Chapter 4: Jamie flips Adrian onto his stomach and spreads his cheeks, tongue licking a hot stripe over his swollen rim before spearing inside. Adrian grips the sheets as Jamie eats him open, fingers clawing at the mattress when Jamie's tongue fucks deep into his still-tender hole, preparing him for another brutal claiming.
Adrian woke to the pressure first—a solid, insistent heat between his thighs, a blunt weight resting against the crease of his ass. The haze of sleep dissolved instantly. Jamie’s arm was slung over his waist, his body curled around Adrian’s back, but there was nothing gentle in the hold.
Before Adrian could speak, Jamie’s hand came up, palm settling against his throat. Not squeezing. Just resting. A claim.
“You’re awake,” Jamie murmured into the nape of his neck, his voice gravelly with sleep and something darker. He shifted his hips, grinding his erection against Adrian. The friction was delicious, tinged with the soreness from yesterday. “I can feel you thinking. Stop it.”
Adrian’s breath hitched. The city’s early morning glow filtered through the floor-to-ceiling windows, painting the sterile bedroom in tones of gold and gray. His bedroom. A place he’d never shared like this. Jamie’s presence here, in his bed, felt more invasive than any merger, more exposing than any boardroom.
“The photographer,” Adrian began, his voice strained.
“Is coming in three hours.” Jamie’s teeth grazed the tendon in Adrian’s neck. His hand tightened minutely on Adrian’s throat, a silent demand for silence. “They want a happy couple. A believable one.” He rocked forward again, the thick slide of his cock a relentless promise. “I’ve been thinking about those pictures they always run in the society pages. The polished, perfect lies.”
He bit down, sharp and sudden, on the juncture of Adrian’s shoulder. Adrian jolted, a spike of pain-pleasure shooting straight to his groin.
“I want them to look at our photo and see the truth,” Jamie whispered, his breath scalding Adrian’s skin. “I want them to look at you, at your face, and know you’ve been thoroughly fucked.”
The words were a lit match dropped in Adrian’s veins. He was hard, achingly so, pinned between Jamie’s body and the expensive sheets. All his control, the meticulous persona he presented to the world, was unraveling in the hands of the one person who’d seen the blueprints from the start.
Jamie released his throat, his hand sliding down Adrian’s chest, over his stomach. He found Adrian’s cock, already leaking, and gave it a rough, possessive stroke. “This is what you bought, right? A convincing performance.”
“It’s not—” Adrian started, but the protest died as Jamie spat into his own hand, the sound obscene in the quiet room. He reached between Adrian’s legs, past his balls, and pressed a wet, demanding finger against his hole. It was still tender from yesterday, the stretch a bright, familiar burn.
“Noise,” Jamie commanded, working the finger in to the first knuckle. “I want to hear you. Don’t you fucking hide from me today.”
He didn’t bother with more preparation. He removed his finger, positioned himself, and pushed inside in one long, brutal stroke.
Adrian cried out, the sound ripped from his chest. It was too much, a glorious, punishing fullness that stole coherent thought. Jamie sheathed himself completely, his hips flush against Adrian’s ass, and let out a shuddering groan. “Christ. Every time. You feel like you’re made for me.”
Then he began to move. There was no gentle acclimation. He set a hard, deep pace from the first thrust, each snap of his hips driving Adrian into the mattress. The headboard tapped a faint, persistent rhythm against the wall. Adrian pushed back, meeting him, chasing the delirium of friction. The soreness transformed, magnifying every sensation into something sacrimental and raw.
Jamie’s hand snaked back around, fumbling for Adrian’s cock again. He jerked him in time with his thrusts, his grip almost too tight. “You gonna come for me, Adrian? You gonna let the whole fucking city see how well your fiancé fucks you?”
“Jamie—God—yes—” The words were splintered. Adrian was fracturing, the pleasure a seismic pressure building at the base of his spine. The sounds were filthy: the slick slap of skin, their ragged breathing, the low, broken curses Jamie muttered into his skin.
“Tell me,” Jamie gritted out, his rhythm faltering, losing its precision as his own end approached. “Tell me who you belong to.”
It was the game, the performance, but Adrian’s answer was the truest thing he’d said in years. “You. Fuck, Jamie, you—”
That was all it took. Adrian’s orgasm tore through him, a silent, breathless crest before the wave broke into violent tremors. He spilled over Jamie’s fist, his body clamping down hard around the cock still pumping inside him, milking Jamie’s own release. Jamie bit down on Adrian’s shoulder again to stifle his roar, his thrusts becoming shallow, erratic jerks as he emptied himself.
For a long moment, the only sound was their struggle for air. Jamie slumped over him, a sweaty, heavy weight. Slowly, carefully, he pulled out. The aftermath was a profound, aching emptiness.
Jamie rolled onto his back beside Adrian, staring at the stark white ceiling. “They’ll probably want us in matching sweaters,” he said, his voice now flat, drained of its previous fervor.
Adrian didn’t know how to touch this silence. The scent of sex and sweat was thick in the room, a testament to something that felt miles away from a transaction. He looked at the red, bruising mark he knew was on his shoulder.
When the photographer, a sleek woman named Celeste with a disarmingly warm smile, arrived two hours later, they were ready. Adrian in a charcoal cashmere crewneck, Jamie in a cream-colored turtleneck loaned from Adrian’s closet. They stood on the terrace with the city sprawling behind them.
“Okay, gentlemen, let’s just get some natural interaction,” Celeste said, her camera clicking. “Adrian, maybe put your hand on Jamie’s back. Jamie, look at him like you actually enjoy his company.”
Jamie’s smile for the camera was charming, effortless. But when Adrian’s hand settled on the small of his back, he felt the fine tremor that ran through him. It was the only crack in the façade.
“Now, Jamie, whisper something to him. Make him laugh.”
Jamie turned his head. His lips were close to Adrian’s ear. His expression, viewable only to Adrian, was hollow. His whisper was for no microphone, no camera. “She has no idea what I just did to you in there, does she?” he breathed, his voice devoid of all the earlier heat, cold as the glass of the windows.
Adrian’s resulting laugh for the camera was perfect, rich and believable. It felt like ashes in his mouth.
As Celeste packed up, praising their chemistry, Jamie walked to the edge of the terrace, gripping the railing. Adrian watched him, the cashmere feeling like a costume. The act was over, but the performance, he understood now, was just beginning. And the only script was a sketchbook full of secrets and the brutal, beautiful lies their bodies told.