Chapter 9: Jamie's chocolate-smeared fingers push past Adrian's lips while his other hand works Adrian's cock under the table, the caterer's horrified gasp drowned out by Adrian's choked moan as Jamie whispers 'Swallow it all like you swallow my cum' just as Eleanor drops her clipboard, the sound echoing through the suddenly silent tasting room.
The scent of vanilla bean and lemon curd hung in the air, a cloying blanket that made Adrian’s teeth ache. He adjusted his tie, the silk feeling like a noose. Across the immaculate white table, Eleanor Vance sat with her tablet, her smile a thin, penciled line.
“The citrus-infused elderflower is certainly innovative,” she said, her stylus tapping. “Appropriate, don’t you think? For a spring wedding?”
“I think it tastes like perfume,” Jamie said, dropping his fork with a clatter. He leaned back in his chair, sunlight from the high windows catching the gold in his messy hair. He’d worn a blazer but had rolled the sleeves up, paint still under his nails. A deliberate choice, Adrian knew. A fuck you in pastel form.
Eleanor’s gaze flickered to Jamie’s hands, then back to her notes. “The public appreciates tradition, Mr. Lawson. And nuance.”
“Call me Jamie. Since we’re family.” His grin was all teeth.
Adrian kicked him lightly under the table. Play nice. This tasting was Eleanor’s idea, another test in a gauntlet of tests. The penthouse “proof” had only made her more diligent, her scrutiny shifting from broad strokes to minute, forensic detail.
“Let’s try the dark chocolate ganache,” Adrian interjected, signaling to the nervous chef who hovered nearby. “Something… substantial.”
A new slice was set before them, a towering wedge of decadence. Jamie picked up his silver cake server, examined it, then plunged it into the heart of the slice. He brought a laden fork to his own mouth, his eyes locked on Adrian’s as he slowly closed his lips around it. A dot of rich, dark ganache clung to the corner of his mouth.
“Mmm,” Jamie hummed, a low, private sound. He swallowed. “Thick. Almost bitter. Then it just… melts.”
Adrian’s mouth went dry. He recognized the glint in Jamie’s eye—the same wild, reckless energy from the night they’d ruined the rug. This wasn’t submission. This was an ambush.
Jamie dipped two fingers into the soft chocolate center of the slice on Adrian’s plate. He held them up, glossy and dripping.
“Open,” Jamie said, the command soft, intimate.
A current of pure heat shot down Adrian’s spine. He could feel Eleanor’s stare, laser-focused. This was the line. This was the performance, but it wasn’t his choreography. It was Jamie’s.
Adrian parted his lips. Jamie slid his fingers inside, the cool, silky ganache coating Adrian’s tongue, the salt of Jamie’s skin underneath. Adrian sucked, his eyes fluttering closed for a second, the taste overwhelming.
“Good, right?” Jamie murmured, pulling his fingers free with a soft pop.
Before Adrian could respond, Jamie’s hand, still glistening, moved under the pristine white linen tablecloth. It landed on Adrian’s thigh, a bold, warm weight. Adrian froze. The room, the chatter of staff, Eleanor’s presence—it all blurred into a distant hum.
Jamie’s fingers trailed inward, over the fine wool of Adrian’s trousers, finding the fastening. His other hand, clean, picked up his water glass, his face the picture of innocent inquiry as he turned to Eleanor. “You think a seven-tier is overkill, or just appropriately showy?”
His hidden hand worked the button, then the zipper. The sound was deafening in Adrian’s ears. Cool air, then the shock of Jamie’s ganache-smeared hand slipping inside, wrapping around his hardening cock.
Adrian choked on nothing, his fist clenching on the tablecloth. Jamie’s thumb swept over the head, spreading the sticky chocolate, mixing with the bead of moisture already forming.
“Jamie,” Adrian breathed, a warning and a plea.
“Which flavor makes you hardest, darling?” Jamie asked conversationally, his stroke slow and filthy under the cover of linen. “Is it the lemon? The vanilla?” He squeezed, his grip firm, twisting slightly. “Or is it just the thought of everyone in this room watching, while I’m the only one who gets to touch you?”
Eleanor’s pen had stopped moving. Adrian saw her reflection in the polished silver coffee pot between them. Her eyes were wide, her composed mask splintering into pure, unvarnished shock.
Jamie began to stroke in earnest, a ruthless, steady rhythm. The friction, slick with ganache and pre-come, was surreal, exquisite torture. Adrian’s hips gave a minute, involuntary jerk. He bit down on the inside of his cheek, the pain a fleeting anchor.
“We’ll take the dark chocolate,” Adrian forced out, his voice strained but surprisingly clear. “For the main tier.”
“Excellent choice, Mr. Hartley,” the chef stammered, blinking at the scene—the intense stare between the two men, the flush creeping up Adrian’s neck.
Jamie’s pace increased. He leaned in, as if to examine the cake slice, his lips brushing Adrian’s ear. “You’re leaking all over my hand,” he whispered, the words hot and obscene. “You want to come on her notes? You want to ruin her whole fucking day?”
The image, coupled with the relentless tug of Jamie’s hand, drove Adrian to the edge. He was rigid, every muscle coiled, trembling with the effort to stay still, to stay quiet. The world narrowed to that clandestine grip, the daring in Jamie’s eyes, the catastrophic thrill of getting caught.
With a gut-deep groan he disguised as a cough, Adrian came. It pulsed into Jamie’s waiting hand, hot stripes mixing with the cool chocolate, a secret, shameful mess under the civilized table.
Jamie held him through it, milking him with slow, possessive pulls until Adrian shuddered. Only then did he slowly withdraw his hand, leaving Adrian spent and exposed in his open trousers.
Eleanor stood up abruptly, her chair scraping the floor. “I think that concludes the tasting,” she said, her voice clipped and brittle. She fumbled for her bag, her usual poise utterly gone. She couldn’t look at either of them.
“But we haven’t decided on the groom’s cake,” Jamie said, smiling sweetly, licking a stray smear of chocolate from his own knuckle with deliberate slowness.
“I’m sure you’ll choose something… suitable,” Eleanor managed, and fled, her heels clicking a rapid, retreating staccato.
Silence enveloped their corner. The staff discretely vanished.
Adrian zipped himself up, his movements slow, clumsy. He felt gutted, seen, conquered. He looked at Jamie, who was wiping his hand calmly on a linen napkin.
“Why?” Adrian asked, the word raw.
Jamie met his gaze, the defiance softening into something more vulnerable. “You said you decide what’s real. In the penthouse.” He shrugged, a slight, tense movement. “I decide what’s real out here. I’m not just the thing you hide, Adrian.”
He stood, tossing the soiled napkin onto the ruined cake. “Now, are we buying this fucking chocolate monstrosity or not?”
Later, in the back of the town car, the silence was different. Not charged, but full. Adrian stared out at the streaming city, feeling the ghost of Jamie’s grip, the utter dissolution of his control.
Jamie spoke first, his voice quiet against the engine’s hum. “I crossed a line.”
“Yes.”
“Are you angry?”
Adrian considered it. The humiliation was there, a sharp sting. But beneath it, a terrifying, expansive relief. He hadn’t had to perform. Jamie had torn the script to pieces.
“No,” he said finally. He turned his head to look at Jamie. “I’m terrified.”
A slow smile touched Jamie’s lips. “Good.”
The car pulled into the underground garage. Before the driver could open the door, Adrian reached over. He didn’t kiss him. He just cradled the back of Jamie’s head, his forehead resting against Jamie’s temple, breathing him in—sugar, paint, home.
“Next time,” Adrian whispered, “warn me.”
Jamie’s laughter was a soft puff of air against his skin. “Where’s the fun in that?”
They stepped out into the cool, concrete dimness, the unspoken thing between them shifting again, solidifying into a new, uncharted shape. The elevator awaited, a silent ascent towards another private reckoning.