Chapter 8: Oliver Stark
The retainer agreement from Stephen’s production company hit Kenny’s inbox with a sterile ping two days later. The number was substantial, the terms exclusivity for that bi-weekly slot. It was security. It felt like a leash. Kenny accepted it, then spent the afternoon cleaning his already-spotless apartment, the memory of Stephen’s possessive grip at odds with the crisp silence of his own rooms.
When the new booking notification chimed later that evening, he assumed it was a mistake, a calendar glitch. Then he read the name.
Client: Oliver Stark. Notes: Discretion paramount.
Kenny stared at his phone’s screen, the light painting his stunned face in the darkening room. Oliver Stark. Buck from 911. Not just an actor, but the actor whose posters had been on his college dorm wall, whose easy smile and on-screen vulnerability had been a genuine fixture of his weekly downtime. A current man crush, if he was being honest with himself in the shower. This was different from Stephen’s calculated power or Tom’s brooding silence. This felt like the universe was playing a trick.
The address provided wasn’t a hotel. It was a house in the Hollywood Hills.
The following day, a crisp Tuesday afternoon, Kenny navigated the winding roads up into the exclusive enclave. The mansion was a masterpiece of modernism—sharp lines of glass and pale steel, cantilevered over the canyon as if growing from the rock itself. It was imposing, yet somehow airier than Stephen’s sealed-up suites. He pressed the buzzer.
The door opened after a moment.
Oliver Stark stood there, shirtless, a pair of low-slung grey sweatpants hanging from his hips. He was breathing slightly heavily, a sheen of sweat glazing the defined planes of his chest and abdomen—the result of a firefighter’s training regimen, not just a trainer’s whim. A towel was slung around his neck. His dark hair was damp at the temples.
“Hey. You must be Kenny,” he said, his voice exactly as it was on screen, a warm London accent softened by years in LA. He offered a genuine, slightly apologetic smile. “Sorry, you caught me mid-row. Come in.”
“No, I’m sorry for interrupting,” Kenny said, effortlessly slipping into the polite, appreciative mode, though his pulse was doing something unfamiliar. He stepped inside.
The interior was breathtaking. Soaring ceilings, walls of glass offering a panoramic view of the city haze below. It was elegantly furnished but lived-in—a script on a table, a pair of running shoes by a sleek sofa. It smelled of lemon wood polish, coffee, and the clean, salty scent of Oliver’s sweat.
“This place is incredible,” Kenny said, meaning it.
“Thanks. It’s a bit of a madness, but I like the light. Let me show you around, quick.” The tour was casual, friendly. A state-of-the-art kitchen, the living room with its massive screen, a sleek library with leather chairs. Oliver was a gracious host, pointing out a piece of art or a view without a hint of pretension. Kenny complimented everything, his professional charm layered over a real, buzzing awe.
They ended up back in the living room, the late afternoon sun painting everything gold. Kenny turned to him. “I have to say, before anything else, I’m a huge fan. Of the show. Your work on it… it’s really something.”
Oliver’s smile deepened, a faint blush touching his cheeks. He looked down, almost shy. “Oh. Wow. Thank you. That’s really kind of you to say.” He ran a hand through his hair. “Makes this a bit less awkward, maybe.”
“Hopefully,” Kenny smiled.
There was a comfortable pause. Oliver looked out at the view, then back at Kenny. “So. I was thinking… I’ve had a long week already. Would you… would you like to take a bath with me? There’s a tub that fits two. Seems more relaxing than just jumping into things.”
The request was so gently put, so devoid of command or kink, that Kenny felt his shoulders loosen. After the humid intensity of Stephen’s gym suite, it sounded like heaven. “A bath sounds perfect.”
The master bathroom was a spa. Slate tiles, a huge window looking into a private, green courtyard, and a vast, free-standing tub of black marble, already filling with steaming water. Oliver added a capful of fragrant oil—bergamot and sandalwood—that bloomed into the air. He turned off the taps and, without ceremony, pushed his sweatpants and briefs down, stepping out of them. His body was even more impressive up close—lean, powerful, etched with the kind of functional muscle that spoke of real labor, not just reps. He was already half-aroused, a natural, casual thickness that made Kenny’s mouth go dry.
Kenny undressed, folding his clothes on a bench, aware of Oliver’s eyes on him. The gaze felt appreciative, curious, not dissecting.
They slid into the scalding water opposite each other with simultaneous sighs. The heat was a balm, sinking into Kenny’s muscles, unwinding the last knots of tension from the last client. For a few minutes, they just sat in silence, the steam rising around them. Oliver smiled, eyes closed, head back against the rim. “God, that’s good.”
“It really is.”
Oliver opened his eyes, his gaze finding Kenny’s. It was direct, but soft. He shifted forward through the water, the movement causing slow waves. “Can I touch you?”
“Please.”
Oliver’s hands, big and capable, came to rest on Kenny’s knees under the water. They were warm, slightly rough. He slid them up Kenny’s thighs, a slow, sensuous massage of the quads, then inward. His thumbs brushed the crease where thigh met torso, a teasing proximity. Kenny let his legs fall open slightly in the water, an invitation.
Oliver moved closer, the water sloshing. Their legs tangled. He leaned in and kissed Kenny. It was nothing like Stephen’s aggressive claim. This was exploratory, warm, and deeply sweet. Oliver’s lips were soft, his tongue inviting rather than invading. Kenny melted into it, a genuine sigh escaping into Oliver’s mouth. This wasn’t work. This felt like a stolen, delicious moment.
Oliver broke the kiss, his forehead resting against Kenny’s. His hand drifted through the water, fingers tracing Kenny’s abdomen, then closing around his cock. The touch was firm but not demanding, a confident, smooth stroke that made Kenny’s hips lift.
“You’re so fucking beautiful,” Oliver murmured, his voice a low rasp against Kenny’s ear before he kissed his neck, sucking gently on the skin just below his jaw. His other hand came up to cup Kenny’s face, his thumb stroking his cheekbone. The contrast—the filthy words in that gentle tone, the hard grip on his cock paired with the tender hold on his face—made Kenny’s head spin.
Oliver’s mouth travelled down his neck, over his collarbone. He shifted lower in the water, his breath hot on Kenny’s chest. He took a nipple into his mouth, swirling his tongue around the peak, then sucking it deep, his hand on Kenny’s cock never ceasing its perfect, steady rhythm. The dual sensations—the sharp pleasure on his chest, the building pressure between his legs—coiled a tight spring low in Kenny’s belly.
“Oliver…” Kenny breathed, his hands finding Oliver’s shoulders, gripping the hard muscle there.
Oliver released his nipple with a soft pop and looked up, his eyes dark. “Want you to come for me first,” he said, like it was a gift he was offering. He increased the pace of his hand, his thumb swiping over the leaking slit on every upstroke. His other hand slid back to squeeze Kenny’s ass, pulling him closer in the water.
It was too much, too good, after the controlled denial of his last session. The orgbuilt quickly, a rising wave of pure, undiluted sensation. Kenny’s back arched, pushing his chest out of the water. “Fuck… I’m gonna…”
“Yeah, come on,” Oliver urged gently, his voice soaked with desire. “Let me see it. Come for me, Kenny.”
The permission, so kindly given, shattered him. Kenny came with a guttural cry, his release spurting into the swirling, oil-scented water, his body shuddering through the pulses. Oliver stroked him through it, his grip softening until Kenny was sensitive and spent, slumping back against the tub, breathless.
Oliver smiled, a bright, beautiful thing. He brought his hand, slick with Kenny’s cum, out of the water and kissed his own fingers, never breaking eye contact. The act was so unexpectedly lewd and intimate that Kenny felt a fresh, shocked thrill.
“My turn,” Oliver whispered.
He stood up in the tub, water cascading off his body. He was fully, impressively erect, his cock standing thick and eager against his stomach. He stepped out, grabbed a large, fluffy towel, and held a hand out to Kenny. “Bedroom’s better for this.”
Dripping and steaming, they walked into the adjacent bedroom, a serene space of cream linen and dark wood. Oliver lay back on the bed, his body a glorious contrast against the sheets. He pulled Kenny on top of him.
“Ride me,” he said, his hands settling on Kenny’s hips. “Nice and slow. I want to watch you.”
Kenny reached for the lube on the nightstand, preparing himself quickly. He positioned himself over Oliver, guiding the broad head of his cock to his entrance. He sank down slowly, letting himself stretch and accommodate, the fullness a breathtaking counterpoint to the gentle hands on his body.
“Jesus, you’re tight,” Oliver groaned, his head falling back, eyes closing in bliss.
Kenny began to move, setting a slow, rolling rhythm. He braced his hands on Oliver’s chest, feeling the strong heartbeat beneath his palms. This was different. He wasn’t performing endurance or enacting a fantasy. He was just… feeling. The slide was exquisite, a deep, rubbing pleasure that built with each rise and fall.
Oliver’s hands were everywhere, roaming his thighs, his back, skimming his nipples. He sat up slightly, capturing Kenny’s mouth in another deep kiss, then trailed his lips down to take a nipple between his teeth, grazing it with just enough pressure to make Kenny whimper and clench around him.
“Feel so good,” Oliver mumbled against his skin. “So fucking good on my cock.”
The dirty talk was earnest, appreciative. It spurred Kenny on. He increased his pace, dropping down harder, driving Oliver deeper. The sounds were wet, obscene, mingling with their ragged breaths. Oliver’s composure began to fray. His hips started to piston upward to meet Kenny’s descents, his breath coming in sharp grunts.
“Kenny… fuck… I’m close,” he warned, his hands gripping Kenny’s ass, fingers digging in.
“Come on,” Kenny panted, riding him harder, chasing his own second peak that was already shimmering on the horizon. “Fill me up. Do it.”
With a broken cry, Oliver came. Kenny felt the hot, pulsing release deep inside him, triggering his own climax. It was less violent than the first, a wave of deep, full-body warmth that radiated from his core, leaving him trembling and boneless.
He collapsed forward onto Oliver’s chest, their slick skin sticking together. Oliver’s arms came around him, holding him close. For a long while, there was only the sound of their breathing slowing, syncing in the quiet room. Sunlight, now soft and amber, streaked across the floor, catching in the fine mist of sweat still on their bodies.
“Christ,” Oliver whispered finally, his voice raspy with spent pleasure. He ran a hand, impossibly gentle, down the damp line of Kenny’s spine. The touch was different. It held no possessiveness, no immediate plan for another round. It was just a point of contact, warm and present. Kenny buried his face deeper into the crook of Oliver’s neck, inhaling the clean scent of him beneath the sex and bergamot.
Oliver stirred after a while, pressing a kiss to Kenny’s temple. “I should let you get cleaned up. Get you a towel that isn’t soaked.”
He slipped out from beneath Kenny, the loss of his warmth immediate. Kenny watched him pad, naked and completely at ease, into the bathroom. He returned with fresh, thick towels. They dried off in a comfortable silence that felt nothing like the transactional quiet after Stephen. Oliver tossed Kenny a pair of soft, charcoal-grey sweatpants and a white t-shirt from his own dresser. He pulled on a pair of black athletic shorts himself.
“Hungry?” Oliver asked, glancing at the golden light fading outside. “It’s getting late.”
Kenny, pulling the t-shirt over his head, caught Oliver’s eye. “I should probably head out, let you have your evening.”
“Stay,” Oliver said, the word simple and direct. It wasn’t a command. It was an offer. “We can make dinner. I’ve got… well, I’ve got a lot of vegetables. I’m vegan, it’s a whole thing.” He grinned, that easy, disarming smile. “I’m a decent cook, though. Promise.”
The invitation was so far outside the normal script that Kenny felt a little off-balance. He nodded. “Yeah. Okay. I’d like that.”
The kitchen was a chef’s dream of stainless steel and marble. Oliver moved through it with practiced ease, pulling rainbow chard, shallots, and lentils from the fridge, a bottle of good olive oil from a rack. “You can chop,” he said, handing Kenny a knife and a board with a clove of garlic. Their fingers brushed.
They worked side-by-side, the rhythm developing naturally. Kenny minced garlic, watching Oliver sear portobello caps in a scorching pan. The air filled with the smells of sizzling shallots, earthy mushrooms, fresh thyme. Oliver talked about his week on set, a funny story about a prop hose malfunctioning, his laugh bright and unguarded. Kenny listened, adding details of his own life—carefully edited, but real. He mentioned his car trouble in Malibu, omitting Tom’s name, calling him just “a client with a toolkit.”
Over a dinner of lentil stew piled over quinoa, at the reclaimed wood table overlooking the now-dark city, the conversation drifted. The vegan food was rich and satisfying, a world away from the room-service steaks of other appointments. Oliver refilled their glasses with mineral water. The domesticity of it all was a gentle, persistent ache in Kenny’s chest.
His eyes kept wandering to Oliver’s bare arms, to the intricate tapestry of ink that adorned his skin. A compass on one forearm, a dense forest scene wrapping around a bicep, a line of script along his collarbone.
“The tattoos,” Kenny said, setting his fork down. “They’re incredible. Do they all mean something?”
Oliver looked down at his own arm as if seeing it for the first time. “Some more than others. This one,” he said, turning his forearm to show the compass, “was for my mum. She always said I had a good sense of direction.” He traced the N with his own finger. “This forest here, I got after a particularly rough patch. Needed a reminder that even when you’re deep in it, there’s a way through.”
“Can I?” Kenny asked, his voice softer than he intended.
Oliver just nodded, his breath catching slightly.
Kenny stood and walked around the table. He stood behind Oliver’s chair, his hands resting on Oliver’s broad shoulders. He leaned down, his fingers following the path Oliver’s had taken. He traced the compass points first, his touch feather-light over the dense black lines.
Oliver shivered under his fingertips.
Kenny’s hands moved up, tracing the inked trees and hidden animals on his bicep, feeling the muscle tense and relax beneath the vivid scene. He mapped every branch, every shadow with a slow, deliberate focus. He let his thumbs dig gently into the meat of Oliver’s shoulders, feeling the day’s tension there.
“And this?” Kenny murmured, his lips now close to Oliver’s ear as his fingers found the script on his collarbone.
Oliver’s head tipped back, his eyes closed. “It’s… it’s a line from a poem.” His voice was thick.
Kenny read it aloud, his breath warming the skin. Then he bent and pressed his lips to the words, kissing the inked promise into Oliver’s skin. Oliver let out a slow, shaky exhale. Kenny’s hands slid down Oliver’s chest, over the plains of his abdomen, feeling the ridges of muscle contract under his palms.
He turned the chair, gently, so Oliver was facing him. Kenny sank to his knees on the cool tile floor, looking up. Oliver’s eyes were dark, his pupils blown wide. Kenny hooked his fingers into the waistband of Oliver’s shorts.
“These are in the way,” Kenny said, his voice a low rasp.
He pulled them down, freeing Oliver’s cock, which was already hard and heavy. Oliver lifted his hips to help, a soft groan escaping him. Kenny didn’t hesitate. He took Oliver into his mouth, sinking down until he felt him hit the back of his throat.
“Fuck, Kenny,” Oliver gasped, his hands coming up to tangle in Kenny’s hair.
Kenny worked him with a deep, hungry rhythm, his tongue swirling around the head before plunging down again. He used his hand to stroke what he couldn’t take, twisting his fist on the upstroke. He looked up, meeting Oliver’s gaze. The raw need he saw there, the absolute surrender, sent a jolt of pure power through him. This wasn’t Stephen’s strained control. This was gift.
Oliver’s hips began to buck, fucking up into Kenny’s mouth in short, desperate thrusts. “I’m gonna come,” he warned, his voice strangled.
Kenny just hummed in approval, taking him deeper. The vibration tipped Oliver over the edge. He came with a sharp cry, his body bowing forward, his hands tightening in Kenny’s hair as he spilled hot and bitter down Kenny’s throat. Kenny swallowed, slowing his movements until Oliver was spent and sensitive.
Oliver slumped back in the chair, breathing hard, a dazed smile on his face. He pulled Kenny up by the shoulders and kissed him deeply, tasting himself on Kenny’s tongue.
Later, tangled in Oliver’s bed, the moon high outside the glass wall, Kenny felt a calm he hadn’t known in months. Oliver’s chest rose and fell steadily beneath his cheek. The smell of him, of them, was on the borrowed t-shirt. The silence was full and peaceful.
Kenny shifted, propping himself up on an elbow. He looked at Oliver’s face, relaxed in sleep, the stern line of his jaw softened. He traced the script on his collarbone once more with a single finger.
Oliver’s eyes fluttered open. He smiled, sleep-soft and genuine.
“Do you have any ice cream?” Kenny asked.