Chapter 1: Marked Possession, Unraveled Control
The headboard was a steady, rhythmic complaint against the wall. Tommy’s world had narrowed to the sound, to the smell of his own sweat on the rumpled sheets, to the burning grip of Chanse’s hands on his hips. His back was a bare, offered plane, untouched, while everything else was claimed.
“It’s your fault,” Chanse gasped against the damp skin between Tommy’s shoulder blades, his voice a rough scrape. His breath was hot. “If we’re late. Looking this good. You knew this would happen.”
Tommy could only grunt, a low, surrendering sound muffled by the pillow. He’d said something cocky an hour ago, pulling on that stupidly thin, gray shirt with the buttons. He’d caught Chanse’s eyes—those piercing hazel ones—darkening, and he’d known. He’d fucking known. A flare of triumphant pride lit him up now, even as Chanse moved in him, ruthless and perfect.
His own bravado was ashes. The analytic part of his brain, the part that planned video segments and dissected punchlines, had short-circuited. Control was a language he’d forgotten. He could only feel. The slick drag. The deep, punctuating thrusts that stole his air. The delicious ache of being opened up, filled up.
“More,” he rasped. It was less a word than a shape his lungs forced out.
Chanse’s rhythm faltered for a heartbeat. A hand smoothed up Tommy’s spine, a startling tenderness against the violence of their coupling. It settled at the base of his skull, fingers twisting into his bleached hair, not to pull, but to hold. To anchor.
“You always need more,” Chanse murmured, his lips brushing Tommy’s ear. “Even when you’re gone. You still beg for it.”
Tommy couldn’t deny it. He was gone. Sprawled and pinned, a big man rendered pliant. He felt Chanse curl over him, the lean, toned weight of him a second blanket, the damp cotton of his t-shirt sticking to Tommy’s back. The silver bracelets on Tommy’s own wrist jangled softly with every movement, a tiny, chaotic melody beneath Chanse’s driving beat.
He turned his head, searching blindly, and Chanse met him. The kiss was messy, off-center, all shared breath and teeth. It was different from the others. This one wasn’t a prelude or a victory. It was a lapse. A secret told in the dark.
Chanse broke it, breathing hard. He rested his forehead against Tommy’s temple. The creaking of the bed, the slap of skin, their ragged sounds—it all coalesced into a single, tightening wire inside Tommy. The coil wound, wound, wound, until with a broken shout, it snapped.
He fell apart silently, a tremor ripping through him so intensely his vision whited out at the edges. Behind him, Chanse followed with a stifled groan, his body locking, his fingers clutching Tommy’s hips hard enough to bruise.
For a long moment, there was only the sound of their breathing fighting to even out. The lamp by the bed seemed to cast longer, softer shadows now. Chanse collapsed half beside him, half on him, a welcome weight. His cap was gone, tossed somewhere in the chaos of the room. His brown curls were damp with sweat.
Tommy felt the slow, tender stroke of a hand down his side. Chanse’s touch, post-fall, was always like this. A quiet translation.
Then, the spell shattered.
Chanse nudged him. “Show’s in forty minutes.”
“Fuck.” The word was gravel. Tommy rolled onto his back, wincing at the pleasant soreness. The room came back into focus—the discarded hoodie on the chair, his shoes kicked into the corner, Chanse’s jeans in a heap by the door.
Chanse was already up, padding naked to the bathroom. Tommy watched him go, the smooth lines of his back, the shift of muscle. He felt a familiar, complicated pang. Want, yes, always that. But something else, thicker and more terrifying.
The shower hissed to life.
Tommy forced himself up. He found his boxers, his dark jeans. He was buttoning a fresh shirt when Chanse emerged, a towel slung low on his hips, steam curling around him.
“You should shower,” Chanse said, running a hand through his damp curls. “You reek of poor life choices.”
“Your life choices,” Tommy shot back, his voice returning to him, the sarcasm a comfortable coat.
Chanse’s grin was quick and brilliant. “My excellent life choices.” He dressed with an efficient, unselfconscious speed. Tommy tried not to watch, and failed. There was a proprietary feeling there, a wanting to stamp what was his. But he couldn’t. Not where anyone could see.
As Chanse pulled his own shirt on, he caught Tommy staring. His expression softened, just for a second. “You good?”
“Always.” The automatic lie.
Chanse just looked at him, those hazel eyes seeing too much. He walked over, gripped the back of Tommy’s neck, and pulled him into a kiss. It was brief, but deep. A claiming, and a promise. “Then let’s go be funny.”
They were quiet in the elevator, in the parking garage. The public air between them was different. It was all shoulder checks and snarky comments about the other’s outfit. The silent language of the bedroom was packed away.
Tommy drove. His hands on the wheel were the same hands that had clung to the headboard. He felt split.
“You nervous?” Chanse asked, staring out the window at the passing streetlights.
“For a five-minute set at The Pit? No.”
“Liar.”
Tommy glanced over. Chanse had his cap on now, pulled low. “Why would I be nervous?”
“Because you’re you. You overthink the gas station coffee order.”
Tommy snorted. It was true. He was already mentally running through his bits, trimming milliseconds, imagining the audience’s faces. Control. He needed the control of the stage since he’d willingly surrendered it all, minutes ago, in his bed.
He pulled up to the club. The neon sign buzzed, painting the sidewalk in garish red. A line of people snaked around the block.
“Ready?” Chanse unbuckled his seatbelt.
“Yeah.” Tommy killed the engine. He didn’t move.
Chanse studied him. In the dim light from the sign, his face was all shadows and sharp, beautiful angles. “Tommy.”
“Don’t.”
“I didn’t say anything.”
“You were about to.”
Chanse sighed, a short, frustrated sound. “This is getting old.”
“What is?”
“This. The separate doors. The ‘you go first, I’ll follow in five.’ The never touching. Not even a hand on your back when you kill on stage.” Chanse’s voice was low, edged with a pain Tommy wasn’t used to hearing there. Chanse, who was all sharp edges and sass, sounded blunted. “I’m not a dirty secret, man. I’m the guy who just wrecked you so good you forgot your own name.”
The words hung in the confined space of the car, louder than the idle tick of the cooling engine. Tommy’s chest felt tight. He looked at the people lining up, laughing, smoking. His world. Their world. It wasn’t ready for this. Was he?
“It’s not forever,” Tommy said, the words tasting like dust. “Just… not yet.”
Chanse was silent for a long moment. Then he nodded, once, a short, sharp motion. He pushed the car door open, letting in a burst of night sounds and distant laughter. “Okay,” he said, without looking back. “Not yet.”
He slipped out, merging with the crowd, becoming just another guy going into a comedy club. Alone. Tommy watched him disappear inside, the door swinging shut behind him. He sat in the quiet car, the ghost of Chanse’s touch still on his skin, the ache of his absence already a hollow point in his gut. He took a deep breath, steadying himself. The show was about to start. He had to go be funny.
He got out of the car, the two silver bracelets on his wrist catching the neon light as he moved.