Chapter 1: The Aftermath
The hallway smelled like old wood and yesterday’s pizza. The flickering bulb overhead threw shadows that jumped every time Mattew moved. He stood frozen, his back against the cool wall, feeling the grain of the plaster through his thin t-shirt.
“Say it again,” he said, his voice low.
Jack ran a hand through his hair, not meeting his eyes. “It’s not a big deal, Matty. It’s 2024. Everyone does it. We keep what we have, we just… stop limiting the experience. We’re young. It’s practical.”
“Practical.” The word tasted like aluminum. Mattew’s gaze dropped to Jack’s hands, the hands he’d held for three years. They looked like stranger’s hands now. “You just decided this. Without me.”
“I’m deciding it now.” Jack finally looked at him, and there was no apology there, just a bland insistence. “It’s the new condition. Open the relationship, or we’re done.”
Mattew’s breath hitched. The air in the narrow hall turned thick, impossible to pull into his lungs. He felt the betrayal like a physical crack spreading up his sternum. He was the loyal one. The one who planned meals and remembered anniversaries and fucking bottomed, even when he wasn’t always in the mood, because it made Jack happy. And this was his reward. An ultimatum wrapped in cheap, trendy psychology.
His pride screamed at him to tell Jack to go to hell. To walk away and let him see what “open” felt like when you were alone. But the fear was louder, a cold whisper that had lived in him since his first crush. The fear of being unwanted. Of being left.
“Fine,” he whispered. The word was ash.
Jack’s shoulders relaxed. “See? It’ll be good for us. You’ll see.” He leaned in, as if to kiss Mattew’s cheek, but Mattew turned his face away. Jack paused, then shrugged. “I’m going out. Don’t wait up.”
He walked down the hall, his footsteps echoing, and didn’t look back. The front door clicked shut. The silence that followed was absolute, and it pressed in on Mattew from all sides. He slid down the wall, the muscles in his thighs trembling, and buried his face in his hands. He didn’t cry. He just sat there, empty and shattered, in the pathetic yellow light.
A floorboard creaked.
Mattew looked up, his vision blurry. Diego stood in the doorway of his room, backlit so his massive frame seemed to fill the entire hall. He was dressed in soft grey sweatpants and a faded black t-shirt that strained across his chest. His expression wasn’t mocking or smug. It was just… kind. And sorry.
“Hey,” Diego said, his voice a deep rumble in the quiet.
Mattew quickly wiped at his eyes, though no tears had fallen. He pushed himself up, his muscles protesting. “Hey. Didn’t know you were home.”
“Just got back from the gym.” Diego took a few steps forward, the shadows shifting over him. He looked from Mattew’s face to the closed front door. “I heard. Thin walls.”
A fresh wave of humiliation burned Mattew’s cheeks. Of course he’d heard. He’d heard the whole pathetic collapse. “Great. So you got a free show.”
“Not a show I wanted to buy a ticket for.” Diego moved closer, his dark eyes scanning Mattew’s face. “Come on. You shouldn’t be standing here in the hallway.”
He placed a warm, heavy hand on Mattew’s shoulder, guiding him toward the living room. Mattew wanted to shrug it off, to retreat to his and Jack’s room and lick his wounds in private, but the contact was solid. Grounding. He let himself be led to the large, worn sectional couch.
“Sit,” Diego said.
Mattew sat on the far end, putting a cushion between them. He stared at a stain on the coffee table.
Diego sighed, a soft, exasperated sound. He closed the distance, sat down right next to him, and without ceremony, hooked an arm around Mattew’s waist and pulled him sideways. Before Mattew could process it, he was being rearranged, settled across Diego’s lap like a child. One of Diego’s arms cradled his back, the other rested on his thigh.
“What are you—“
“Just relax. For one second.” Diego’s voice was close to his ear, calm and firm.
Mattew stiffened, every muscle coiled. He was acutely aware of the solid heat of Diego’s body beneath him, the effortless strength in the arms holding him. It was overwhelming. After the cold abandonment of Jack’s departure, this warmth was a shock to his system. Slowly, incrementally, the tension began to leak out of him. His head fell against Diego’s broad shoulder. He breathed in the clean scent of soap and a faint, salty hint of dried sweat.
They stayed like that for a while, the only sound the distant hum of the refrigerator. Diego’s hand moved in slow, comforting circles on his back.
“Why are you doing this?” Mattew finally mumbled into the soft cotton of Diego’s shirt.
“Doing what?”
“This. The… cuddling. Is this a pre-game thing? Or are you just being a friend?”
Diego’s chest moved with a silent laugh. “It can be a friend thing. For now.” He paused, his fingers tracing a light path over Mattew’s spine. “I have other ideas, too. But they can wait.”
Mattew didn’t know what to do with that admission. He filed it away, a strange, buzzing potential in the pit of his stomach. The immediate hurt resurfaced, sharp and acidic.
“He just left,” Mattew said, the words bursting out. “He dropped a bomb on our entire life and then just walked out the door to go… scout the menu. Like I was a piece of furniture he was tripping over.”
“He’s an idiot,” Diego said simply, without heat.
“He’s my boyfriend.”
“He’s someone who doesn’t know what he has. So he’s an idiot.” Diego’s hand stilled on his back. “His loss, though. Opens up some options.”
Mattew lifted his head to look at him. Diego’s face was inches away, his goatee neatly framing a slight, knowing smile. “What options?”
“Come on, Mattew. You’re a hot, ripped guy who just got handed a hall pass you never asked for. But it’s in your pocket now. You could… use it. Explore a little. Have some fun he’s not having.”
“I don’t want to have that kind of fun,” Mattew said, but the protest was automatic, hollow. The idea, once unthinkable, now hovered in the room, tangible.
“Sure you do. Everyone has a fantasy. A type they glance at on the street but never get to taste.” Diego’s eyes were dark, inviting confidences. “So, what’s yours? Clearly you like your men built.” He squeezed Mattew’s thigh gently, acknowledging his own physique. “But that’s the baseline. What’s the forbidden fruit? The thing you thought you could never have while you were with Mr. Practical in there?”
Mattew looked away, his heart pounding. This was dangerous territory. “I don’t know. It doesn’t matter.”
“It matters,” Diego pressed, his voice a low tease. “Indulge me. We’re just talking. Is it some ginger giant? A sleek Asian guy? Tell me.”
The image rose in Mattew’s mind, fully formed and potent, fed by three years of stolen glances and suppressed curiosity. He tried to dress it in generic terms. “I guess… maybe someone with a different look. Not just fair like me. Something… darker.”
“Darker,” Diego echoed, the word rich with implication. “Skin? Hair?”
“Both.” The admission felt like a sin. He was describing the man whose lap he was sitting on. He could feel the proof of Diego’s own interest pressing, thick and heavy, against his hip through the soft sweatpants. The sheer scale of it sent a jolt of pure, adrenalized heat through him, followed immediately by a tremor of intimidation. It was monstrous. It was thrilling.
Diego’s smile widened, just a fraction. He leaned in, his lips almost brushing Mattew’s ear, his voice a velvet murmur.
He leaned in, his lips almost brushing Mattew’s ear, his voice a velvet murmur. “Darker. Okay. Tanned? Or like, black?”
Mattew swallowed, the sound loud in the quiet room. “Tanned,” he whispered.
“Hair?”
“Jesus, are you torturing me?”
“A little. Answer.”
Mattew closed his eyes, giving in to the humiliation and the strange thrill of it. “Curly. Black. And a goatee. Okay? Yeah, Latin guys. Mediterranean guys. They’re… my thing. The forbidden thing. Happy?”
For a long moment, Diego said nothing. The hand on Mattew’s back stilled. Then, a low, rich chuckle vibrated through his chest and into Mattew’s body. “Huh.”
“What?”
“Well, it’s just…” Diego shifted, pulling back just enough so Mattew could see the full, amused curve of his smile. His dark eyes glittered in the dim light. “Correct me if I’m wrong, but you just described a man with deeply tanned skin, tight black curls, and a sexy goatee.” He paused, letting the description hang in the air between them. “Funny. That sounds an awful lot like me.”
Mattew’s breath caught. The directness was a lightning strike. It vaporized the safe, theoretical space of the conversation and left only the raw, pressing reality of their bodies tangled on the couch. He had nowhere to look but into Diego’s waiting gaze. His face felt unbearably hot.
“It’s a type,” he managed, defensively. “Lots of guys fit a type.”
“Sure. But how many of them are holding you right now?” Diego’s thumb stroked a slow arc over the ridge of Mattew’s hip bone. “How many of them live ten feet from your boyfriend, who just gave you permission to sample the menu?”
“It’s not permission. It’s an ultimatum.”
“Semantics.” Diego’s voice dropped, becoming intimate, conspiratorial. “The lock is off the door, Mattew. You’re standing on the threshold. And the exact fantasy you’ve been secretly jerking off to for years is sitting right here, telling you he’s interested.”
And the exact fantasy you’ve been secretly jerking off to for years is sitting right here, telling you he’s interested.”
The words landed, a direct hit. Mattew felt exposed, skinless. He tried to look away, but Diego’s hand came up, cupping his jaw, holding his gaze. His thumb brushed the corner of Mattew’s mouth.
“Turn around,” Diego murmured, his voice leaving no room for argument.
“Why?”
“Because I want to talk to you eye to eye. Not to the side of your head. Come on.”
With a sigh that was more exhaustion than real protest, Mattew shifted. He swung his legs around, settling to straddle Diego’s lap, facing him fully. The new position was impossibly more intimate. His knees pressed into the cushions on either side of Diego’s thighs. He was taller like this, looking down slightly into those dark eyes. He let his arms rest loosely around Diego’s neck, his fingers laced behind the strong column of it. The heat of Diego’s skin seeped through his shirt.
“There,” Diego said, his hands coming to rest on Mattew’s waist. “See? This is a discussion.”
“It feels like a negotiation.”
“It’s a reality check. Jack opened the door and walked out. You’re free, Mattew. You just haven’t realized it yet.” His hands slid down, palms smoothing over the curve of Mattew’s hips, settling on the firm swell of his ass. He squeezed, not gently. A possessive, testing grip.
Mattew jolted, a sharp inhale catching in his throat. “Hey.”
“What? You don’t like it?” Diego kneaded the muscle, his fingers digging in with a practiced pressure that was somehow exactly right. It was invasive and electric. “This famous ass. All those squats. It’s a masterpiece. And he just… gets to leave it behind? Unbelievable.”
“Stop,” Mattew said, but it was weak, breathy. A fake complaint, and they both knew it. His body was already betraying him, leaning into the touch.
“I don’t think I will.” Diego’s smile was wicked. “So, let’s talk specs. You like your tops… where it counts. How do you like them?”
Mattew blinked. “What?”
“You know exactly what I mean. Don’t play dumb. Size. Girth. Preference.” His voice dropped to a conspiratorial rumble. “It matters, doesn’t it? For a bottom like you. It’s the whole point.”
That smug, sexy, kind bastard. He was talking about dicks. Direct and crude, cutting through every pretense. Mattew felt a flush travel from his chest up to his hairline. He was hard now, painfully so, trapped against the rough fabric of his jeans. The evidence was pressed against Diego’s stomach.
“I… I like them quite big, okay?” The admission was torn from him, shameful and hot. “It feels better. More… complete.”
Diego’s eyes gleamed. “Define big.”
“Jesus.” Mattew looked at the ceiling, then back down. “I don’t know. Jack’s is seven. It’s fine. It works.”
“But it’s not big.”
“It’s technically a big one,” Mattew muttered, the defense automatic, hollow. “Almost two inches bigger than average. It’s fine.”
Diego laughed, a single, sharp ha that wasn’t cruel, but was utterly dismissive. “Seven inches is large. It is not big. There’s a difference. So how do you know you like them big? If seven is your benchmark?”
The question hung there, a challenge. Mattew’s throat was dry. He could feel the heat of Diego’s hands through his jeans, branding his skin. The memory, shameful and vivid, unlocked itself.
The memory, shameful and vivid, unlocked itself.
“My first,” Mattew said, the words scraping out. “Before Jack. His name was Travis. He was… an asshole. Cocky. Used to tell me I should be grateful.” He took a shaky breath, Diego’s dark eyes holding him, pulling the truth up like a well bucket. “He was bigger. A thick eight. That’s… that’s what I lost it to. So that was my normal. My baseline.”
Diego didn’t speak. His thumbs rubbed slow circles on Mattew’s hips, an encouragement to keep going.
“After him, I was with a guy who was maybe five and a half, another who was six. Nice guys. But it…” He searched for the word, feeling treacherous. “It didn’t feel the same. It didn’t fill me up. It was just… sex. Pleasant. Forgettable. So yeah, I developed a preference. A stupid, superficial preference. I don’t really want a man below seven inches in my bed. Happy? Now you know I’m a size queen with commitment issues.”
A slow, devastating smile spread across Diego’s face. It wasn’t mocking. It was triumphant, like he’d just been handed the combination to a safe.
“An eight,” Diego repeated, softly. “And that felt good? That felt… complete?”
Mattew gave a tight, embarrassed nod.
Diego’s hands slid from his hips, around to the small of his back, pulling him forward an inch so their bodies were flush. The hard line of Mattew’s erection pressed against Diego’s stomach. Diego’s own, a formidable presence even soft, was a heavy weight beneath him.
“So seven is your minimum,” Diego mused, his voice a low hum Mattew felt in his bones. “Your boyfriend meets the technical requirement. He’s adequate.” The word was a deliberate, gentle knife. “But adequate isn’t amazing. Adequate isn’t life-changing. Adequate is what you settle for when you think you don’t deserve a fantasy.”
“Stop analyzing me.”
“I’m not. I’m just doing the math.” Diego leaned forward, closing the last fragment of space until his lips were beside Mattew’s ear. His breath was warm. “Because if a thick eight is what set your standard… baby, you have no idea what’s out there.”
Mattew shuddered. The endearment, the sheer confidence, it melted his defenses into hot wax. “And you do?”
“I know exactly what’s out there.” Diego pulled back just enough to look at him, his gaze direct and unflinching. “I’m eleven.”
The number hung in the air between them. It wasn’t a boast. It was a statement of fact, simple and staggering.
Mattew’s brain short-circuited. “Bullshit.”
Diego’s eyebrow arched. “Why would I lie? My job is literally my body. I know its measurements. Soft, I’m about eight.” He glanced down meaningfully at the pronounced bulge in his sweats. “Hard, I’m eleven. Length. Seven and a half around.”
A wave of pure, dizzying heat flooded Mattew’s system, followed instantly by a jolt of primal fear. The numbers were abstract, but the evidence pressing against him was not. It was massive. Impossible. A geometry his body couldn’t comprehend.
“You’re trying to scare me,” Mattew breathed.
“You’re trying to scare me,” Mattew breathed.
“No,” Diego said, his voice dropping into something softer, nearly gentle. His hands, which had been gripping Mattew’s ass, relaxed into a slow, soothing massage. “I’m not trying to scare you. I’m trying to light you up. I want to see that pretty, ripped body of yours lit with desire. My desire. Not his. Not anyone else’s.”
The words were a balm and a brand. Mattew’s head swam. The math was impossible. Eleven inches. It was a myth. A porn fantasy. But the certainty in Diego’s eyes, the sheer physical truth of him, made it real. The fear twisted, intertwining with a sharp, thrilling thread of curiosity. What would that even feel like? To be so completely… overtaken.
His body screamed yes. Every muscle, every nerve ending, hummed with a want so deep it felt archaeological, something buried for years finally seeing the sun. Diego was his exact, secret type, magnified a hundred times—more confident, more beautiful, more everything. And he was here, wanting him.
But his heart, raw and bleeding from Jack’s casual demolition, clenched in protest. This was a reaction. A revenge fuck. A way to cauterize a wound with something hotter and more dangerous than fire. It would feel incredible, and then it would evaporate, leaving him emptier than before.
“I can’t,” Mattew whispered, the words tearing out of him.
Diego’s hands stilled. His expression didn’t change, but his eyes searched Mattew’s face, reading the war being fought behind his eyes.
“Look at you,” Mattew continued, his voice gaining a shred of strength. “You’re… you’re the sexiest man I’ve ever seen. Honestly. You’re my fucking kryptonite. And you’re offering me… that.” He dared a glance down, then back up, his hazel eyes wide with conflict. “But he just left. An hour ago. Less. My boyfriend. The man I live with. If I do this now… it’s not me. It’s just pain looking for a socket to plug into. I’d hate myself in the morning.”
He watched for the annoyance, the frustration, the cocky dismissal. It didn’t come.
Instead, Diego’s gaze softened. He gave a slow, almost imperceptible nod.
“Come here,” Diego murmured.
Mattew, confused, didn’t resist as Diego guided him forward. He thought it was for another kiss, another attempt at persuasion. But Diego simply pulled him in, wrapping those powerful arms around him in a firm, full-bodied hug. Mattew’s face pressed into the warm, solid curve of Diego’s neck. He smelled like clean skin and faint, expensive cologne. It was safe. It was unbearably kind.
“I’m sorry,” Mattew mumbled against his skin, the apology spontaneous and aching. He tilted his head up and pressed a soft, chaste kiss to Diego’s jaw, just beside his goatee. It was a thank you. It was an apology. It was a promise of nothing.
Diego accepted the kiss with a quiet hum. One of his big hands came up to cradle the back of Mattew’s head, his fingers threading through the chestnut waves. The other rubbed broad, slow circles on his back, right between his shoulder blades where the tension had knotted itself into a rock.
“Shhh,” Diego said, his voice a low vibration against him. “I understand. It’s okay.”
He held him for a long moment, just like that, in the quiet, shadowy living room. The world outside—the club Jack was probably at, the open relationship, the staggering possibility of what was in Diego’s sweatpants—all of it receded. There was only this: a sanctuary of pure, undemanding contact.
“I’ll wait,” Diego said finally, the words spoken into Mattew’s hair. “For when you’re ready. Not when you’re running from him. When you’re running to me.”