Chapter 2: Chapter 2
The silence of the penthouse was different with Mac in it. It wasn’t empty; it was watched. Charged. Corey felt it humming in his bones as he lay in the cavernous four-poster bed that night, the city’s electric glow painting faint stripes across the silk sheets. Mac had insisted on using the couch, refusing the second bedroom, keeping an eye on the direct feed to the security monitors, including the biometrics from the wearable Corey never took off. Heart rate. Body temperature. Galvanic skin response.
A slow smile spread on Corey’s face in the dark.
He pushed the sheets down, letting the cool air whisper over his skin. He thought about Mac in the study, that dark, assessing gaze that didn’t look away. He thought about the man’s hands, broad and capable, and the implicit strength in his stillness. His own hand drifted down, fingers skimming over his small cock, already half-hard from the fantasy, before slipping lower, past his balls to where he was already slick and wanting. A year of careful, lonely exploration had taught him exactly how he liked it.
He didn’t stifle his breath. He let it out, a soft, audible sigh that fractured the quiet. He found a rhythm, fingers then thumb, pressing and circling, his hips lifting off the mattress. The pleasure was real, warm and coiling in his gut, but layered over it was a sharper, more delicious thrill. He’s watching. Not with cameras in the room—Mac had pointedly refused that during the contract negotiation—but through the relentless, clinical data on his screen. Corey imagined the green numbers of his heart rate spiking, the graph of his respiration becoming erratic. A live feed of his climax, translated into sterile metrics for that stoic, disciplined man to decipher.
He moaned, louder than necessary, arching his back. The image in his head was Mac, jaw tight, eyes fixed on the monitor, watching the objective proof of Corey’s pleasure unfold. It was the ultimate tease. A performance where he was both actor and audience, and Mac was an unwilling, or perhaps all-too-willing, voyeur. The climax, when it broke, was shattering and real, white light behind his eyelids, a choked cry torn from his throat that echoed in the spacious room. He trembled through it, gasping, utterly spent.
And through the aftershocks, the grin returned. Wider. Triumphant. He’d laid a trail of breadcrumbs made of pure biology. The question was, would Mac follow it?
Sunlight streamed through the floor-to-ceiling windows, bleaching the polished concrete floors. Corey, buzzing with a manic energy, decided on a hike. It was a test, of course. Everything was now.
He stood before the closet, dismissing sensible athletic wear. He chose instead a pair of tight, black booty shorts that clung to every curve and left nothing to the imagination, and a thin, grey athletic vest that revealed the pale, smooth planes of his torso and the sharp lines of his collarbones. He pulled on thick hiking socks and scarred, expensive boots—a stark, utilitarian contrast to the sheer vulnerability of the outfit. He looked at himself in the full-length mirror: a deliberate contradiction. Supple, exposed, yet ready to trek a mountain. A provocation.
Mac was in the main living area, a tablet in hand, reviewing perimeter protocols. He looked up as Corey entered. Corey saw the man’s eyes—those dark, unreadable eyes—do a swift, professional scan. From the boots, up the bare legs, over the shorts, across the vest, to his face. The scan took less than two seconds. No reaction. Not a flicker.
“Morning,” Corey said, his voice bright. “I need some air. We’re going to the state park. The canyon trail.”
Mac set the tablet down. “That’s a seven-mile loop with significant elevation change. Are you prepared for that?”
“Do I look unprepared?” Corey did a slow turn, under the guise of grabbing a water bottle from the kitchen island. He felt Mac’s gaze on his back, on the shorts straining across his ass.
A beat of silence. “The outfit is… not optimal for brush and sun exposure,” Mac said, his voice flat. “I’ll bring a pack with a first-aid kit and extra water.”
“Worried about me, Mac?” Corey teased, turning back, leaning against the island.
“I’m tasked with your safety,” Mac replied, standing. He was wearing simple, durable cargo pants and a tight black t-shirt that did nothing to conceal the powerful musculature of his chest and arms. He looked exactly like what he was: a weapon. “That includes preventing heatstroke and lacerations. I’ll get the pack. The car will be ready in five.”
He walked away, his stride efficient and quiet. Corey’s smile didn’t fade. He hadn’t gotten a flustered reaction, but he’d gotten something. The clinical critique of the outfit was an acknowledgment. Mac had looked. He had assessed. And he’d chosen to comment on its impracticality, not its provocation. That, Corey thought as he followed him toward the elevator, was a language he could work with. The game wasn’t in the broad strokes; it was in the tiny fractures in the man’s impeccable control.
The drive was quiet. Mac focused on the road. Corey watched the city give way to rolling, dusty hills, his pulse a quiet, excited drumbeat against his ribs. The real test was coming. Out there, on the trail, with no one else around. Where anything could happen.
The canyon trail was a serpent of pale dust winding through scrub oak and manzanita, the air humming with cicadas and dry heat. Corey surged ahead as soon as they left the parking lot, his boots kicking up small plumes of dirt, putting the deliberate sway of his hips and the tight black fabric stretched over his ass on full display. He wanted that image burned into Mac’s retina, a persistent watermark on his professional focus.
Mac let him lead for exactly fifty yards.
Then, with a quiet, ground-eating pace, the ex-soldier overtook him, moving ahead to scan the bend in the trail, his posture alert and tactical. He stopped, waited for Corey to catch up, those dark eyes tracking his approach with a comprehensive, unnerving sweep that missed nothing—the flush on his chest, the hitched breath, the way his vest clung to his damp skin. “Pace yourself,” Mac said, his voice as dry as the path. “It’s a marathon, not a sprint.”
Corey gritted his teeth, a flash of irritation cutting through the arousal. He pushed harder on the next incline, muscles burning, determined to stay ahead. But Mac was a phantom, always gliding past to establish a new perimeter, then pausing to watch Corey struggle toward him. It was a silent, infuriating demonstration of control. The man wasn’t following; he was herding.
Soon, a light sheen of sweat coated both of them, turning Corey’s pale skin glossy and darkening the grey of his vest. Mac’s black t-shirt was soaked through across his broad back, clinging to the defined topography of muscle. The sun, now near its peak, was a punishing weight.
“We should reapply sunscreen,” Mac stated, stopping in a rare patch of shade from a massive boulder. He shrugged off his pack, his movements economical. “You’re frying.”
Corey’s heart hammered against his ribs. He peeled off his damp vest slowly, letting the cool canyon air whisper over his exposed torso. He held out the bottle. “Can’t reach my back.”
Mac looked at him, then at the bottle, his expression unreadable. He took it with a quiet, reluctant sigh that sounded like capitulation but felt like strategy. “Turn around.”
Corey obeyed, presenting his back. Mac’s hands were calloused and warm, the sunscreen cool as he applied it in brisk, efficient strokes. The touch was clinical, covering every inch of exposed skin from his neck to the waistband of his shorts, but Corey felt each pass like a brand. His breath caught when a thick thumb inadvertently grazed the sensitive dip of his spine just above his shorts.
“Your turn,” Corey said the second Mac finished, spinning around and grabbing the bottle.
A wary amusement flickered in Mac’s eyes. He seemed to consider refusing, then simply reached back, grabbed the hem of his soaked black t-shirt, and pulled it over his head in one fluid motion.
The sight stole the air from Corey’s lungs. Mac’s torso was a landscape of hard-earned power: thick pectorals dusted with dark hair, a defined abdomen that wasn’t a gym-six-pack but a functional, corded sheet of muscle, and shoulders that spoke of carrying heavy loads over impossible distances. A faded scar, thin and white, cut across his lower ribs. Sweat traced the valleys between muscle groups. He was overwhelmingly, viscerally real.
Corey squeezed too much sunscreen into his palm. He started at the shoulders, his hands trembling slightly as he worked the lotion into the dense, warm flesh. He mapped the slope of deltoids, the rocky terrain of trapezius, the forest of dark hair on his chest that curled under his fingertips. His touch grew slower, less clinical, thumbs brushing over nipples, palms sliding down the rigid plane of his stomach. Mac stood perfectly still, a statue of endured attention, but Corey saw the minute tightening in his jaw, the slow, deep rise and fall of his chest.
“That’s enough,” Mac said, his voice lower than before.
He took the bottle back, didn’t put his shirt on, just tucked it into the back of his belt. The rest of the hike became a different kind of torture. Corey followed the sweaty, powerful expanse of Mac’s back, the play of sunlight on muscle and scar, the way his cargo pants rode low on his hips. His own tiny shorts felt like a confession, chafing against his desperate, swollen arousal with every step.
At the next rest stop, a flat overlook with a gnarled pine, Corey’s control shattered. He slumped against the tree, breathing ragged. As Mac dug in the pack for water, Corey’s hand shot out, snatching the discarded, sweat-damp t-shirt from Mac’s belt. He didn’t think. He brought the fabric to his face, covering his mouth and nose, and inhaled deeply—the scent was pure, salted Mac, pine, and dry earth.
A helpless moan vibrated into the cotton. His other hand pressed against the straining front of his shorts, rubbing over the aching outline of his cock.
Mac turned, water bottle in hand, and went very still. He watched Corey writhing against the tree, muffling his cries in the shirt, hand working desperately at his crotch. There was no shock on his face. Just a calm, final assessment.
“Okay,” Mac said, the word cutting through Corey’s fevered sounds. He checked his watch, a ridiculous, mundane gesture. “I’ve got twenty minutes in the schedule.”
Corey froze, the shirt falling from his face. “What?”
Mac’s gaze was iron. “You want to play? Play. But we do it my way.” He nodded toward a narrower path leading off the main trail, into denser brush. “Over there. Now.”
Corey stumbled after him, his mind white noise. Mac stopped in a small, hidden clearing, dappled in shadow. He unbuckled his belt, the rasp of leather loud in the quiet. He didn’t remove his pants, just unbuttoned them and pushed them down enough to free himself. “Get on your knees.”
Corey dropped, the dirt and pine needles sharp against his skin. He looked up, and his mouth went dry.
Mac’s cock was thick, uncut, and heavy, a stark contrast to Corey’s own. It curved slightly upward, the skin flushed a deep ruddy color against the thatch of dark hair at its base. His balls were full, drawn tight already. It was a frankly intimidating piece of anatomy, utterly masculine and veined with power. Corey felt a jolt of pure, animal intimidation, instantly chased by a surge of wet, yielding need from his own body.
He leaned forward, his heart pounding in his ears. He started slow, just the press of his lips to the head, tasting salt and skin. He used his tongue, exploring the ridge, slipping beneath the foreskin with a furtive, delicate swipe. A low, gratifying rumble came from above him. Emboldened, Corey took more, relaxing his jaw, letting his throat open as he’d trained himself to do over long, lonely nights. He worked with a devoted rhythm, one hand wrapping around the base, the other cupping Mac’s heavy balls.
Mac’s breath hitched. His hand came down, not to guide, but to settle heavily in Corey’s red hair, fingers tangling in a firm, almost possessive grip. He didn’t thrust, didn’t move, just held on as Corey worshipped him. The control was absolute, and it was the most erotic thing Corey had ever experienced.
Mac was, in fact, astonished. The kid’s mouth was a revelation—a perfect, hot, skilled suction that seemed to intuit exactly the right pressure, the ideal pace. It was unhurried and deeply attentive, devoid of the rushed, transactional fervor he was used to. This was artful, and it was dismantling him faster than any combat maneuver. A bead of pre-come leaked onto Corey’s tongue, and the soft, eager sound Corey made vibrated through Mac’s entire nervous system.
He didn’t offer praise. That wasn’t part of the deal. Instead, his grip tightened in Corey’s hair, his hips giving the smallest, involuntary jerk. A warning. A promise. The schedule was almost up.
Mac’s breathing had changed, a sharp, rhythmic pattern cutting through the canyon’s stillness. The hand in Corey’s hair trembled, just once, a seismic tremor in an otherwise stable continent. Corey felt the telltale pulse against his tongue, the impossible heat, the way the heavy flesh seemed to swell just beyond its limits. He was going to win. He would see the fracture.
He pulled back with a wet pop, leaving Mac’s cock glistening in the dappled light. He locked eyes with Mac, whose expression was a mask of strained granite. Then Corey leaned in again, not taking him in, but extending just the pointed tip of his tongue. He placed it with surgeon’s precision on the sensitive bundle of nerves beneath the crown, the frenulum, and applied a feather-light, relentless flicker.
Mac’s entire body locked. A strangled sound, part gasp, part growl, escaped his clenched teeth. His hips jerked involuntarily, but Corey held his position, a butterfly pinning a bull. He maintained the maddening, minute stimulation, denying the deep friction Mac’s body screamed for, holding him in the white-hot limbo between need and release. He watched Mac’s eyes, searching for the shatter.
It didn’t come.
Mac’s jaw was iron, his nostrils flared, but his gaze remained fixed on Corey’s face, dark and burning and utterly conscious. The control didn’t break; it condensed. With a Herculean effort of will, Mac halted the climax Corey had teased to the very brink. Instead, a thick, silent rush of cum welled up and overflowed, spilling out in a hot, continuous stream that painted Corey’s lips, dripped onto his chin, and splattered the dry earth between his knees.
The surrender was entirely physical, utterly defiant.
“Time’s up,” Mac said, his voice ragged but clear.
He pulled himself from Corey’s startled mouth. Without a word, Corey leaned forward again, his own need forgotten in the face of this stunning paradox of loss and victory. He cleaned Mac’s softening cock with swift, efficient passes of his tongue, then swiped his own face with the back of his hand, licking the spend from his skin. He swallowed it all, the taste salt-bitter and essential.
Mac tucked himself away, fastened his pants. He picked up his pack, slung it over one bare shoulder. “Car’s this way.”
The walk back was different. The frustrated, competitive tension had evaporated, replaced by a heavy, saturated calm. They didn’t speak. Corey’s mind was a riot, his body humming. Mac walked beside him now, not ahead, their strides falling into an unconscious sync. The ease was unsettling, a ceasefire with no terms defined.
At the sleek, black SUV, Mac wordlessly began packing the gear into the boot, his movements returning to their normal, efficient rhythm. Corey watched him for a moment from the backseat door, the man’s bare back still gleaming with a faint trace of sweat and sunscreen. The sight was a key turning in a lock deep inside him.
He took the risk.
He climbed into the spacious back seat, the tinted windows granting an illusion of privacy. His fingers fumbled with the laces of his boots, then shoved the tight shorts and his briefs down in one frantic push. He was naked, pale skin against the black leather, the cool air from the vents raising goosebumps. His small cock was hard, achingly so, and he didn’t hesitate. He spit into his palm and started stroking, his eyes fixed on Mac’s form outside the open tailgate.
“Mac,” he called out, his voice shaky but loud. “I need… come here. Help me.”
Mac stopped. He didn’t turn around at first. He finished zipping the pack, placed it neatly, then closed the boot with a solid thump. Finally, he turned and walked to the open door. He looked in, his eyes sweeping over Corey’s naked, writhing form. No surprise. No anger. No apparent lust.
He simply leaned against the doorframe, crossing his arms over his chest, his torso still magnificently bare. He watched. His expression was one of deep, analytical curiosity, as if observing a fascinating but slightly perplexing experiment.
It was the exact opposite of what Corey wanted. He wanted hands, weight, commands—the loss of control he’d just been denied. Instead, he was given a mirror. Mac’s silent, unwavering observation became the stimulus. Corey’s strokes became more frantic, his breath coming in short gasps. He arched his back, moaning, his eyes locked on the dark hair leading from Mac’s navel down into his cargo pants. He came with a choked cry, stripes of white painting his stomach and trembling thighs.
Mac watched until the last shudder passed. Then he pushed off the doorframe, walked to the driver’s side door, and pulled a fresh black t-shirt from a duffel bag. He pulled it on, the clean cotton erasing the visual of his chest. He got in the driver’s seat, started the engine, and turned the air conditioning up a notch.
The SUV pulled onto the road. Corey, spent and vibrating with a strange mix of humiliation and exhilaration, looked at the mess on his stomach. He used his fingers, gathering his own cum. He lifted his knees, spreading himself, and pressed his slick fingers against his untouched hole. He worked one, then two inside, gasping at the stretch, fingering his own spend into his body as the landscape blurred past the windows. He left them there, naked and openly debauched, his legs splayed, ensuring his reflection—a pale, wanton smear—remained perfectly visible in the centre of Mac’s rear view mirror for the entire drive home.
The silence in the SUV was a live wire, crackling with the ghost of Corey’s cries and the salt-slick scent of his body. Mac drove, eyes forward, a statue in a clean shirt. Corey’s reflection—a debauched, spent portrait in the rear view—was a flag he’d planted in conquered territory. Mac never looked at it. Not once. But he also never adjusted the mirror.
They rode back to the penthouse that way, Corey’s heart slowing from a frantic drum to a dull, satisfied thud. The hum of the tires on asphalt was the only sound.
The elevator ride up was worse. Enclosed. Mac stood at parade rest, eyes fixed on the ascending numbers. Corey, now loosely re-dressed in his damp, filthy clothes, felt the cooling mess in his shorts, the phantom stretch inside him. He leaned against the mirrored wall, studying Mac’s profile. “That schedule of yours,” Corey said, his voice hoarse. “You keep it in your head, or do you have an app for that?”
Mac’s gaze slid to him, then back to the numbers. “Both.”
“Efficient.”
“It has to be.”
The doors opened into the cool, minimalist expanse of the penthouse. The opulence felt suddenly absurd, a glass and steel stage for their grubby little drama. Corey headed for the shower without another word, leaving a trail of canyon dust on the polished floor.
The hot water sluiced away the sweat and dirt, but not the feeling. It was etched into him now, a new layer under his porcelain skin. The clinical efficiency of Mac’s touch, the volcanic restraint of his release, the cold observation in the SUV. Corey replayed it all, his hands braced against the shower tile. He was hard again, painfully so. He didn’t touch himself. The game had changed. It wasn’t about solitary gratification anymore; it was about eliciting a response from the unshakeable monument in his living room.
He wrapped himself in a robe, the fine cotton whispering against his oversensitive skin, and padded out. Mac was at the console by the windows, reviewing security feeds, his posture all business. The damp t-shirt from the hike was nowhere to be seen.
“We need to expand the detail,” Mac said without preamble, his fingers tapping keys. “A two-man team is minimum for effective rotation and coverage, especially if your… activities… are going to involve remote locations.”
Corey’s pulse gave a little jump. Activities. So that’s what they were calling it. “I thought you were a one-man army.”
“I am. This isn’t about me. It’s about redundancy. You don’t buy a system with a single point of failure.” Mac turned in the chair to face him. “I’ve vetted a shortlist. One candidate immediately stood out. He’s arriving for an interview at four.”
A thrill, sharp and bright, shot through Corey’s veins. A new piece on the board. A new variable for his experiment. “Today?”
“In one hour.”
Corey’s mind, always several steps ahead, was already racing through possibilities. A grin, genuine and sharp, spread across his face. “Perfect. I’ll get ready.”
He retreated to his walk-in closet, a space larger than most city apartments. The racks of bespoke suits and designer casualwear suddenly looked like costumes for a different person, a ghost he’d shed. He needed a different kind of armor. He needed a flag.
He bypassed everything. In the back, he found a pair of slim-fitting, charcoal grey trousers made of a soft, stretch-tech fabric. They were technically elegant, but when he pulled them on, they clung to every inch of his thighs and calves before tightening with almost obscene precision across his ass. He chose sheer black cotton briefs. A simple, loose-fitting black cashmere sweater completed the look, the fabric so fine it draped like liquid shadow, falling to mid-hip. It hid his torso but, when he moved, would ride up in the back. He checked the mirror, turning to look over his shoulder. The effect was unmistakable. The trousers presented his ass like a gift on a platter, sculpted and offered without a hint of denim or sportswear to excuse it.
Satisfied, he headed for the study at 3:40 PM, his bare feet silent on the hall runner.
Mac was already there, stationed at the far side of the massive mahogany desk, his brow furrowed in concentration as he worked on a ruggedized laptop. The fire was lit, casting a dancing, warm light that made the leather-bound books gleam. He looked up as Corey entered, his gaze doing its usual swift inventory. It paused on the grey trousers. A muscle in his jaw twitched.
“He’s on time,” Mac stated, his voice neutral.
Corey leaned against the edge of the desk, directly in Mac’s sightline. “LTime to spare then?”
Mac’s eyes held his. Something dark and knowing passed between them, a current beneath the professional ice. Mac slowly closed the laptop lid. The soft click was decisive.
“There’s fifteen minutes free in the schedule,” Mac said, his voice dropping, shedding its flat professionalism for something rougher, more elemental.
He stood. He didn’t walk around the desk. He simply came forward, his movement a study in predatory grace, and placed his hands on the mahogany surface on either side of Corey’s hips, caging him. Corey’s breath hitched. This was different from the canyon. This was a claiming.
Without a word, Mac spun him around to face the desk, the leather-bound blotter cool under Corey’s suddenly trembling hands. Mac’s hands were at his waist, unceremoniously yanking the fine wool trousers and the thin cotton of his briefs down to his knees. The cool air of the study kissed his exposed skin.
“You dressed for this,” Mac growled, his voice low and close to Corey’s ear. It wasn’t a question.
Corey could only gasp, pressing his forehead against the cool leather, as Mac went to his knees behind him. There was no preamble, no teasing exploration. Mac’s hands spread him open, and his mouth was there, hot and voracious. It wasn’t tender. It was devouring. A starved, focused intensity that burned away every thought in Corey’s head. The scratch of stubble, the slick, ruthless pressure of Mac’s tongue spearing into him, the raw, wet sounds—it was an assault that felt like absolution. Corey choked on a moan, his fingers scrabbling against the blotter, his back arching, presenting himself further, begging for more without words.
Mac ate him with a fervour that bordered on violence, a desperate, possessive act that seemed to rewrite the rules of their silent war. He was marking his territory, asserting a primal dominance that went beyond contracts and schedules. Corey was dissolving, shaking, tears of overwhelm pricking his eyes. Just as he felt his legs would give way, Mac stopped.
He stood up. He adjusted his own clothing with a quick, efficient tug. A handkerchief appeared from his pocket, and he wiped his mouth with a clinical swipe, his breathing only slightly elevated. He disposed of it, then pulled Corey’s trousers back up with the same impersonal efficiency.
“Compose yourself,” Mac said, his voice back to its flat, professional timbre, though deeper, richer. “The candidate’s name is Javier Rodriguez. He goes by Javi.”
Corey, weak-kneed and buzzing, barely had time to stumble into a high-backed leather armchair in the corner, half-hidden in shadow, before a crisp knock sounded on the study door.
“Enter,” Mac called.
Javier Rodriguez stepped inside. He moved with a loose, athletic confidence that was the polar opposite of Mac’s contained power. He was all fluid grace, muscled but lean, with a sharp, handsome face and dark, observant eyes that missed nothing. He wore dark jeans and a fitted jacket, looking more like a successful artist than former special forces.
“Mr. Riley,” Javi said, his voice a warm baritone with a hint of an accent. His gaze flicked to Corey in the corner, acknowledging him with a slight, respectful nod before focusing back on Mac. “Javi Rodriguez. Appreciate you fitting me in.”
Mac didn’t offer a hand. “Your file is impressive. Tripwire details in Beirut. The Lagos extraction. Fluent in four languages.”
Javi shrugged, a casual, charming gesture. “The languages come in handy. People say things in front of you they shouldn’t.”
“Discretion is the primary requirement here,” Mac said, his eyes boring into Javi’s. “The principal’s safety is paramount. But his… lifestyle… is unorthodox. It requires a specific temperament. An ability to overlook personal judgement in service of the mission.”
“Understood,” Javi said, his smile easy. “The mission is the mission. Personal stuff stays outside the wire.”
Mac leaned back against the desk, crossing his arms. His posture was relaxed, but his eyes were like probes. “The principal has unique needs. He requires a security presence that is… integrated. That doesn’t flinch. That can adapt to fluid, intimate scenarios.”
Corey watched from the shadows, his body still humming from Mac’s mouth. He saw Javi’s eyes, sharp and calculating, dart between Mac’s stoic face and Corey’s flushed, knowing presence in the corner.
“Intimate scenarios,” Javi repeated, rolling the words around. His gaze lingered on Corey for a beat longer, dropping to the way the grey trousers stretched over his thighs. “You’re saying the protective detail may need to operate in close, personal quarters. That the line between professional proximity and… personal involvement… might blur.”
“I’m saying the principal’s safety could, at times, depend on a guard’s willingness to cross that line,” Mac said, his voice utterly neutral. “To use any means to establish control in a volatile situation. To understand that every asset, every vulnerability, must be managed.”
The room was thick with unsaid things. Mac’s questions were landmines wrapped in professional jargon. Integrated. Intimate. Cross that line. Manage vulnerabilities.
Javi was silent for a long moment. He looked at Mac, then let his gaze travel slowly, appraisingly, over Corey. He wasn’t looking at a principal. He was looking at a lock, and he’d just found the key. A slow, understanding smile spread across his face, not charming anymore, but wolfish.
“I think I understand the operational parameters,” Javi said, his tone shifting, becoming conversational, confident. He began unbuttoning his jacket. “You’re asking if I’m willing to demonstrate commitment to unorthodox methodology. To prove my… adaptability… under realistic conditions.”
Mac didn’t move. Didn’t blink. “That’s one interpretation.”
“Then let’s not waste time on hypotheticals,” Javi said, shrugging off his jacket and letting it fall to a chair. His eyes were locked on Corey. “The best way to vet for a unique environment is a live exercise. I’m willing to demonstrate my suitability. Right now.”
Corey’s breath caught. This was it, happening faster and harder than he’d imagined. Javi walked toward him, not with Mac’s predatory stalk, but with a casual, assured swagger. He stopped in front of the armchair.
“This acceptable to you, principal?” Javi asked, his voice a low rumble just for Corey.
Corey, his throat dry, could only nod, a sharp, quick jerk of his head.
Javi’s hands were on him then, pulling him up from the chair with effortless strength. Corey’s heart hammered against his ribs. He looked across the room and saw Mac, still leaning against the desk, watching with the same analytical intensity he’d used in the SUV. A supervisor. An evaluator.