Chapter 2: Jamie pins Adrian's wrists to the mattress, his cock stretching Adrian wide as he fucks into him with deep, punishing strokes. 'You take me so fucking good,' Jamie growls, his fingers digging bruises into Adrian's hips as their skin slaps together. Adrian bites the pillow to muffle his moans, his own cock leaking against the silk sheets with each brutal thrust.
The first thing Adrian became aware of was warmth. Not the sterile, climate-controlled warmth of his penthouse, but a living, breathing heat along his back. The second was an ache, deep and tender, a vivid reminder pulsing between his thighs. Memory returned not in a flood, but in a series of images: Eleanor’s dossier, Jamie’s stunned face, the feel of his lips, the searing fullness of him inside, the claiming.
He opened his eyes. The city was a grey monotone under a blanket of morning fog. He was on his side, and Jamie was propped on one elbow, watching him. His brown curls were a chaotic nest, his eyes soft and unreadable in the dim light. A faint, knowing smirk played on his lips.
“Morning, fiancé,” Jamie said, his voice gravelly with sleep.
The word sent a complicated jolt through Adrian’s system—part dread, part a shocking, illicit thrill. “Morning.” His own voice was rough.
“You snore. Just a little. It’s kind of adorable.”
“I do not snore.”
“You do. Like a well-tuned, very expensive engine.” Jamie’s hand came up, his fingers brushing a stray lock of hair from Adrian’s forehead. The gesture was so casually intimate it stole his breath. “How are you... you know? Feeling?”
Adrian knew what he meant. The ache. The surrender. “Sore,” he admitted. “Real.”
“Good.” That single word was loaded. Jamie leaned in and kissed him, a slow, deep exploration that tasted of sleep and shared breath. It was different from the night before—less desperate, more possessive. Adrian melted into it, a soft groan escaping him as he turned onto his back, pulling Jamie partially on top of him.
The kiss deepened, grew hungrier. Jamie’s hand slid down Adrian’s chest, over the flat plane of his stomach, tracing the trail of dark hair that led below the sheet. He palmed Adrian’s cock through the linen, feeling it swell instantly to full, hard length.
“Already?” Jamie murmured against his mouth.
“You’re here,” Adrian gasped, as if that explained everything. Maybe it did.
Jamie threw the sheet off. The cool air pebbled their skin. He admired Adrian for a moment, his gaze traveling the length of his body—the defined muscle, the fading bite mark on his collarbone, the hard cock lying against his stomach. “Mine,” Jamie said again, but softer now, a statement of fact rather than a challenge.
He pushed Adrian’s legs apart, settling between them. He didn’t bother with preamble. Spitting into his own hand, he slicked his own morning erection, the crude sound horribly erotic in the quiet room. Then he guided himself to Adrian’s entrance, still loose and sensitive from the night before.
“Look at me,” Jamie commanded.
Adrian’s blue eyes, wide and dark with need, locked onto his.
Jamie pushed in. There was less resistance this time, just a smooth, stretching burn that made Adrian arch his back, his mouth falling open in a silent cry. Jamie sank to the hilt in one relentless stroke, burying himself completely. They both held still, connected, breathing each other’s air.
“Fuck,” Adrian finally whispered, the word trembling out of him.
Jamie began to move. He set a ruthless, driving pace from the start, each thrust punching the air from Adrian’s lungs. He braced one hand by Adrian’s head, the other gripping his hip hard enough to bruise. The slap of skin on skin, the wet, rhythmic sounds of their joining, filled the room.
“You take me so fucking good,” Jamie grunted, his eyes blazing down at him. “This perfect, tight ass. All mine now. Everyone’s gonna know it.”
The filthy words, paired with the devastating physical invasion, unhinged Adrian. He wrapped his legs around Jamie’s waist, heels digging into the small of his back, trying to pull him in even deeper. “Harder. Jamie, god, please.”
Jamie obeyed, his thrusts turning brutal, piston-like. The bedframe rocked against the wall with a steady, persistent thud. Adrian reached between them, fisting his own cock, stroking in time with Jamie’s pounding rhythm. Pleasure coiled, unbearably tight, a spring about to snap.
“You gonna come?” Jamie demanded, his breath hot and ragged on Adrian’s throat. “You gonna come all over yourself while I’m fucking you?”
“Yes— shit, yes—”
“Do it. Let me feel you.”
The command was the final trigger. Adrian’s climax tore through him, a blinding white seizure of pleasure. He cried out, a raw, unfiltered sound, as his release striped his stomach and chest. His internal muscles clamped down on Jamie’s cock in frantic, milking pulses.
The intense contraction pushed Jamie over the edge. With a choked-off roar, he drove in one last, final time, his body going rigid as he emptied himself deep inside Adrian, his own release hot and endless.
For a long moment, the only sound was their shuddering breaths. Jamie collapsed atop him, his sweaty forehead pressed to Adrian’s shoulder. They were a sticky, spent, intertwined mess.
Slowly, Jamie pulled out. The sensation made Adrian grit his teeth, a sudden, hollow emptiness following the overwhelming fullness. Jamie slumped beside him, an arm thrown over his eyes.
“We’re gonna have to get up,” Adrian said, his voice hollow. “The wedding planner I contracted last night arrives at nine.”
Jamie peeked from under his arm. “You hired a wedding planner at, what, two in the morning?”
“I have a team for everything. They were on standby.”
“Of course they were.” Jamie sat up, swinging his legs over the side of the bed. He looked back at Adrian, his expression shifting from sated to something more guarded. “So. The performance begins.”
“It’s not a performance.” Adrian sat up too, the come on his stomach cooling unpleasantly. “Not between us. Not after... that.”
“But for everyone else, it is.” Jamie stood, padding naked toward the ensuite bathroom. “We’re fabricating evidence for the board. For Eleanor. That’s the deal.” He said it without malice, just a blunt assessment.
“The deal was the excuse,” Adrian repeated his words from the night before, but they sounded weaker in the clinical morning light.
Jamie turned on the shower, steam beginning to billow. “The excuse is now the reality. Come on. We can’t meet the wedding planner smelling like sex.”
An hour later, they sat in Adrian’s sun-drenched living room, dressed in casual clothes that had been procured for Jamie by Adrian’s silent, efficient assistant. The space felt different with Jamie in it. His beat-up sketchbook lay open on the pristine sofa, a half-finished drawing of Trip the hamster next to a vastly overdressed building. It was a violation of the penthouse’s aesthetic, and Adrian found he liked it.
The elevator chimed. A woman stepped out, followed by two assistants carrying tablets and fabric swatches. She was in her fifties, impeccably dressed in a cream suit, her gaze sharp and assessing.
“Mr. Hartley. A pleasure,” she said, her voice like polished stone. Her eyes swept over Jamie, taking in his worn sneakers and slightly-too-long curls. “And this must be the lucky man. I’m Vivienne Thorne.”
“Jamie Lawson,” Jamie said, offering a hand and a genuine, warm smile that seemed to briefly disarm her.
“Let’s begin,” Vivienne said, gesturing for her assistants to set up. “We have thirty days to orchestrate the social event of the season. Given the... abrupt timeline, we will need to make decisive choices. I’ve taken the liberty of preparing some initial concepts.”
For the next ninety minutes, they were swept into a vortex of decisions. Venue? The Hartley family estate, Adrian insisted. It sent the right message of tradition and legacy. Jamie’s subtle flinch at the mention of the estate didn’t go unnoticed by Adrian. Guest list? Small, exclusive, but must include the entire board and key Veridian partners. Flowers? Seasonal whites and greens. Cake? A seven-tiered monstrosity.
Jamie remained quiet, nodding, interjecting only to gently veto anything he found “painfully ostentatious.” Adrian watched him, this artist being asked to stage-manage his own faux-life, and felt a sharp pang of guilt.
“And the story,” Vivienne said, folding her hands. “The media will want the fairy tale. How did you two reconnect?”
Adrian opened his mouth, but Jamie spoke first. “We never lost touch. He’s been my best friend for over a decade. We were just... stupid. Scared. It took a near-disaster for us to finally see what was right in front of us.” He looked at Adrian, and the affection in his eyes wasn't entirely faked. “Sometimes you have to almost lose everything to realize what you really want.”
The answer was perfect. Vivienne’s stern expression softened a fraction. “Lovely. Authentic. We’ll use that.”
As the meeting concluded and Vivienne’s team packed up, she paused. “One last thing. A photographer will come tomorrow for engagement portraits. For the announcement. Be here. Look in love.” Her gaze lingered on them. “I am very good at my job, gentlemen. I can sell any story. But it’s easier if the raw material is... convincing.”
The elevator doors closed on her.
Silence descended, heavier than before. The performative nature of their next month was now a tangible pile of fabric samples and timelines on Adrian’s coffee table.
“My family estate,” Jamie said quietly, staring out the window. “Your father’s house.”
“It’s just a venue.”
“It’s the place he told you you’d never amount to anything.” Jamie turned to him. “You’re using it as a stage to prove him wrong. To prove them all wrong.”
“Isn’t that the whole point of this?” Adrian’s voice held an edge.
“Is it?” Jamie walked over to him, stopping close. “Last night, this morning... that felt like a different point. This,” he gestured at the wedding planner’s materials, “feels like the deal.” He reached out, his finger hooking in the collar of Adrian’s shirt, pulling it down to expose the bruise on his collarbone. “The deal doesn’t leave marks, Adrian. This does.”
Adrian’s phone buzzed. A single-line email from Eleanor Vance.
Subject: Observation
A noted improvement in your demeanor. The board is pleased with the initial... momentum. The photographer tomorrow is one of ours. Ensure the shots are compelling.
Adrian showed the screen to Jamie.
“One of hers,” Jamie read. His hand dropped from Adrian’s collar. “So it starts.” He walked over to the sketchbook, closing it with a definitive snap. “I need to go pack up my apartment. For real. And check on Trip.”
“Jamie—”
“We’ll be convincing, Adrian,” he said, not looking back as he headed for the elevator. “Don’t worry about that. The material will be raw enough.”
The elevator took him away. Adrian was left alone in the grand, quiet space, the ghost of Jamie’s warmth still on his skin, the phantom ache of him still in his body, and the cold, intricate architecture of the lie they were building settling around him like a cage.