Chapter 7: Dinner Games
The heavy scent of sex and old books clung to Ben’s skin as he stood under the blistering hot spray of Jaxson’s shower. He scrubbed himself raw, but the feeling of being filled, of being claimed in that sacred library, lingered like a tattoo on his soul. The hot water stung the faint bruises forming on his hips—Jaxson’s fingerprints in violet and blue.
When he emerged, wrapped in a towel, Jaxson was waiting in the bedroom. He’d changed into dark, tailored trousers and a crisp white shirt, sleeves rolled to his elbows. He looked like corporate royalty. Ben felt like a rumpled one-night stand.
“Elias is coming over for dinner,” Jaxson said, his voice casual, as if discussing the weather. His eyes tracked a bead of water sliding from Ben’s hair down his neck.
Ben’s stomach tightened. Elias Thorne. Jaxson’s right hand, the calm Beta to his storm. The one person who saw through every layer of their fucked-up dance. “Why?”
“Because he’s my friend, and I want him here.” Jaxson stepped closer, his fingers catching the droplet on Ben’s collarbone. “And because I want to see if you can behave.”
“I always behave,” Ben muttered, his eyes dropping.
A low, knowing chuckle. “You squirm. You sass. You pretend you don’t want this.” Jaxson’s hand slid beneath the towel, palming Ben’s ass cheek, making him jump. “Tonight, you’re going to sit at my table, make polite conversation, and feel me inside you the entire time.”
Ben’s breath hitched. “What?”
In answer, Jaxson guided him, naked and pliant, into the study adjacent to the bedroom. It was a stark space: a monolithic desk of black obsidian, a single uncomfortable-looking chair of steel and leather, floor-to-ceiling windows offering a dizzying view of the city. Jaxson sat in the chair and pulled Ben onto his lap, his already-hard cock pressing against Ben’s tailbone through the fabric.
“Jaxson…”
“Quiet.” One large hand spread Ben’s thighs over his own. The other opened a drawer, retrieving a small, wicked-looking object. It was a plug, sleek and black, but thicker at the base, with a subtle ridge of raised nodules. A small, discreet bulb at its end hinted at its function.
“No,” Ben said, the word automatic, hollow.
“Yes.” Jaxson poured a clear lubricant over the toy, letting it drip onto his own fingers. He reached behind Ben, his fingers finding the swollen, sensitive pucker from their earlier fucking. He pushed one in, then two, working him open with a clinical efficiency that made Ben burn with shame. His body yielded easily, betraying him, welcoming the invasion. “You’re so loose for me already. Still dripping my come.”
He withdrew his fingers and positioned the cold, slick tip of the plug at Ben’s entrance. “Breathe out.”
Ben exhaled shakily. Jaxson pressed forward.
It was a slow, inexorable stretch. The widest part burned, the nodules dragging against his oversensitive inner walls with a shocking intimacy. Ben gripped Jaxson’s shoulders, his nails digging in, a low whine escaping his throat as the plug seated fully, the flared base settling snug against him. He felt obscenely full, stretched wider than was comfortable.
Then Jaxson flicked a small switch on the base.
A deep, insidious buzz vibrated through Ben’s core. It wasn’t intense, just a constant, maddening hum, lighting up every nerve ending in his channel. He gasped, his hips bucking involuntarily.
“Ah, ah,” Jaxson chided, holding him still. “That’s the low setting. Barely a whisper.” He reached around, his hand closing over Ben’s cock, which was already filling again under the relentless stimulation. He gave him a few slow, twisting pulls. “If you’re good… if you sit still and talk to Elias like a civilized person… it stays low. If you squirm, if you’re rude…” He leaned in, his teeth grazing Ben’s earlobe. “I have the remote.”
He helped Ben stand. Ben’s legs trembled, the foreign object inside him shifting with every movement, the vibration a constant, filthy secret. Jaxson dressed him in soft, grey linen trousers and a simple black sweater—clothes that felt like a disguise. Every step, every shift in his posture, sent a fresh wave of the buzzing sensation through him, a reminder of who owned the pleasure coiling in his gut.
Elias arrived precisely at eight. He was, as always, a study in calm composure. Tall, handsome in a quiet way, with thoughtful grey eyes that missed nothing. He clasped Jaxson’s forearm in greeting, then turned to Ben.
“Ben. Good to see you.” His smile was genuine, but his gaze lingered a fraction too long. Did he smell it? The sex, the violation, the plug?
“Elias,” Ben managed, his voice tighter than he intended.
Dinner was served at a low table in the living area by a silent staff member. The food was exquisite—seared scallops, a delicate beetroot salad, tenderloin that melted on the tongue. Ben tasted none of it. Every bite, every sip of wine, was a battle against the sensation between his legs. He had to concentrate on the simple mechanics of sitting, of not shifting his weight, of not letting his eyes flutter closed.
Jaxson held court, discussing a recent business acquisition, his demeanor relaxed, authoritative. He was the perfect host. His foot, however, under the table, occasionally brushed against Ben’s ankle. A casual touch. A brand.
“And you, Ben?” Elias asked, cutting into his meat. “How are you finding the new curation project at the museum?”
It took Ben a moment to process the words through the buzzing haze in his body. “It’s… challenging. The benefactor is…” He shifted slightly, and the plug moved, the vibrations sparking a jolt of pleasure so sharp he had to bite his lip. “…a traditionalist. Resists contemporary pieces.”
“He lacks vision,” Jaxson stated, swirling his wine. “You should tell him his taste is outdated and sentimental.” His eyes flicked to Ben, a challenge in them. Go on. Be your sassy self.
But Ben couldn’t. Every bit of his fiery spirit was directed inward, toward maintaining a facade of normalcy. The plug felt bigger with every passing minute, the low hum a torment. He felt a trickle of sweat trace his spine.
“Perhaps a more diplomatic approach,” Elias offered, his glance shifting between them, picking up on the charged silence. “Sometimes old assets simply need… careful handling to reveal their true value.”
Jaxson smirked. “Some assets need a firmer hand.”
Under the table, Jaxson’s hand landed on Ben’s thigh, high up, his thumb stroking the inner seam of his trousers. Ben jumped, a soft gasp escaping him. Both men looked at him.
“Sorry,” Ben mumbled, his face heating. “Thought I saw a… spider.”
Elias’s eyebrow arched slightly. “In a penthouse this high?”
Jaxson’s hand slid higher, his fingers applying a subtle, pinpoint pressure right over the base of the plug where it met Ben’s body. The buzzing seemed to amplify, the vibrations becoming a dense, throbbing pulse. Ben’s knuckles were white around his fork. Pre-come dampened the front of his linen trousers, a betraying spot he prayed was too dark to see.
“You’re quiet, Ben,” Jaxson murmured, his voice laced with false concern. “Feeling unwell?”
“I’m fine,” Ben gritted out, staring at his plate.
Elias set his utensils down. “The meal was excellent, Jax. Thank you.” He wiped his mouth with a napkin, his movements deliberate. “I should be going. Early meetings.”
Ben almost cried out in relief.
They walked Elias to the door. As they said their goodbyes, Elias clasped Ben’s shoulder. His grip was firm, his gaze piercing. “Take care of yourself, Ben,” he said, the words weighted with meaning. He saw. Of course he saw.
The door clicked shut. The moment the lock engaged, Jaxson spun Ben around and pinned him against the cold metal of the door.
“You,” Jaxson growled, his composure gone, replaced by feral hunger, “were perfect.” His hand cupped Ben through his trousers, feeling the wet patch, the hard length beneath. “Dripping for me through an entire dinner. My good boy.”
Ben was beyond words. He was a live wire of need, his hips rutting helplessly against Jaxson’s hand. The plug buzzed on, an unrelenting torment.
Jaxson ripped Ben’s trousers and underwear down in one violent motion. He turned him around to face the door, shoved his sweater up his back. “Hold onto the handle,” he commanded, his own zipper coming down.
Ben gripped the cold steel, pressing his forehead against the door. He heard the squirt of more lube, felt Jaxson’s fingers wrap around the base of the plug. With a slow, cruel twist, he pulled it out.
The sensation was overwhelming—the drag of the nodules, the sudden, empty ache. Ben cried out, his knees buckling. Jaxson held him up.
“So empty now, aren’t you?” Jaxson murmured. He didn’t enter him. Instead, he rubbed the head of his cock through the slick mess between Ben’s cheeks, teasing the stretched, quivering hole. “You want it? After all that? You want my cock replacing that toy?”
“Yes! God, Jaxson, please,” Ben sobbed, pushing back against him, trying to impale himself.
“Ask properly.”
“Fuck me! Please, Alpha, fuck me!” The title, the surrender, tore from him.
Jaxson drove into him in one brutal stroke. Ben screamed, the sound swallowed by the door. It was too much, too soon, a delicious, punishing fullness. Jaxson set a ruthless pace, his hands gripping Ben’s hips, slamming him back onto his cock with each thrust. The door rattled in its frame.
“This is what you are,” Jaxson grunted, his breath hot on Ben’s neck. “A desperate, messy hole begging to be filled. My perfect, wicked Omega.”
Ben came with a shattered cry, untouched, his orgasm ripped from him by the sheer force of Jaxson’s fucking. He painted the door with his release, his vision whiting out.
Jaxson followed, pounding into him through the convulsions, his own climax a harsh roar as he filled Ben, hot and deep. He collapsed against Ben’s back, both of them spent, panting against the cold metal.
In the aftershock, trembling and slick with sweat, Ben felt it—a deep, resonant thrum in his very bones, a pull sharper than any before. It was the bond, the fucking mate-bond, singing a painful, beautiful note of completion. He wanted to turn, to bare his neck, to beg for the bite that would make it permanent.
He said nothing. He just stood there, impaled and claimed, staring at the distorted reflection of his own wrecked face in the polished steel of the door, wondering when his defiance had become his cage, and why the lock felt so much like home.