Chapter 3: The First Handshake
The booth’s leather sighed as they slid in, the sound swallowed by the bar’s low murmur. Marcus was already leaning back, a half-finished glass of something amber at his elbow. Up close, he was even more substantial. The grey henley stretched across a chest that was frankly intimidating, and those shoulders—Emily hadn’t lied—were like geological formations. His face was handsome in a straightforward, no-nonsense way: strong jaw, a few days’ stubble, dark eyes that moved calmly from Emily to Alex.
“Hey,” Marcus said, his voice a warm, quiet baritone. He offered a smile that seemed genuine, not a leer. “Good to finally meet you, Alex. Emily’s talked a lot about you.”
Alex felt his own smile stick to his teeth. “All good, I hope.” The line was automatic, lame. He took the seat facing Marcus, Emily slipping in beside him, her thigh pressing against his instantly.
“Mostly,” Marcus said with a light chuckle, his eyes crinkling. “Mostly about how loyal you are. How game you are.” He let the word ‘game’ hang for a beat before shifting his focus. “You guys want a drink? I took the liberty.” He gestured to a waiter, who appeared almost instantly. The orders—an old fashioned for Alex, a spicy margarita for Emily—were placed in a flurry of overly polite ‘thank yous’ and ‘please.’
The first few minutes were a minefield of stilted small talk. The weather. The bar. The gym. Emily’s laughter was a fraction too high, Alex’s responses a beat too slow. Marcus, however, was an anchor of calm. He answered questions easily, asked a few of his own, and never once let his gaze become a predatory stare. It was just… attentive.
“So, you’ve done this before,” Alex said, the words blurting out sooner than he’d intended. He needed to map the terrain, to understand the rules of the game they were considering.
“I have,” Marcus nodded, taking a slow sip of his drink. He set it down, his large hands surprisingly graceful. “A few times. It’s not a hobby, you know? More like… a specific service I provide, for couples who have a clear dynamic.” His eyes flicked to Emily, then back to Alex. “It only works when everyone knows exactly what they’re there for. And what they’re not.”
Under the table, Emily’s hand landed on Alex’s thigh. Her fingers curled, squeezing gently, a silent communication. Listen. This is good.
“What’s the usual… dynamic?” Alex asked, his throat dry.
Marcus leaned forward slightly, elbows on the table. The movement made the muscles in his forearms cord. “Usually, it’s about her,” he said, nodding toward Emily. “Her fantasy. Her desire to see. To direct. My role is to be a… well, a reliable tool. A respectful guest in your space. I follow the script the couple provides.” He gave a small, self-deprecating shrug. “I’m not there to start a relationship. I’m there to facilitate an experience.”
The drinks arrived, a blessed interruption. Alex took a large gulp of his old fashioned, the burn of the whiskey centering him. A reliable tool. The phrase mirrored what Emily had said, making the whole concept feel less like infidelity and more like a catered event. It was clinical. Shouldn’t that make it easier?
Emily leaned forward onto the table, resting her chin in her hand. The neckline of her black dress gaped, offering a deep, shadowed view of her cleavage. Alex saw Marcus’s gaze dip, just for a millisecond, before returning to her face. It wasn’t thirsty. It was… appreciative. An assessment.
“And the boundaries talk,” Emily prompted, her voice playful. “That’s the most important part, right?”
“The only important part,” Marcus affirmed. He looked directly at Alex. “So. Your rules. What’s off the table? Nothing is too small or too weird to state. This only works with absolute clarity.”
Alex’s mind, which had been swirling with a hundred amorphous fears, suddenly seized on two concrete, visceral images. The intimacy of a kiss. The degradation of water sports, something he’d stumbled across online once and had been horrified by.
“No kissing,” Alex said firmly, his voice stronger than he felt. “You and me. That’s… no.” He took another breath. “And definitely, absolutely no pissing. Of any kind. Anywhere.”
Marcus’s reaction was a quick, genuine laugh, a deep sound that softened his imposing features. “Okay. Easy. Not my thing either, for the record.” He raised his hands in a peaceful gesture. “So no kissing between us. No watersports. Got it.”
There was a pause. Emily’s fingers traced a slow circle on Alex’s thigh. Her head was tilted, a mischievous smile playing on her lips as she looked at Alex.
“You know,” she said, her tone light and teasing, “it’s interesting what you didn’t say.”
Alex blinked. “What?”
“You gave rules for you and Marcus,” Emily pointed out, her eyes sparkling. “But you didn’t say a single thing about rules for me and Marcus.” She let the implication hang in the smoky air between them. “So, I guess you’re okay with him fucking me.”
The words, spoken so casually in the dim, sophisticated bar, landed like a physical blow to Alex’s solar plexus. Heat exploded across his face, a furious, telltale blush. His heart hammered against his ribs. He’d been so focused on the nightmare of his own submission, on the parts that involved him and another man, that the more traditional image—Marcus on top of Emily, Emily wrapped around Marcus—had been weirdly sidelined. Now it crashed into his mind, and brutal.
And as the image seared itself behind his eyes, a traitorous, undeniable response surged through him. His cock, which had been a dormant bundle of anxiety, stiffened violently in his trousers. It was a full, aching hardness, fueled by the shock, the jealousy, and a dark, thrilling current of something else entirely.
Emily felt it. Her hand was right there. The subtle shift in the fabric of his jeans, the sudden rigidity under her palm. Her teasing smile widened into a knowing, delighted grin. She giggled, a soft, breathy sound barely audible over the jazz humming from the speakers.
“Oh,” she whispered, squeezing the hardened muscle through his pants. “Okay.”
Alex couldn’t speak. He couldn’t look at Marcus. He stared at the ice melting in his glass, the blush burning his ears. The proof of his complicity, of his twisted arousal, was pressed against his girlfriend’s hand for their potential third to see. Or at least, to infer.
Marcus, to his credit, didn’t react overtly. He took another leisurely sip of his drink, his expression neutral, almost diplomatic. But Alex saw it—a faint, satisfied quirk at the corner of the man’s mouth. He’d seen Emily’s giggle, felt the shift in the booth’s energy. He knew.
“So,” Marcus said, gently steering the conversation back from the cliff’s edge. “We have a starting framework. That’s good.” He looked at Emily. “Your rules, Em?”
Emily finally withdrew her hand, leaving Alex throbbing and exposed. She tapped a crimson nail against her glass, thinking. “Hmm. For me… I want to direct. I’ll be telling you both what to do. You listen. At any point, either of us says ‘red,’ everything stops, no questions. ‘Yellow’ means slow down, check in.” She stated it like a CEO outlining a project plan.
“Of course,” Marcus nodded. “Standard protocol for me.”
“And,” Emily added, her gaze settling on Alex’s still-flushed profile, “aftercare is non-negotiable. When it’s over, you leave. And he’s mine.”
The possessiveness in that last sentence, ‘he’s mine,’ did something complex to Alex. It cut through the humiliation of his public erection, offering a lifeline. He was being loaned out, but the deed never transferred. She was marking her territory, even as she prepared to share it.
“Understood,” Marcus said. He finished his drink. “That all seems perfectly clear. And fair.” He let a moment of silence pass, the business negotiation complete. The social part of the evening was effectively over. They all knew it.
“So,” Marcus said, his gaze encompassing them both. “Theoreticals are covered. The only question left is practical.” He leaned back again, spreading his arms slightly along the back of the booth. A king in his corner. “Do you want to do this? Not eventually. Now. Tonight.”
The ‘now’ echoed in the space between them. Alex’s breath hitched. He’d imagined days, maybe weeks, of nervous planning. Not a decision in a booth, with the taste of whiskey and shame on his tongue.
Emily turned to him. All playfulness was gone from her face, replaced by a raw, hungry seriousness. It was the same look she’d had kneeling on the floorboards, watching him come. It was the look from the kitchen, from the janitor’s closet. It was the question, finally stripped bare.
She didn’t say a word. She just waited.
Alex looked at Marcus—the solid, calm, ‘reliable tool’ with the easy confidence of a man who knew his role and his own considerable power. He felt the lingering, aching throb in his groin, a bodily vote cast in stark opposition to his racing fears. He saw Emily’s eyes, wide and dark with wanting.
The word felt ripped from a place deeper than thought, a place that had been answering her all week without his conscious permission.
“Yes,” Alex whispered.
A slow, brilliant smile spread across Emily’s face. She looked back at Marcus and gave a single, definitive nod.
Marcus smiled back, a quiet, professional acknowledgment. He signaled for the check. “Your place or mine?”