Chapter 6: Hostile Takeover
The car was a silent, rolling tomb. Tsuyoshi sat stiffly in the backseat, the starched collar of a ludicrously expensive shirt chafing his neck. The outfit laid out for him—a slim-fit navy suit, Italian leather shoes—felt like a costume for someone with a different skeleton. He stared out at the blur of downtown LA, the site visit a looming, unknown ordeal.
The data hub was a cathedral of silence and blinking lights. Cold air whispered from vents in the floor. Racks of servers formed monolithic aisles, their tiny LEDs like constellations in a sterile universe. Derek moved through the space with a quiet ownership, pointing out security nodes, airflow systems, speaking in a low, technical murmur to the facility manager.
Tsuyoshi followed, trying to absorb the terms, feeling massively out of place. His role was to look attentive, to be the companion. It was humiliating. He caught his reflection in the dark glass of a server rack: a well-dressed imposter.
After the tour, Derek led him to the executive boardroom on the top floor of the adjacent office tower. “Wait here,” he said, his voice echoing slightly in the vast, empty room. “I have to sign off on the reports. Ten minutes.”
The door clicked shut, a sound of finality.
Tsuyoshi was alone. The room was oppressive in its perfection. A mile-long table of polished mahogany. Floor-to-ceiling windows offering a god’s-eye view of the city. The air smelled of lemon polish and money. On the far wall, a formal portrait of Derek looked down, his painted gaze as cold and assessing as the real thing.
He drifted to the window, his fingertips leaving faint smudges on the flawless glass. The silence was a physical pressure. He thought of the run, of the jacket, of the insane fact that this man had tracked him down at dawn.
The door opened. Tsuyoshi turned, expecting Derek.
It was a woman.
She was stunning in a way that seemed weaponized. A sheath dress the color of bruised midnight, hair coiled in a perfect champagne-blonde knot. Her eyes, a sharp violet, swept over him with instantaneous, calculated appraisal. She didn’t smile.
“You must be the new initiative,” she said. Her voice was smooth, accented faintly with French cadence. “Vivienne Dubois. Chief Operations.”
“Tsuyoshi.” He didn’t offer a hand. Her energy was a wall of frost.
“Derek mentioned he’d be… occupied.” She stepped into the room, her heels ticking on the hardwood like a metronome. “I didn’t realize he’d left the initiative unsupervised in the primary boardroom. There are sensitive materials.”
“I’m just waiting.”
“Evidently.” She stopped near the head of the table, tracing a finger along the back of Derek’s chair. “He moves quickly, doesn’t he? From nothing to this.” She finally looked directly at him. “Tell me, does he require you to be intelligent, or merely decorative?”
The insult landed, hot and precise. “Fuck you.”
“A defensive posture. How predictable.” She smiled, a thin, bloodless curve of her lips. “You should know, I’ve built a significant portion of what he owns. I understand his rhythms. His… appetites. They are brief. And they are always transactional.”
Tsuyoshi’s face burned. He said nothing.
The main door opened again. Derek entered, a tablet in his hand. He stopped when he saw Vivienne. A fraction of a second of stillness, then his expression hardened into polished stone. “Vivienne. This is a closed meeting.”
“My apologies.” She didn’t sound sorry. “I was reviewing the Q3 projections in the annex. I heard voices. Security protocol, you understand.”
Derek placed the tablet on the table. The click was deliberate. “Your diligence is noted. You may leave.”
The dismissal was absolute. Vivienne’s composure cracked for a single, illuminating instant—a flash of raw hurt in her eyes, quickly smothered by fury. Her gaze darted from Derek to Tsuyoshi and back. She gave a tight nod. “Of course.”
She left. The door closed softly. The silence she left behind was thicker, charged.
Derek didn’t move for a long moment. He stared at the door, his jaw tight. Then he turned his focus to Tsuyoshi, a new, darker intensity in his eyes. “What did she say to you?”
“Nothing.” Tsuyoshi’s heart was pounding. “She just… sized me up.”
“She is irrelevant to the terms of our contract.” Derek’s voice was low, a controlled vibration. “Do you understand?”
Tsuyoshi nodded, unnerved.
Derek began to walk slowly around the table towards him. “This room is the center of the organism. Every major decision is made here. Every asset is evaluated here.” He stopped an arm’s length away. “Do you feel evaluated, Tsuyoshi?”
The use of his full name was a shock. “Yeah. Constantly.”
“Good.” Derek closed the final distance. His hand came up, not to strike, but to cradle Tsuyoshi’s jaw, his thumb pressing against his lower lip. “Her opinion is a statistical outlier. It carries no weight. My evaluation is the only one that matters.”
He kissed him. It wasn’t like the gala. This was consuming, punishing. A claim staked. Tsuyoshi gasped against his mouth, and Derek swallowed the sound, his tongue pushing in, tasting of coffee and authority. One hand fisted in Tsuyoshi’s perfectly styled hair, ruining it. The other went to his lower back, pressing him flush against the hard line of Derek’s body.
Tsuyoshi’s hands came up, clutching at Derek’s shoulders, the fine wool of his suit coat wrinkling under his grip. He was hard, so fast it was dizzying, the friction of their clothing a maddening tease.
Derek broke the kiss, breathing unevenly for the first time Tsuyoshi had witnessed. His eyes were nearly black. “On the table.”
“What? No—“
“Now.” The word was a crack of command. Derek spun him around, bending him forward over the glossy mahogany. Tsuyoshi’s palms slapped against the cool surface, his reflection wide-eyed below him. He felt Derek’s weight press against him, a knee nudging his legs apart.
“Clause 8.4,” Derek murmured, his lips against the shell of Tsuyoshi’s ear as his hands began to work at his belt. “Physical demonstrations of exclusivity are mandated at the principal’s discretion, in environments of his choosing.”
“You’re fucking insane,” Tsuyoshi breathed, but he was pushing back against him, his body arching of its own volition.
The belt buckle clinked. The zipper hissed. Derek shoved the tailored trousers and briefs down to Tsuyoshi’s thighs in one rough movement. The cold air of the boardroom kissed his exposed skin. Then Derek’s hand was there, not gentle, gripping his ass, spreading him. A slick pressure against his hole—not fingers, this time. The broad, blunt head of Derek’s cock, already wet with precum.
“This is my workplace,” Derek said, his voice guttural, barely recognizable. “And I’m conducting a thorough performance review.”
He pushed in. Not slowly. A single, relentless invasion that tore a ragged shout from Tsuyoshi’s throat. It burned, a stunning, full stretch that obliterated thought. Derek didn’t pause, didn’t give him time to adjust. He seated himself to the hilt, his hips flush against Tsuyoshi’s ass, a low groan rumbling from his own chest.
“Oh god—fuck—“ Tsuyoshi choked out, his fingers scrambling for purchase on the slick table.
Derek withdrew almost all the way and slammed back in. A brutal, piston-like rhythm established itself. Each drive forced a gasp, a punched-out grunt. The sound was obscene: skin slapping against skin, the creak of the table under their combined weight, their ragged breathing. Tsuyoshi’s cock, trapped between his stomach and the cold wood, leaked helplessly.
Derek leaned over him, covering his body, one hand splayed on the table beside Tsuyoshi’s head, the other wrapping around his throat, not squeezing, just holding. Owning. His mouth was at Tsuyoshi’s ear again.
“You are mine. In this room. In that portrait’s gaze. You belong on this table, taking my cock, more than any proposal that has ever been laid here. Do you understand the terms now?”
Tsuyoshi could only nod, a frantic jerk of his head, pleasure coiling tight and desperate in his gut, the pain transmuting into a white-hot need. “Y-yeah… yes…”
“Say it.”
“I’m yours.” The words were a sob. “Fuck, Derek, I’m yours.”
The admission seemed to trigger something feral in Derek. His thrusts became wilder, deeper, losing their mechanical precision. He was fucking him with a raw, grunting urgency, chasing his own release. Tsuyoshi felt the building tension in the body above him, the tremble in the arm braced beside his head.
The door swung open.
Vivienne stood frozen in the doorway, a forgotten folder clutched in her hand. Her face, so perfectly composed moments before, was a mask of utter devastation. Her eyes were locked on where Derek was joined to Tsuyoshi, on the sweat-damp back of Derek’s shirt, on Tsuyoshi’s face, contorted in pleasure against the mahogany.
Derek didn’t stop. He didn’t even look at her. His rhythm hitched for only a second before he buried himself deep and held, a final, claiming thrust. A hot flood filled Tsuyoshi, triggering his own climax, a silent, wrenching spasm that left him seeing stars.
For three eternal heartbeats, the only sound was their labored breathing.
Vivienne found her voice, strangled and thin. “Clause 22.7… specifies appropriate workplace conduct…”
Derek slowly straightened, pulling out. He calmly tucked himself back into his trousers, fastened them. His gaze, when it finally lifted to meet hers, was glacial, devoid of any shame. “This is my workplace,” he said, his voice now clean, cold, and perfectly steady. “And I was conducting a thorough performance review.”
Tsuyoshi, still shuddering, his pants around his thighs, dropped his forehead to the table. Humiliation and satiation warred in his veins. “D-don’t listen to—fuck!—him,” he mumbled into the wood, a weak, reflexive defense. “H-he’s crazy…”
Vivienne didn’t seem to hear him. She was staring at Derek as if he were a stranger, a dangerous animal that had just shed a familiar skin. The folder slipped from her fingers, papers scattering silently on the plush carpet. She turned and walked out, her steps unnaturally even.
The door clicked shut.
Silence returned, heavier now, polluted.
Derek placed a hand on the small of Tsuyoshi’s back. The touch was no longer possessive, but almost… steadying. “Get dressed.”
Tsuyoshi pushed himself up, his legs wobbly. He pulled his clothes up with trembling hands, avoiding the wet mess cooling on his skin, on the table.
Derek was already at the window, looking out, his back to the room, to the portrait, to everything. “The car will take you home. I have a contamination to clean up.”
The silence after the door clicked was brittle, fractured by the sound of Tsuyoshi’s harsh breathing. He finally managed to fasten his trousers, the fabric sticking unpleasantly to his skin. He turned, the grandeur of the room now feeling like a crime scene.
Derek remained at the window, a stark silhouette against the city’s sprawl. The earlier fury had evaporated, leaving something more familiar: a terrifying, impersonal calm. Tsuyoshi’s own shock was curdling into something hotter and more familiar—anger.
“A contamination,” Tsuyoshi echoed, his voice rough. He wiped his mouth with the back of his hand. “She’s a person. You just… Jesus.”
“She’s a variable. An emotional one. That makes her a liability.” Derek didn’t turn. “The car is downstairs.”
The cold dismissal was the final spark. Tsuyoshi crossed the room, the plush carpet muffling his steps until he was right behind Derek. He didn’t touch him. He just shoved a finger toward the space between Derek’s shoulder blades, a gesture of pure, unfiltered street frustration.
“You jack wad.” The words shot out, sharp and satisfying. “I want a fuckin’ 10-minute warning before you decide to go all horny dictator. Add that to the fuckin’ clause. ‘Subject to spontaneous and severe dickings, but only after a courtesy heads-up.’ Put it in the fine print.”
Derek turned then, slowly. His expression was unreadable, but his eyes were no longer glacial. They were calculating, assessing this new outburst as data. A muscle twitched in his jaw. “A warning.”
“Yeah, asshole. A warning. Not just bending me over the world’s most expensive table because you’re pissed off at your stalker COO. What is wrong with you?”
“You were a participant.”
“I was a prop!” Tsuyoshi’s shout echoed. “You used me to slap her in the face. That wasn’t about the contract. That was you being a ruthless fucking bastard.”
The truth of it hung between them. Derek didn’t deny it. He looked at Tsuyoshi—really looked—seeing the trembling hands, the flushed neck, the angry sheen in warm brown eyes. He saw the person, not just the arrangement. It seemed to surprise him.
“You’re correct,” Derek said, the admission toneless.
Tsuyoshi blinked, thrown. “What?”
“It was tactical. And inefficient. It introduced an unpredictable variable into your behavioral matrix.” He stepped closer, invading Tsuyoshi’s space again, but differently. Not with predatory intent, but with a intense, forensic focus. “Your response is noted. A warning protocol will be drafted.”
Tsuyoshi just stared, his anger deflating into bewildered exhaustion. “You’re impossible.”
Derek’s hand came up, but this time his fingers just brushed a strand of sweat-damp hair from Tsuyoshi’s forehead. The touch was clinical, yet it made Tsuyoshi shiver. “You are shaking.”
“No shit.”
“The adrenaline is fading. Your system is crashing.” Derek’s gaze dropped to Tsuyoshi’s mouth, then lower, to where the evidence of their encounter was drying on his suit pants. “This requires remediation.”
Before Tsuyoshi could ask what that meant, Derek’s arm hooked around his waist and he was being marched, not toward the door, but toward a seamless panel in the mahogany wall. Derek pressed his palm against it; a biometric scanner glowed green. The panel slid open, revealing a hidden, lavish bathroom of marble and chrome.
“What is this, your evil lair?” Tsuyoshi muttered as Derek propelled him inside.
“It’s a private washroom. For extended negotiations.” Derek closed the door, locking them in. The room was silent, tomb-like.
Derek turned the taps on a deep, square sink. Steam began to rise. He then moved behind Tsuyoshi, his body a solid wall at his back. His hands went to Tsuyoshi’s hips, his fingers deftly undoing the belt and button he’d just fastened. The trousers pooled at Tsuyoshi’s feet.
“Hey—“
“Be still.” Derek’s voice was low in his ear. He wet a soft, immaculate hand towel under the warm water. Then he began to clean him. The touch was methodical, wiping away the cooling sweat and slick from Tsuyoshi’s inner thighs, his stomach, his softening cock.
It was the most intimate thing they had ever done. More intimate than the fucking. Tsuyoshi’s breath hitched. He braced his hands on the cool marble sink edge, his head bowed. He watched in the mirror as Derek, still fully dressed in his ruined suit, tended to him with a brutal, unsentimental gentleness. The CEO cleansing the street rat. It was humiliating. It was paralyzing.
Derek’s eyes met his in the mirror. “This is clause… undefined. Post-coital maintenance.”
“You’re making it up,” Tsuyoshi whispered.
“I am.” A simple admission. Derek rinsed the cloth, his movements precise. He turned Tsuyoshi around by the hips to face him. The air between them was thick with steam and something else, something charged and undefined.
Derek’s own gaze was fractured, the cold blue warming at the edges with something like curiosity, like hunger. His thumb traced the line of Tsuyoshi’s hip bone. “You asked for a warning.”
Tsuyoshi nodded, mute.
“Very well.” Derek’s voice dropped, a dark velvet promise. “I am warning you now. In approximately ten seconds, I am going to fuck you again. Against this wall. Because I am not finished. The tactical objective has been met. This… is something else.”
The raw, filthy declaration hit Tsuyoshi like a physical blow. Heat flooded back into his veins, immediate and undeniable. He was already half-hard again.
“You’re a monster,” Tsuyoshi breathed, but he was pushing forward, crushing his mouth against Derek’s.
It was a collision. Derek kissed him back with a newfound, focused ferocity, his tongue claiming his mouth as his hands shoved the jacket from Tsuyoshi’s shoulders. The expensive shirt buttons gave way with a series of sharp pops, scattering on the marble floor.
Derek spun him, pushing his bare chest against the cold, slick wall. He kicked Tsuyoshi’s feet wider apart. There was no preparation, no false courtesy. Derek unzipped his own trousers, freeing his cock, which was already thick and eager. He spat into his palm, slicking himself once, twice, the sound obscenely loud in the tiled room.
“You’re still open for me,” Derek growled, the grammar of the boardroom utterly gone. He pressed the fat head against Tsuyoshi’s hole, which was still loose and sensitive from earlier. “I can feel it.”
He shoved inside.
Tsuyoshi cried out, a raw, torn sound that echoed off the marble. The stretch was a bright, shocking pain that melted instantly into a deep, full ache. Derek didn’t wait. He set a ruthless, grinding rhythm, using his greater weight to pin Tsuyoshi in place. Each thrust knocked the air from Tsuyoshi’s lungs, his cheek mashed against the cold wall.
“This isn’t for her,” Derek grunted, his breath hot on Tsuyoshi’s neck. His hands gripped Tsuyoshi’s hips, fingers digging into bone, holding him like a vice. “This is because you stood your ground. You made a demand. Fuck.”
He was fucking him harder now, each drive a punishment and a reward. Tsuyoshi could only take it, his own cock leaking against the wall, a streak of precum on the polished stone. The pleasure was a tight coil, winding with every brutal, inward slam.
“Tell me you want it,” Derek commanded, his voice ragged. “Tell me you want this specific cock, right now, in this specific way.”
“I want it,” Tsuyoshi gasped, the admission ripped from him. “I want your cock, you fucking psycho. Just like this. Don’t stop.”
The permission shattered Derek’s control. His thrusts lost all rhythm, becoming wild, animalistic. He was just taking, pounding into him with a raw, grunting need. One hand snaked around Tsuyoshi’s front, wrapping around his leaking erection, stroking him in time with his drives.
The dual sensation was too much. Tsuyoshi came with a shattered shout, his climax tearing through him, splashing white over the wall and Derek’s fist. The violent clenching of his body dragged Derek over the edge seconds later. Derek buried himself to the root, a low, guttural roar escaping him as he emptied hot and deep inside.
They stayed like that, locked together, shuddering. The only sounds were their ragged breaths and the drip of the faucet.
Slowly, Derek softened, slipped out. He rested his forehead between Tsuyoshi’s shoulder blades, his body heavy. For a long minute, neither moved.
Derek straightened. He reached past Tsuyoshi, wet a fresh cloth, and cleaned them both again with the same unsettling, thorough care. He handed Tsuyoshi his ruined shirt.
“The car,” Derek said, his voice once more a model of neutral precision, though his hair was disheveled and his suit a wreck, “will take you home. I will have new clothes sent.”
Tsuyoshi dressed, his body feeling used and strangely alive. He looked at Derek, who was smoothing his hair in the mirror, reconstructing himself piece by piece.
“What about the contamination?” Tsuyoshi asked, his own voice quiet.
Derek met his eyes in the glass. A shadow, dark and dangerous, passed behind the blue. “That,” he said, “is no longer your concern.” The statement wasn’t a dismissal. It was a shield. And it terrified Tsuyoshi more than any clause ever could.