury’s. The silence was deafening and tense. Saint had met Jury and his brother more than once, and when we were kids, we’d all been friends before our grandparents pitted Saint and I against each other.

“Saint?” Jury stood, nearly toppling over from shock.

Saint sat back on his knees, a deep flush spreading across his cheeks. The collar was stark against his pale neck but looked good with his dark hair and black leather coat. I straightened on my stool while appreciating the sight of him so far beneath me, and now Jury got to see it, too. Saint belonged to us, and he was in our debt for who knew how long.

Jury spun around to stare at me. “What the hell, Ridge? You’ve got him acting like a dog?”

“Not me. Dad.” I chugged the rest of my drink and slammed the glass back on the island. Standing, I waved my hand at Saint. “He agreed to it, so it isn’t as if we’re forcing him.”

Jury’s nose scrunched. “Did you do this?” He waved at Saint’s face.

I stared at the bruises that marred Saint’s creamy skin, darkening the underside of his eye and across his cheek and jaw. “No, we didn’t. The Harlot did. She works for the people his parents owe money.”

Jury ignored me and walked to Saint, kneeling in front of him. “Are you okay? Do you need help?” he whispered, loud enough that I could hear him.

“Fuck, Jury, what kind of guy do you think I am?” I glared.