Chapter 2: Alan Ritchson 2
The hum of the city was a low, constant thrum through the glass, a sound so different from the Malibu waves it felt like a different planet. Kenny lay in the quiet, feeling the slow, steady pulse of Alan’s heartbeat against his back. The silk sheets were cool where they weren’t tangled and warm. His body remembered everything—the vicious scrape of teeth, the deep, fulfilling ache, the raw command in Alan’s voice as he’d been broken apart on the couch. But this, now, was something else. This was stillness.
Alan’s arm tightened around him in sleep, a possessive reflex. Kenny closed his eyes, breathing in the scent of him—expensive cologne worn down to something purely human, sweat, sex, the faint, sharp note of last night’s whiskey. He let himself drift in the unfamiliar territory of not having to perform, not having to anticipate a need. The first true gold of dawn began to bleed across the floor, reaching the foot of the bed, turning the rumpled sheets into a landscape of soft ridges and valleys.
A change in Alan’s breathing signaled wakefulness. A deep inhale, a shift of muscle, then the arm around Kenny’s chest slid down, hand splaying flat against his stomach. Alan’s morning erection, thick and insistent, pressed into the small of Kenny’s back.
“Still here,” Alan murmured, his voice graveled with sleep. It wasn’t a question.
“You’re a difficult man to escape,” Kenny said softly, leaning back into the heat of him.
Alan’s hand drifted lower, fingers combing through the coarse hair, then wrapping around Kenny’s cock, which was already filling in response to the touch. He gave a slow, firm stroke. “Good.”
He rolled Kenny onto his back with an ease that still surprised him. The dawn light caught Alan’s face—the stern jaw softened by sleep, the pale eyes lucid and focused. He looked younger like this, the actor’s mask completely absent. He braced himself on one elbow, his body a shadow over Kenny’s, and looked down at where his hand was working Kenny’s length with a slow, almost clinical curiosity.
“You took care of me all night, superstar,” Alan said, his thumb smearing a bead of pre-come over the head. “Un-fucking-believable night.” He leaned down, his lips brushing Kenny’s ear. “Now let me watch you fucking lose it for me.”
His grip tightened. He set a rhythm that was all his own—not the frantic pace of last night’s need, but a deliberate, masterful cadence designed to unravel. Up, twist, a firm squeeze at the tip. Down, a slow, dragging pull that made Kenny’s thighs tremble. Alan watched Kenny’s face intently, studying every flicker of pleasure, every clenched muscle.
Kenny’s head fell back into the pillow. He tried to keep his eyes open, to maintain that connection, but the sensation was too much. It built from a low thrum to a deafening roar in his veins. Alan’s calloused hand, his focused gaze—it wasn’t just physical. It felt like being seen. Really seen.
“That’s it,” Alan growled, his breath hot. “Let go. I want to see you come apart. I want to watch what I do to you.”
He sped up, his wrist a blur, the sound of skin on skin wet and obscene in the quiet room. His other hand pinned Kenny’s hip to the mattress, holding him still for the assault. Kenny’s back arched off the bed, a choked gasp ripped from his throat. The world narrowed to the rough heat of Alan’s fist, the intense blue of his eyes, the golden light cutting across his shoulders.
“I’m gonna—” Kenny managed, his voice strangled.
“Do it,” Alan commanded, his own voice tight with a fervor that went beyond lust. “Now. Come for me. Let me see it.”
The orgasm detonated. It was a white-hot wire snapping from his balls to the base of his spine, erupting out of him in thick, pulsating ropes that streaked across his stomach and chest. He cried out, a raw, broken sound, his body bowing under Alan’s relentless hand, which kept milking him through the shuddering waves until he was oversensitive and twitching.
Alan didn’t look away for a second. He watched, captivated, as Kenny fell apart beneath him. Only when the last tremor subsided did he move. He leaned down and captured Kenny’s mouth in a deep, claiming kiss, swallowing the remnants of his cries. The taste of himself was bitter on Alan’s tongue.
As they kissed, lost in the salty, spent haze, a soft, digital chime pierced the air. Alan’s phone, screen lighting up on the nightstand. A notification. A transfer. Half a million dollars, landing in Kenny’s account with that polite, meaningless sound.
Alan broke the kiss but didn’t pull far away. He rested his forehead against Kenny’s, his breathing still ragged. He glanced at the phone, then back at Kenny. The money hung between them, a silent, cold truth.
“Stay,” Alan said, his voice rough. “Today. I cleared my schedule.”
Kenny’s mind, still fuzzy with endorphins, struggled to compute. The money was there. The transaction was complete, gloriously over. His professional instinct screamed to extract himself, to shower, to leave with the dignity of a job well done.
But Alan’s hand was still on him, not groping, just resting on his hip. His eyes held an unnerving vulnerability, a crack in the fortress. The same man who had demanded to be edged for hours was now asking, without words, for something else.
“Okay,” Kenny heard himself say.
A genuine smile touched Alan’s lips, transforming his face. He shifted, rolling onto his back but keeping one leg thrown over Kenny’s, a point of contact. He grabbed his phone, swiped the notification away without reading it, and tossed it onto the floor.
“Good. I’m starving. Pancakes. A mountain of bacon. Coffee that could wake the dead.” He turned his head on the pillow. “What do you want?”
Kenny stared at the ceiling, the dried come cooling on his skin. “Surprise me.”
Alan laughed, a real, unfiltered sound. He stretched, then pushed himself up. He walked naked to the vast window, a silhouette against the waking city, utterly unselfconscious. Kenny watched him, this complicated, violent, needy man, and felt the careful architecture of his own life shudder on its foundations.
The possibility, terrifying and bright, glimmered in the new light.
The possibility, terrifying and bright, glimmered in the new light. It vanished when Alan’s stomach growled, a comical, human sound that broke the spell. “Right. Food. I’ll order everything,” he said, striding from the bedroom without a backward glance, his nakedness now mundane, domestic.
Kenny lay there, sticky and dissected. The money was in his account. The job was done. He had never stayed after. Not once. The rules were clear: provide the experience, collect the fee, exit before the illusion cracked. Staying for pancakes was a catastrophic breach of protocol. He pushed himself up, his body protesting with a dozen pleasant aches, and walked to the panoramic window.
The city below was sharpening into focus, the night’s neon glow dissolving into hard morning angles. He saw his own faint reflection—a ghost over the skyline. He looked exactly like what he was: a well-used boy in a dirty penthouse. The clarity was a cold splash of water. He needed to shower. He needed to leave.
The bathroom was a marble cavern. He turned the water hot, scrubbing Alan’s smell and his own spend from his skin with a bar of sandalwood soap. The water sluiced between his cheeks, and he felt a twinge, a physical memory of being filled. He shut his eyes, leaning his forehead against the cool tile. The memory of Alan’s face watching him come, that ravenous, focused intensity, replayed behind his eyelids. It hadn’t felt like a client’s voyeurism. It had felt like hunger.
He stepped out, toweled off, and found his clothes folded neatly on a bench in the bedroom. His jeans, his henley. Alan must have done it. The gesture was so oddly considerate it felt more intimate than anything they’d done with their bodies. He dressed quickly, the soft cotton a familiar shield.
The scent of coffee and frying bacon led him to a kitchen of stainless steel and concrete. Alan was at the stove, wearing only sweatpants now, his back to Kenny as he tended to a skillet. He moved with a surprising, unpretentious competence.
“Sunny-side up or scrambled?” Alan asked without turning.
“Scrambled. You cook?”
“My mother would disown me if I couldn’t,” Alan said, cracking eggs one-handed into a bowl. “Sit. Juice is in the fridge.”
Kenny poured two glasses of orange juice, the pulp floating in thick swirls. He sat at the counter, watching the muscles in Alan’s shoulders work as he scrambled the eggs. The domesticity was a surreal sequel to the night’s brutality. They didn’t speak. The only sounds were the sizzle of bacon, the scrape of a spatula, the low hum of the refrigerator.
Alan piled two plates high with food—eggs, bacon, golden pancakes—and set one in front of Kenny. He took the stool beside him, their knees almost touching. He dug in immediately, eating with a focused hunger. Kenny took a bite of the eggs. They were perfect—soft, fluffy, buttery.
“These are really good,” Kenny said.
Alan nodded, his mouth full. “Told you.” He took a long swig of coffee. “So. What’s next for you today? Another cinematic experience?”
The question was casual, but the edge was back. A testing. Kenny chewed a piece of bacon, buying time. “Laundry. Groceries. The thrilling life of a civilian.”
Alan chuckled, but it was thin. “Right. The milk guy.” He pushed his empty plate away and turned fully on the stool, his knee now pressing into Kenny’s. “Last night wasn’t a transaction.”
Kenny met his gaze. “The notification on your phone said it was.”
“Fuck the notification,” Alan said, his voice low. “That was for before. For the first part. The rest of it… the couch, the morning… that was something else.” He reached out, his fingers tracing the line of Kenny’s jaw where his stubble was coming in. “You know it was.”
Kenny did know. That was the problem. The money had been the full fee, but Alan had given him something beyond it—a raw, un-performed version of himself. And Kenny, against every rule, had accepted it. He’d stayed. He’d let himself be watched. He’d wanted it.
“What do you want, Alan?” Kenny asked, his voice quiet.
Alan’s hand slid to the back of Kenny’s neck, his grip firm, possessive. “I want to see how deep this goes.” He pulled Kenny in, and the kiss was different. It wasn’t consuming or frantic. It was deliberate, a question. Kenny answered it, opening his mouth, letting Alan taste the coffee and orange juice on his tongue.
Alan stood, pulling Kenny up with him. He backed him through the living area, past the couch still dented from their weight, toward the master suite again. “I’m not done with you,” he murmured against Kenny’s lips, his hands already tugging the hem of the freshly donned henley. “I need to feel you again. Now.”
They crossed the threshold into the bedroom. Alan didn’t guide him to the bed. He pushed him against the nearest wall, the cool paint a shock through the thin shirt. His mouth was on Kenny’s throat, sucking a new bruise over the old one. His hands yanked Kenny’s jeans open, shoving them down his hips just enough.
Alan’s own sweatpants were gone in one impatient push. He was already hard, his cock slapping against Kenny’s stomach. He spat into his palm, the sound crude, and slicked himself. He didn’t prepare Kenny, didn’t ask. The memory of last time had to be enough.
“This is what you want, too,” Alan growled, not as a question, but as a fact. He hoisted Kenny’s leg around his hip, his fingers digging into the flesh of Kenny’s thigh. He pushed inside with one relentless, burning thrust.
Kenny cried out, his head thudding back against the wall. It was tighter, more intense than before, a stunning reclamation. Alan buried himself to the hilt and stopped, his face contorted with the effort of control. “Look at me,” he demanded.
Kenny’s eyes fluttered open. Alan’s gaze was locked on him, blue and blazing.
“Tell me you feel me,” Alan said, his voice rough. He pulled back almost all the way, then slammed home again, making Kenny gasp. “Tell me you feel how fucking deep I am in you.”
“I feel it,” Kenny choked out. The stretch was exquisite, a pain that bloomed directly into pleasure. “God, I feel you.”
“You’re mine right now,” Alan stated, beginning a brutal, pistoning rhythm that shook Kenny against the wall. Each drive punched the air from his lungs. “This tight, hot fucking hole is mine. Say it.”
Kenny was beyond denial. The words tumbled out, raw and truthful. “It’s yours.”
Alan’s rhythm fractured into something desperate, his hips stuttering. “Gonna come inside you again,” he grunted, his breath coming in harsh gusts. “Gonna fill you up until it leaks out of you all day. You’ll remember me every time you fucking move.”
His thrusts became short, savage jerks. He slammed in one last time, his body locking, a guttural roar torn from his throat as he pulsed, jet after hot jet flooding Kenny’s core. He held there, shuddering, his forehead dropped to Kenny’s shoulder.
They slid down the wall together, a heap of spent limbs on the floor. Alan’s softening cock slipped out, followed by a warm, wet trickle that soaked into Kenny’s jeans. The room was silent save for their ragged breathing.
Alan was the first to move. He pressed a kiss, strangely soft, to Kenny’s sweaty temple. “Shower,” he said, his voice wrecked. “Then I’ll drive you to your car.”
They cleaned up in silence, a different kind of tension settling between them. Dressed once more, Kenny followed Alan to the penthouse’s private elevator. The doors opened to the underground garage, cool and smelling of concrete and car exhaust.
Alan walked him to the rented convertible. He didn’t try to kiss him goodbye. He just looked at him, his actor’s mask perfectly back in place, though his eyes were still a little too bright.
“I’ll see you next time!” Alan said, the words crisp, cheerful, a perfect line reading for a parting shot in a breezy romantic comedy. He clapped Kenny on the shoulder, a firm, friendly gesture.
Then he turned and walked back toward the elevator, without a backward glance.
Kenny stood there for a moment, the phantom ache in his body a persistent echo. He got in the car, the leather seat hot from the morning sun already heating the garage. He started the engine, the familiar purr a return to normalcy.
He pulled out onto the sun-drenched street, heading east, away from the ocean and the glass fortress. The freeway on-ramp loomed. He had laundry to do. He was almost out of milk.
The light turned green. He merged into the relentless flow of traffic, becoming just another car in the endless stream.