Chapter 10: Jamie slams Adrian against a 200-year-old oil painting of his great-grandfather, biting his neck as he yanks Adrian's belt open with one hand - 'You want me to play perfect fiancé?' he growls, spitting into his palm before stroking Adrian's cock to full hardness, 'Then fucking take me where your family can hear how much I love you.'
The Hartley family silver had always felt cold. Adrian pressed his palm against the heavy fork, the intricate ‘H’ emblem biting into his skin, a familiar anchor. Across the expanse of polished mahogany, his father carved the roast with methodical precision, the scritch-scrape of the knife the only sound in the cavernous dining room.
“Jamie, dear,” his mother, Celeste, began, her voice like spun sugar over steel. “Adrian tells us your latest exhibition is coming along. At that… warehouse space?”
“The collective on Twelfth,” Jamie said, smiling. He’d worn a shirt Adrian bought him, a crisp charcoal button-down, but he’d undone the cuffs and rolled them to his elbows. The defiance was in the details: the flash of a turquoise bracelet made of cheap clay, the persistent sunflower-yellow smudge of cadmium paint beneath his left thumbnail. “It’s a good space. Raw.”
“Raw,” his father, Charles, echoed, setting down the carving tools. “How… economical.”
Adrian felt Jamie’s knee brush his under the table. A press. Steady.
The conversation flowed like poisoned syrup—market fluctuations, the conservatism of the board, the weather at the summer house. Each topic a carefully laid stone, walling Jamie out. Celeste’s eyes kept darting to Jamie’s hands as he lifted his wine glass, as he gestured with a bread roll. Those painter’s hands, marring her perfect tableau.
“The board remains concerned about long-term stability,” Charles said, fixing Adrian with a gaze that had overseen bankruptcies and hostile takeovers. “Image is one thing. Sustained commitment is another. Eleanor Vance’s reports have been… thorough.”
Adrian stiffened. The ghost of chocolate ganache seemed to slick his skin.
“I’d imagine,” Jamie said lightly, taking a slow sip of water. “She strikes me as a woman who misses very little.”
“And what of your commitments, Jamie?” Celeste asked, her smile benign. “Art is such a demanding mistress. It must be difficult to envision settling down. To planning a… future.”
The air grew thick. Adrian’s chest tightened. This was the old language, the one spoken in glances and pauses, designed to isolate and diminish.
Then Charles wiped his mouth, placing the napkin beside his plate with finality. “Which brings us to a practical matter. The bloodline. The trust is quite specific. Heirs must be biological, of course. Have you considered your options? Surrogacy arrangements these days are quite discreet.”
Silence, absolute and swallowing.
Adrian saw it happen in slow motion. Jamie’s hand, resting on his own thigh, clenched. The knuckles whitened around that defiant paint stain. Then, slowly, deliberately, he moved it. He placed his palm on Adrian’s upper thigh, under the table, fingers splayed, a warm, heavy brand through the fine wool of his trousers. A claim. Celeste’s eyes dropped to the tablecloth as if she could see through it, her face freezing.
“We’re focused on the wedding first,” Adrian heard himself say, his voice distant. “One thing at a time.”
Jamie’s fingers dug in, almost painfully. “Actually,” Jamie said, his tone changing, shedding its polite sheen. It became low, intimate, and full of a challenge that seemed to vibrate in the crystal. “We haven’t decided if we want kids at all. It’s hard to think about little else when the present is so…” He turned his head, looking directly at Adrian, his brown eyes dark and unreadable. “Consuming.”
He stood up, his chair scraping violently. He didn’t let go of Adrian’s thigh; he used the grip to pull Adrian up with him.
“Jamie—” Adrian started.
“We need a minute,” Jamie announced to the stunned table, his voice leaving no room for argument. His free hand shot up, tangling in Adrian’s silk tie, twisting. He pulled. Adrian stumbled forward, caught off balance by the sheer physical force of it, by the wildfire in Jamie’s eyes.
“Excuse us,” Jamie threw over his shoulder, and he marched Adrian out of the dining room, through the arched doorway, into the dim, carpeted hall.
“What the hell are you doing?” Adrian hissed, but Jamie didn’t answer. He pulled him past closed doors, their footsteps muffled, Adrian stumbling to keep up, the silk of his tie tightening like a leash. They reached the long, portrait gallery. The eyes of generations of Harteys watched from gilded frames, austere and disapproving.
Jamie shoved him back against the wainscoted wall, right between a stern naval captain and a lady in ruffled silk. The impact knocked the air from Adrian’s lungs.
“They were picking you apart,” Jamie snarled, his face inches away. His breath was hot, his eyes glittering with a fury Adrian hadn’t seen since they were teenagers facing down bullies. “Biological heirs. Discreet arrangements. Treating you like a fucking pedigree stock and me like the mud on your shoe.”
“It’s just how they are—” Adrian tried.
“I don’t give a shit!” Jamie barked. His hand was still fisted in Adrian’s tie. He used it to yank Adrian’s head down, capturing his mouth in a brutal, searing kiss. It wasn’t sweet or playful. It was teeth and tongue and pure, undiluted anger. Adrian groaned into it, his own frustration, his own decades of silent obedience, boiling over. He kissed back just as hard, biting Jamie’s lower lip, tasting copper.
Jamie broke the kiss, panting. “They want a show of passion?” he muttered, his free hand scrambling for Adrian’s belt. “Let’s give them a fucking masterpiece.”
The belt buckle clanged. The zipper hissed. Jamie shoved Adrian’s trousers and briefs down to his thighs in one rough movement. The cool air of the gallery hit Adrian’s skin, followed by the hotter touch of Jamie’s palm, gripping his already-hard cock. He pumped him, twice, fast and ruthless, his calloused thumb rasping over the head.
“You like that?” Jamie gritted out, his own erection pressing insistently against Adrian’s hip through his jeans. “You like them looking down on us while I have my hand on your dick?”
Adrian’s head thudded back against the wall. “Fuck you.”
“Yeah,” Jamie breathed, releasing him. He turned Adrian around sharply, facing him toward the portraits. The ancestors stared back, cold and silent. Adrian braced his forearms on the wall, the polished wood smooth under his skin. He heard the sound of Jamie’s jeans unzipping, the rustle of a foil packet—always prepared, a cynical part of Adrian’s brain noted—then the wet, slick sound of Jamie spitting into his palm, working it over himself.
There was no more preamble. Jamie’s hand gripped Adrian’s hip, bruising-tight. The blunt, hot press of him pushed against Adrian’s entrance. It burned—a sharp, shocking stretch without more preparation.
“Jamie—“
“Shut up,” Jamie gasped, and he pushed in, one relentless, searing thrust that buried him to the hilt.
Adrian cried out, a strangled sound swallowed by the oppressive quiet of the gallery. It was too much, too dry, too angry. It hurt. And it was the most alive he’d felt in years. Jamie held himself there, buried deep, both of them trembling, the only sounds their ragged breaths.
“Tell me this is a sham,” Jamie whispered harshly into the back of his neck. “Go on. Tell me it’s just for the money. With my cock in your ass in your parents’ fucking gallery.”
Adrian couldn’t speak. He pushed back, a slight, yielding movement.
It was all the permission Jamie needed. He drew back and slammed home again. And again. Setting a punishing, rhythmic pace that shook Adrian’s body against the wall. Each thrust was a jolt of pain-pleasure, a rebellion. The portraits blurred. The chandelier in the hall cast their frantic, writhing shadow across the floor, a grotesque pantomime for the painted eyes.
“Is this real enough for them?” Jamie grunted, his hips pistoning. His fingers dug into Adrian’s flesh, sure to leave marks. “You gonna come for me, Adrian? Gonna come all over your family’s wall?”
Adrian was close, the friction overwhelming, the crude, filthy reality of it stripping him bare. He reached a hand between his own legs, stroking himself in time with Jamie’s thrusts.
“Yeah, touch yourself,” Jamie encouraged, his voice guttural. “Let them see. Let them all see what you are with me.”
The climax ripped through Adrian, violent and silent. He spilled over his fingers, onto the dark wood floor, his body clamping down hard around Jamie, who swore, his rhythm fracturing into frantic, shallow drives before he stiffened, a low groan tearing from his throat as he emptied himself inside with a final, shuddering thrust.
For a long moment, they stayed like that, leaning against the wall, panting in the semi-darkness, joined. Slowly, Jamie softened, slipping out. Adrian felt the warm, slick drip of their mixed release on his inner thigh.
He turned around, his trousers still bunched at his feet. Jamie was re-fastening his jeans, his face flushed, his hair wild. The anger had drained, leaving something raw and exposed in its wake.
Jamie looked at the mess on the floor, then up at the nearest portrait—Charles Hartley I, founder of the fortune, his expression imperious. A slow, tired smirk touched Jamie’s lips. “Sorry, grandpa.”
He pulled a handkerchief from his pocket—Adrian’s handkerchief, monogrammed—and bent to wipe the floor clean. Then he stood and gently cleaned Adrian, his touch now oddly tender.
“We should get back,” Adrian said, his voice hoarse.
“Yeah.” Jamie helped him pull his clothes back into order, straightening his ruined tie with a hopeless little shrug.
They walked back down the hall, side by side, not touching. The distance between them felt charged, different. The performance was over. Something else had happened in its place.
As they neared the dining room door, Adrian stopped. He looked at Jamie, really looked at him—the paint-stained thumb, the kiss-swollen lips, the fierce, loyal eyes.
“Jamie.”
“Don’t.” Jamie shook his head, a flicker of fear in his gaze. “Don’t say it if you don’t mean it. Not here.”
Adrian reached out, not caring if they were seen. He wiped a smudge of something from Jamie’s cheek with his thumb. “I mean it,” he said quietly. “And I’m terrified.”
Jamie’s breath hitched. He leaned into the touch for a fraction of a second before pulling back, squaring his shoulders. He pushed the dining room door open.
The conversation died. Four eyes pinned them, taking in their dishevelment, the new tension humming between them. Celeste’s gaze fixed on Adrian’s crooked tie, on the red mark blossoming on the side of Jamie’s neck.
Jamie pulled out Adrian’s chair for him, a gesture both gallant and possessive. He sat, looked at the cold roast congealing on the platter, and then directly at Charles.
“About the future,” Jamie said, his voice clear and steady in the hush. “We’ll let you know.”