Chapter 1: Kitchen confessions and Teeth Marks
The lube bottle was almost empty. Tommy noted it with the detached, analytical part of his brain that was still functioning, the part that wasn’t currently short-circuiting from the press of Chanse’s body against his back. The kitchen counter was cool and hard against his bare stomach, a stark contrast to the heat radiating from the man behind him.
“You’re thinking.” Chanse’s voice was a low hum in his ear, his breath hot. One hand splayed possessively over Tommy’s abdomen, fingers digging in just above his hip bone. The other was busy. “I can hear it. That big, beautiful brain whirring. Stop it.”
“The bottle’s almost gone,” Tommy said, his own voice rougher than he expected. He shifted, the silver bracelets on his wrist clinking softly against the marble.
“So I’ll buy more.” Chanse’s teeth grazed the tendon in Tommy’s neck, not quite a bite. A promise. “I’ll buy a case. You keeping inventory now?”
A laugh punched out of Tommy, strained. “Just observant.”
“Observe this.” Chanse’s hand moved, and Tommy’s observation skills fragmented into pure sensation, a choked-off gasp catching in his throat. His fingers curled against the smooth stone. The morning light, weak and grey, bled through the windows and caught on the metallic sheen of an espresso machine, on the faint smudge of a fingerprint on the fridge door. It was a tidy kitchen, always tidy. Tommy needed that. Control. Order.
Here, pinned between the unyielding counter and the unyielding reality of Chanse, control was a distant country.
Chanse worked in silence for a moment, the only sounds their breathing and the slick, intimate noise of his hand. Tommy let his head drop, his bleached blonde hair falling over his forehead. The kind brown eyes his fans loved were screwed shut. He felt claimed, mapped. The love bites from two nights ago, a constellation of purple and yellow beneath his beard line, throbbed in time with his heartbeat. New ones would join them. He wanted them to.
“Look at me.” Chanse’s command was soft, but absolute.
Tommy opened his eyes, twisting his head. Chanse had taken his cap off. His brown curls were a chaotic mess, his hazel eyes laser-focused. The sharp, clever face that could be so sardonic on camera was utterly open here, raw with a hunger that still, after months, made Tommy’s stomach flip.
“There you are,” Chanse murmured. He leaned in, kissing him, deep and thorough, a contrast to the relentless rhythm of his hand. Tommy surrendered to it, the taste of coffee and Chanse, the scrape of his beard. He was taller, stronger, could have flipped this script in a heartbeat. The muscle was there. The desire for it, sometimes, was there too—a spark to challenge the flame. But not now. Now, the relief of not being in charge was a drug smoother than anything.
Chanse broke the kiss, breathing ragged. “Outside. Now.”
“What? It’s freezing.”
“Now, Tommy.”
A thrill shot down his spine, sharp and electric. He didn’t move. A challenge, then. A tiny one. He met Chanse’s gaze, saw the flare of excitement in it. Yes. Fight me a little.
Chanse’s answer was to grab his wrist, the one with the bracelets. His grip was iron. He pulled, and Tommy let himself be pulled, his bare feet cold on the tile floor. He was dragged through the living room, a blur of minimalist furniture and framed comedy posters, and to the glass door leading to the balcony.
Chanse shoved it open. The city morning hit them—a damp, concrete chill, the distant growl of traffic twelve storeys down. The sky was a sheet of pale wool.
Tommy shivered, goosebumps erupting over his chest and arms. “You’re insane.”
“You love it.” Chanse pushed him against the cold metal railing. The city sprawled below, tiny and indifferent. Chanse pressed against him from behind again, one arm wrapping around his chest, hand clamping over Tommy’s pounding heart. The other hand returned to its work, his touch now feeling obscene and exposed in the open air.
“Tell me you missed me,” Chanse demanded, his mouth against the shell of Tommy’s ear. He bit down on Tommy’s shoulder, through the thin cotton of his shirt. A sharp, bright pain. “Tell me, or I’ll make sure you scream it for the whole fucking financial district to hear.”
Tommy’s knuckles were white on the railing. He’d missed him. It had been forty-eight hours. A business trip. He’d missed the chaos Chanse brought to his ordered life like a missing element. He was dizzy with it, with the cold and the heat and the dangerous, glorious feeling of being so completely wanted it bordered on consumption.
He said nothing. He gritted his teeth, a smile playing on his lips.
Chanse huffed a laugh, understanding the game. “Okay. Okay, tough guy.”
His hand sped up, his grip tightened. He marked the other shoulder with his teeth, a new claim alongside the old. Tommy’s breath came in ragged clouds in the cold air. The world narrowed to the vice of Chanse’s arm, the ruthless skill of his hand, the chill of the rail against his hips, the vast, empty space below them. Control was gone, spun out into the grey sky.
He shuddered, a wave building, relentless. He was insatiable once started, and Chanse knew it, knew how to wind him tight and then tighter still. His analytical mind finally, blissfully quiet.
A low, punched-out sound escaped him, strangled by the wind.
“That’s it,” Chanse coaxed, his voice fierce and tender all at once. “Let go. I’ve got you. I always do.”
And he did. Tommy fell apart against the railing, the city a silent witness. Chanse held him through it, his own breathing harsh, his forehead pressed between Tommy’s shoulder blades. The aftermath was a violent quiet, filled with the cold and the slowing drum of their hearts.
Slowly, Chanse turned him around. Tommy’s legs were jelly. Chanse looked up at him, his hazel eyes searching. The dominance softened into something more attentive, more vulnerable. He brushed Tommy’s hair back, his thumb stroking his cheekbone. “Hey,” he said, quietly.
“Hey,” Tommy whispered back. He leaned into the touch, his big body pliant.
They stood there for a long minute, holding each other in the cold, the sweat cooling on their skin. The silence was comfortable, deep.
Inside, on the kitchen counter, Tommy’s phone buzzed. Then buzzed again. And again.
It was the tone for their work group chat.
Chanse felt Tommy stiffen, felt the moment he started to mentally return to the world—to schedules, to content plans, to the secret they were keeping from everyone they knew.
“Leave it,” Chanse said, a final, soft command.
But the spell was broken. Tommy’s kind eyes, hazy with pleasure a second ago, now flicked toward the kitchen door. He was calculating, planning, stepping back into the role he wore for everyone else. The control seeped back in, clothing him.
“It might be about the shoot this afternoon,” Tommy said, his voice returning to its normal, measured cadence.
Chanse’s jaw tightened. He stepped back, the space between them suddenly charged with something different. He picked up his cap from the floor, pulled it on low over his eyes, hiding his expression. “Right. The shoot.”
He turned and walked inside, leaving Tommy on the balcony, shivering and marked, the city’s noise finally reaching his ears.