Copyright © 2024 by Lynn Van Dorn

All rights reserved.

No portion of this book may be reproduced in any form without written permission from the publisher or author, except as permitted by U.S. copyright law.

Contents

Other Works By Lynn Van Dorn

Writing As Virginia Kelly

Epigraph

1. Kristoff Is Given a Challenge

2. Peter Is On a Mission

3. Kristoff Is Demoted

4. Peter Hatches a Plan

5. Kristoff Is Summoned

6. Peter Is Nosy

7. Kristoff Contemplates Chaucer

8. Peter Is Confused

9. Kristoff Pushes His Luck

10. Peter Gets Kit On His Knees

11. Kristoff Hates His New Nickname

12. Peter Needs a Word With Kit

13. Kristoff Underestimates Himself

14. Peter Gets To First Base

15. Kristoff Extends an Invitation

16. Peter Is Woken By Falstaff

17. Kristoff Is Ruined

18. Peter Does Not Buy His Tie From Target

19. Kristoff Gets To See Sue

20. Peter Is Addicted

21. Kristoff Likes Peter. A Lot

22. Peter And Kit Get Some Hard Truths

23. Kristoff Is Told Family Secrets

24. Peter Has Brunch With Veronica and Drag Queens

25. Kristoff

26. Epilogue

Other Works By Lynn Van Dorn

Writing As Virginia Kelly

About the Author

Other Works By Lynn Van Dorn

North Shore Stories
Be My Mistake

Damage Control

Daddy Issues

Out Of Control

Misconduct

*

The Oleander Chronicles

Reunion

Rebound

Misconduct

*

Novels

Wild By Nature

Now You See Me

Royally Screwed

Straight To the Heart

*

Shorts

Rule 47

Meet Me At Midnight

Writing As Virginia Kelly

Forbidden Desires (with Piper Scott)

Clutch

Bond

Mate

*

Forbidden Desires Spin-off Series (with Piper Scott)

Swallow

Magpie

Finch

Peregrine

Raven

*

Stand Alone

In the Pink

Frost Bite

Kristoff

I hate Peter Verona. Over the past two decades my father has molded him into the monster who will steal the one thing in life I’ll never give up: the mega corporation I’ve inherited from my grandfather.

I will concede Peter his handsome, and charming to everyone except me, but his mission is to destroy me, crushing me utterly under his heel. I’ve been demoted to a lowly assistant and Peter is made my boss. He drives me insane because that’s his real job. He can’t fire me as long as I follow corporate policy, but there is nothing keeping him from breaking me until I quit.

I won’t succumb to him, no matter how much he pushes me, and I’ll never let him know how much he turns me on.

Peter

I hate Kristoff Minola. I’ve hated him for what feels like my entire life. He’s a rich, spoiled prince who has been taking things from me my entire life. Finally, I have the chance to fight back. All I have to do is make him quit and I’ll have everything I’ve ever wanted.

I’m prepared and ready to fight Kit’s brilliant mind, sharp tongue, and devious ways. What I never expected was how much I’d be attracted to the man I’ve raised to destroy.

I want to break Kit but instead of getting him to quit, I start imagining impossible things, like him on him on his knees for me. Only for me.

Kiss Me, Kit is a modern retelling of Shakespeare’s The Taming of the Shrew as an MM romance. It contains two men at odds with each other, terrible parenting, needlessly complicated coffee orders, cat overlords, inappropriate workplace behavior, and a wet room. Peter and Kit get their happy ending, but they’ll have to wade through biting comments, past trauma, mutually unwanted attraction, and three judgy cats to get there.

1

Kristoff Is Given a Challenge

“Peter just earned his MBA,” my father says, beaming with pride at the virtual stranger sitting next to me, “and he’s generously decided to join our corporate team.”

We sit in Father’s office, which is on the sixtieth floor of a building that has our last name, Minola, on it. Behind him is a panoramic view of Chicago skyscrapers and the vast expanse of Lake Michigan.

I sit across from his desk in a leather chair and feel the overwhelming urge to bounce my legs. I suppress it by crossing them and resting my left hand on my knee to keep me from jiggling my foot. It’s an old habit, and one I’ve nearly broken, but that urge to move always gets worse when I’m called into my father’s office for an “informal chat.”

Especially when we’re not alone.

Beside me sits my stepbrother, Peter, who is apparently the bearer of a newly minted MBA with the ink still wet.

I used to wonder if he was my half brother as well as stepbrother, despite him being born well before his mother and my father were married, but I’ve got no proof for that beyond the way he’s been treated by my father from the very beginning.

I’d say I’ve been treated like a red-haired stepchild, except that’s what Peter is. A literal red-haired step-child, but treasured and raised like a precious only child. I was the one sent away. I’m the one who feels like an intruder in my childhood home.

“Am I boring you?” I hear Father say. “I’m sorry if hearing about your brother’s accomplishments doesn’t hold your attention.”

“He’s not my brother,” Peter and I say simultaneously. We glance at each other. I fight to keep my expression blank while he rolls his eyes at me. They’re hazel, I suppose. Green with an inner ring of gold. Pretty eyes, I think, then am disgusted with myself for thinking anything about Peter Verona is attractive.

Especially when all of him is attractive.

I turn to look at my father’s scowling face. Not that I can remember him ever giving me a smile. “Unless you and my stepmother met before Mom left you.” I smile and I know I’m showing too many teeth. Unspoken is that she also left me.

Peter laughs derisively. “I look just like my sperm donor, unfortunately. You and I are definitely not related. Thank god.”

I turn my feral grin on Peter, who doesn’t give me the courtesy of flinching, let alone looking the slightest bit intimidated. “Guess I’m still an only child, then. That’s a relief.”

My father huffs impatiently. “I’m insulted you think I would’ve cheated on your mother, Kristoff. Apologize. Right now.”

I stop my eyes from rolling, but only just. “No.”

“No?” Father starts to get dangerously red in the face. I wonder if he could have a heart attack right here and now. It would save me a lot of bother if he did.

“No. I think you’ll find on page 13 of the Minola Corp. Code of Business Ethics PDF that a supervisor may not force a subordinate to apologize for something that doesn’t violate said Code of Ethics. In other words, no, I will not apologize to you, and you have no recourse with which to make me.”

Beside me, Peter smothers a laugh. “You have the code of conduct memorized? You’ve got to be kidding me.”

I’m not, which Father knows all too well, so he ignores both of us and moves on with his little speech.

“Since we seem to have gotten off track, let me repeat myself. Your stepbrother, Peter, has agreed to take a position with Minola. As Steve Bennett has put in his notice of retirement, I’ve decided to name Peter the new COO of Minola. I, of course, will remain CEO.”

This is such absolute bullshit that it takes everything inside me to retain a semblance of calm. “This is insane,” I say. “He can’t possibly be qualified to be a corporate COO. I’m not sure I’d trust him to be a courier in the mail room. He’s never even interned here. I, on the other hand, interned here for three summers while I was in college. I’ve been an employee at Minola in one capacity or another for over ten years. Ten years ago, my stepbrother was still going through puberty. I’ve been groomed for Steve’s position, and it’s been understood for years that when he retired his position would fall to me. Not Scrappy-Doo here.”

“You take that back,” Peter says. “I’m at least Joffrey from Game Of Thrones.”

Father doesn’t acknowledge our sniping. “Nothing in my father’s will prevents me from hiring whomever I wish for executive positions. I’ve decided to seek outside talent. It’s all perfectly above board and legal.”

There’s nothing in Grandfather’s will that guarantees promotions for me. I know it and so does Father. Even though naming a child to be our new COO will likely make our stock price tumble, especially when it was expected I would be the one to step into that position, there’s technically nothing to stop my father from doing this incredibly stupid thing.

“So you’ve decided to destroy Minola so I can’t have it,” I say flatly. “I wish I knew what I did as a small child to earn your hatred.”

“You’re overreacting, as usual,” my father says coldly. “I don’t hate you and you were hardly neglected. You went to the best schools—”

“Hardly the best schools.” After my mother took off for parts unknown I was sent to boarding schools. Several of them, in fact, because god forbid my father let me make and keep any friends.

“—money could buy. Anything you required was always promptly purchased for you. You were spoiled, Kristoff. Pampered like a prince. You have no grounds for complaint.”

What I had wanted was to be allowed to go home and finally be a part of a family. My family. But that was the one thing I never got, and to this day I have no idea why. It’s infuriating, but I’ll be damned if I give him the satisfaction of seeing my pain.

“Whatever, Dad,” I say, knowing how much he hates when I call him that. He says it’s disrespectful and tacky, except when his stepson calls him that. My father smiles every damn time Peter calls him Dad. Meanwhile all I have ever received is scorn or icy politeness. Never anything warmer or softer.

When near my father I have to concentrate to not let my rage show. I won’t let my face frown or my hands curl into fists. I am impervious and indifferent, even if I’m absolutely neither of those things.

“Peter will commence filling the vacant position on Monday.”

That means I have exactly two days to become resigned to watching my family’s company start to slowly fail under incompetent leadership. Oh joy.

I am physically unable to keep my mouth shut. “This is just for a year,” I say, as much for my benefit as to emphasize it to them. “Actually, it’s eleven months, twenty-five days,” I look at my watch, “five hours and nineteen minutes.” I turn to my stepbrother. “Think of this time as an extremely overpaid internship. It won’t be permanent; I can promise you that.”

Peter laughs again, not at all put off by my words. He looks smug, as if he knows something I don’t, and the expression makes me want to punch him in the face.

If it were up to my father, I wouldn’t be at Minola Corp. in any capacity. My grandfather, however, was still CEO when I graduated from college. I worked at Minola as an intern, earned myself a place, then proceeded to work my way up through the company. He told me that he’d hand over the company to me after I’d been promoted—by merit—to COO and then proved myself competent in that position to Grandfather’s satisfaction. That had always been the plan, but Grandfather had died much too soon.

By the time my grandfather passed I’d made it to senior vice president of operations. So close, and yet so, so far. My father took over as Minola’s CEO after Grandfather was gone, but only as one in the interim. On my thirty-fifth birthday, per Grandpa’s will, half of his shares would transfer to me, but only if I still worked for Minola at that time. The other half went to my Nonna, and she allows me to vote those shares in stockholder meetings on her behalf. Once my shares came out of escrow on my next birthday, I’d have control over nearly two thirds of Minola’s stock. I’d make myself CEO and my father could just fuck right off. I didn’t care where, just as long as he wasn’t at Minola.

I don’t think my grandfather had any expectation of dying when he did, because his will hadn’t been updated since I was a teenager. Had he known the situation the will put me in, I’m sure he would’ve altered the conditions. When the will was made, it was an incentive for me to work at Minola and learn the business first hand. But the will had become redundant almost a decade ago. Grandfather probably thought he’d have plenty of time to change the terms of his estate because he never got around to it.

Grandfather inadvertently left me in a position where I am required to work under a CEO who hates me. Father has been searching for any reason he can use to legally justify firing me. Over the past several months I must be the most over-evaluated employee in corporate America, but in the end, it doesn’t matter. Time keeps moving forward and every day that passes is one closer to me being able to kick my father, and now stepbrother, to the curb for good.

Father drones on and on until I’d like to punch him in the face. “In addition, effective immediately, I’m making you Peter’s executive assistant, Kristoff. Whatever he wants or needs, you’ll provide. And as a salaried position, that means you will naturally be available to him around the clock. If Peter asks you to jump, you won’t have to ask how high because I expect you to already know the answer to that.”

That makes me blink in surprise. “Excuse me?”

“I believe you heard me just fine,” Father says. “Peter will be COO, and you’ll assist him.”

I shoot to my feet. “You can’t do this. I’ve done absolutely nothing to earn a demotion, as my weekly evaluations will show. Profits are up, employee retention is up, and operating costs have remained static. You can’t do this. You have no grounds to do this.”

Father smiles at me thinly. “My lawyers are sending the proposal over to your lawyers as we speak, but I doubt there will be any objections raised. As CEO, I’m allowed to allocate employees to where they are most needed on a temporary basis. You’ll still earn the same salary and receive the same benefits. I’m also not stripping you of your title, I’m just reallocating you. And who could argue that the perfect person to train the new COO of Minola is the man who is already senior vice president of operations?”

I will, of course, talk to my lawyers after they’d read through the proposal, but I have a feeling I’m good and trapped. Unless my legal team can figure out a way around this, my only way of getting out of this is to resign. Obviously, that’s not an option and just as obviously that’s Peter and Father’s ultimate goal. With me gone, they can do whatever they want to and with the company.

Over my fucking dead body. I’m not going to quit and there is no way I’d ever give them any grounds to fire me. The company is nearly mine. I can just about taste it. I’m not about to throw all that away now. Besides, this gives me a way to make sure Peter’s incompetent infant self doesn’t destroy the company my family has built. It’s not much of a silver lining, but at the moment, it’s all I have.

I glance down at Peter, expecting him to be gloating. Instead, his gaze is both grave and speculative, like he’s sizing me up.

This may be war, I think, so let the best man win because that will be me, every single time.

Peter stands and claps me on the shoulder. We’re the same height, I realize with a start. When did the little home-wrecking runt grow so tall?

“I look forward to working with you,” he says. “I think it’s going to be quite the learning experience.”

“No doubt,” I say back dryly.

“For both of us, I expect.”

“If you say so.”

Peter smiles at me and my stomach flops. In disgust, obviously. “I do. And for the next eleven months, twenty-five days, five hours and two minutes, every single thing I say goes, as far as you’re concerned. I’m very much anticipating our time together. I’ll see you on Monday. I start the day early, so I’ll need you to be here by six in the morning. Bring me coffee. I like mocha mint lattes and chocolate chip scones. Try to remember that. Now why don’t you run along and get back to work? I’m sure there’s something useful you should be doing.”

I’ve hated my stepbrother with a kind of impersonal disdain for most of my life. Now, however, I loathe him in a much more visceral way. Too bad workplace violence is against Minola Corp’s Code of Conduct. I force myself to nod and to walk out of my father’s office with a steady, measured pace.

This is going to be the longest year of my entire life, and if Peter expects me to go easy on him, he’s going to be grossly disappointed.

2

Peter Is On a Mission

“He’s not going to go down easy, Dad,” I say, making sure I call my stepfather by his preferred name. He used to get all salty when I’d forget, but I haven’t screwed that up in a long time. I know he’s not my dad, and he knows it, too, but we play this game, and honestly, now that I’m older, I get it. His own son wants nothing to do with him. That slight feeling of wrongness when I call him Dad has never gone away, though.

Baldwin huffs. “That’s not what his school reports said,” he grumbles.

“Excuse me, what?”

Baldwin looks at me, trying to decide how much to say. I can see the calculations go across his face. “My first son is very stubborn, as I know I’ve mentioned before. Despite several warnings in more than one school, he was found in compromising positions with other students. Other male students.”

I blink in surprise since this is new to me. I know my stepbrother doesn’t have a girlfriend, but that’s hardly an indictment.

“Yes,” my stepfather continues, “Kristoff is gay. It’s disgusting. You’ll need to be careful.”

I already know Baldwin’s views on homosexuality are archaic. It’s the main reason I’ve never come out. I’m an aromantic pansexual. In my head, at any rate. As far as the greater world is concerned, I’m straight and uninterested in anything beyond brief hookups that feature incredibly mundane vanilla sex. So far I’m getting away with it. My stepfather likes to jokingly tell his friends that I’m sowing my wild oats, but one of these days that’ll stop sounding cute and he’ll expect me to be in an appropriate relationship. That, however, is a worry for another day.

“I’m pretty sure it’s not contagious,” I say dryly.

Baldwin looks at me in a way that makes me want to squirm, but I suppress the impulse with the ease of long practice. “I should hope not,” he says, then changes the subject. “Do you have a plan of action prepared?” He asks it like we haven’t been over this a billion times.

“Everything’s in place for Monday. Kristoff won’t know what hit him.” If it was anyone else, what I’ve got planned would be considered something between psychological torture and workplace harassment, but this is Kristoff Minola, and he deserves everything coming his way.

He’s a monumental asshole and the worst kind of spoiled. After his father married my mom, Kristoff ran away from home, rich kid style. He demanded to be sent to a prestigious boarding school on the other side of the country and then spent every single vacation with his grandparents. He rebuffed every single overture from his father to have a reconciliation. Instead, he connived to take Minola Corp from of my stepfather’s rightful hands like the cheating little thief he is. I know that’s why he always sucked up to Baldwin’s father. It’s obvious he didn’t do it because he had any kind of feeling for his grandparents. He’s just one of those creeps that prey on old people then steal all their stuff from their rightful heirs, only instead of it being grandpa’s house and Cadillac, it’s a multi-billion-dollar corporation.

The only way to stop him, per the terms of his grandfather’s will, is to get him to quit. That’s where I come in.

Kristoff hates me and has from the moment his father married Mom. It’s not like either one of us had anything to do with his mother’s absence, but he still blames us and has refused from day one to have anything to do with us or his father. Well, except for Baldwin’s money. Kristoff likes that just fine. The amount my stepfather paid to put him in the best schools meant that sometimes things got a little tight around the house for us. Don’t get me wrong. I know how privileged I am, growing up in Lake Forest in a beautiful house. It’s not like we ever went hungry. I always had new clothes to wear and a car to drive when I was sixteen—even if it was Baldwin’s five-year-old Volvo Cross Country station wagon. A babe-magnet that was not, and my friends all got brand new Jeeps and Corvettes and Cayennes. Cool shit like that, while I got a used Dad-mobile. Boo-fucking-hoo, right?

Yeah, I get it. But because of the money it took to enroll Kristoff in some exclusive school in California, Dad had to let all the help go. Before meeting Dad, Mom had been an executive secretary working at Minola. Of course she quit her job so she could focus on raising me, but she also had a huge mansion to keep clean and garden to keep maintained. Mom also cooked every meal, did all the shopping, and even learned to fix things around the house, because we couldn’t always afford a plumber to fix every tiny leak.

I remember Mom wanting to go on some trip with friends of hers and when it came time to buy Mom her plane ticket, my stepfather shook his head when she asked if she could fly first class with her friends.

“Not right now. Kristoff crashed his car—yes, again—and I had to buy him a new one. Things are tight right now, and Dad won’t increase my salary, but once I take over the company, everything will be different. Right now, we just can’t afford it. Not with the mortgage on the house and all our bills. Plus, Peter needs braces and his school fees will be due soon. And don’t forget that new fridge I bought you. It all adds up, Eileen. But I’ll tell you what. I’ll shuffle some things around and I’m sure I can squeeze something in economy into the monthly budget. How does that sound?”

And Mom had been thankful. Of course she had been. Being grateful wasn’t something I ever forgot to be. I wasn’t some entitled asshole who got every single thing he demanded and never once said thank you. Mom and I were very thankful. I took care of my toys and my bike and even my clothes. I made sure everything lasted. I saved my allowance instead of spending it. I went to a university near home to save on expenses, since tuition was sky-high, and we were still paying off Kristoff’s school debt. I got a job when I was sixteen and kept working the whole way through college.

And yeah, I know it sounds like I’m whining that my diamond shoes are too tight. Seriously. I get it. I had to economize growing up instead of having every last thing handed to me. Big fucking deal. But Mom is tired all the time and has a bad back from bending over and picking up stuff too heavy for her. Or at least that’s what we thought until she went to the doctor and found out that it’s not her back that’s the problem—she has kidney cancer. Her doctor said they would do a biopsy and have a clearer picture of what was going on, but she shouldn’t worry because kidney cancer was generally slow growing and very survivable.

Unfortunately, Mom didn’t get that kind of cancer. Hers is a fast-moving kind and because she’d put off going to the doctor for so long, it had already metastasized. She can’t just have surgery to fix it. She’s been getting radiation treatment, but it’s making her more sick and tired than she was before she got diagnosed. There are some cancer drugs she could take that would be easier on her than radiation, but they’re crazy expensive. We have super good insurance through Minola, but they still won’t pay for the medication and it’s almost thirty thousand dollars a month.

The answer, according to Baldwin, is to take Minola from Kristoff completely. Then he’ll have the power and money to pay for Mom’s medicine. She might be able to stop radiation entirely. Her tumors might even start to shrink.

But first I have one mission: make Kristoff Minola quit his job and take away his inheritance. What happens to him after that is not my problem. I’ve got my mom to think of and besides, Kristoff is such a huge dick that being mean to him won’t be hard. He’s always acted like Mom, and I are nothing but dirt beneath his Ferragamos, so fuck him. He deserves what he gets.

It’s eleven months until Kristoff’s birthday, but the sooner he quits, the sooner Mom can start her drug therapy. I want him gone yesterday and I already have the wheels in motion, starting with HR.

“So, what’s he like?” Veronica asks, taking a delicate sip of some bullshit froufrou sugary beverage that might, if you squint at it hard, be called coffee. “Spill. I demand it.”

“He’s a stuck-up asshole, obviously,” I reply, after making her wait while I drink my own flat white. Most people go out for drinks after work, but Veronica prefers coffee and dessert instead. She always orders four desserts and eats two bites out of each one. I never order any for myself, knowing that there will always be her leftovers to polish off.

Veronica gives me a look over a forkful of tarte au chocolat. “No, dumbass. This is the first time you’ve actually met him, right? Which is so weird. Your whole family is weird.”

“Right,” I say. “Because having two moms and one dad is normal.” And by that, I mean her parents are a throuple. But not in a “sister-wives” kind of way. It’s more of a “married lesbian couple fucks some random dude they find in a club and then later run into him at Trader Joe’s by complete coincidence and they go out for drinks and eventually he moves in and impregnates both women” kind of way. “Your life is a telenovela.”

Veronica shrugs. “The heart wants what the heart wants.”

She’s absolutely gorgeous with her dark hair and eyes and has curves that won’t quit. She’s like a living pin-up model, and dresses like a librarian in her forties. She’s happy, though, and that’s what counts.

We’ve known each other pretty much forever, as we both went to school together in Lake Forest from kindergarten to high school. We dated once upon a time before high school but then settled into being besties. Veronica doesn’t date. She’s far more interested in her law career and wants a baby like a hole in the head. She maintains that she has enough siblings to cure her of wanting any crotch fruit of her own. She makes it sound like her parents are some pornographic version of the Duggers but she’s got three brothers, not an entire army. I envy her, to be honest, but I’ve never told her that because then she’ll feel sorry for me and I’ll take a pass on the pity party, thanks.

We’re alike in that I’m not interested in fatherhood, and while I fuck people, I don’t date them. Dating leads to relationships and then everyone will expect us to get married and produce progeny. Meanwhile all I want is to get my dick wet occasionally. I never ever ever have sex without condoms and thus remain free of both children and diseases. I’m also free from romance. When I said I was aromantic I meant it. Why some people require feelings before they have sex is a total mystery to me, and ending up married with children to one of those weirdos for the rest of my life is my own personal circle of hell.

That’s more or less how Veronica and I ended up pretending to date each other. The small world we live in thinks we’re childhood sweethearts destined to one day get married and that suits us both perfectly. We do date, technically. We go out together for coffee and dinner and sometimes we go to clubs. We’re each other’s plus one when necessary. I’m aro and she’s ace. We don’t belong together, but we’re pretty useless for anyone else. Taking ourselves out of the dating pool is our mutual gift to humanity.

Veronica pokes me. “You didn’t answer my question. That’s not at all sus.”

“There’s nothing sus about Kristoff. He’s pretty open and unapologetic about being an asshole. When you get right down to it, he’s just this guy. He’s nothing special at all. Just the spoiled asshole bio son of my dad and he wants to steal the family company.” My stepfather might be Baldwin in my head, but I always refer to him as Dad out loud, even to Veronica. It’s safer that way and reduces the chances that I’ll ever slip up.

“Didn’t you tell me that your stepdad’s father left it all to this brother of yours once he turns thirty-five?”

“He’s not my brother. Not even a tiny bit.”

Veronica sighs, sounding put upon. “Whatever. Not the point, darling. I mean your stepbrother is family and sounds like he was pretty much raised by his grandparents. It’s not really shocking that the grandfather would leave the company to him. It’s not what your stepdad wants, but that’s life, right?” She doesn’t give me time to interject. “And while you’ve tried to explain this whole plan you and your stepdad have come up with to get rid of your stepbrother, no matter which way I look at it, it sounds like your dad is trying to steal the company from his son and not the other way around. Also, this scheme you’ve cooked up to get Kristoff to quit is shady as hell. You’re so much better than this, Petey. But you’re still my BFF so when you’re arrested for fraud, I’ll find you an excellent lawyer to represent you.”

“You spoil me,” I say sarcastically. “And giving the company to my dad only in trust until Prince Asshole becomes a real man was a dick move on the old man’s part. It’s not fair. The business should go to Dad with no strings. He’s the heir. Or should have been the heir.”

“So, he can make you, his heir?”

I shrug. “That wouldn’t suck, but it’s not like Dad would retire any time soon. Mom’s the problem.”

Veronica looks stricken. “How is your mother? I should have already asked after her. I’m sorry.”

“She’s…” I start to automatically say she’s fine but that’s a lie of monumental proportions. “…not doing well. It’s the radiation. It always makes her tired and sick.”

“I thought you told me they were going to give her pills instead. Ones that wouldn’t make her feel so bad or lose her hair.”

“Well, yeah, but the cheaper of the two options costs more than twenty thousand a month and our insurance doesn’t cover either one. The only thing they do cover is radiation. But if he was CEO, rather than just interim CEO, Dad would have more money and more power. Then Mom can get those pills. So the sooner I can get Kristoff to quit, the better.”

Veronica looks both sympathetic and worried. “There are ways to get medication covered. Especially life saving medication. You should look into it.”

“Dad already did. He said the insurance company won’t budge.”

“And your father can’t just pay for the medicine?”

“No, he can’t just pay for the medication. Most of the money was left to Kristoff and his grandmother, not Dad. It's not like Kristoff’s going to be begging on the streets if he quits Minola. He’s already inherited millions and he’s got a fat trust fund. The only thing he loses by quitting is the stock, and that’s worth a lot, but Kristoff will be fine. Meanwhile Dad only has his trust fund that got set up when he was a kid and that’s it.”

Veronica bites her lip then says, “I guess. Just make sure you don’t do anything to get yourself into trouble. If things go sideways, you’ll need to be able to find a position with a different company.”

“I’ll be fine. Besides, I have an ace up my sleeve.”

“Is it legal?”

I think about it then shrug again.

Veronica makes a face at me. “Fine, I’ll change the subject. Tell me more about the mysterious Kristoff.”

“Like what?” I ask, poking at Veronica’s abandoned crème brûlée with my fork until the sugar cracks. “This is not the change in subject I was promised.”

She laughs lightly. “Well, for starters, what does he look like? Does he resemble your dad?”

I shake my head. “Same pale eyes, but that’s about it. Kristoff is taller, thinner, and has got really dark hair with some silver in it. Not a ton, but you can see the sparkle when the light catches It. He’s also got this five o’clock shadow going on. It’s probably the Italian in him.”

“Ooooo,” Veronica coos. “Daddy.”

I can’t help but shudder. “Don’t call him that ever again. It’s gross.”

“Lame,” she says, then digs into a slice of clafoutis and pulls out a cherry. “Is he hot? You know, in a non-Daddy kind of way? Like, would you fuck him?”

“I wouldn’t touch him with a ten-foot pole. Stop being disgusting.”

“It’s not like you’re related or anything, which you’ve only told me a million times. Anyway, I’ll rephrase the question. Is he, by the normal standards of most healthy adult people who are into such things, fuckable?”

I eat some caramelized sugar shards to give myself time to consider the question. Is Kristoff fuckable? It’s difficult, but I try to think about it objectively.

“Maybe? He wears a suit well, but since I’m sure it’s bespoke, that’s not hard. He’s got a pretty mouth, I guess.”

Veronica’s eyes get big. “Go on.”

I shrug. “That’s it. If you could be sure he wouldn’t bite your dick off, he’d be a great skull fuck.”

“Hmm.”

“Hmm what?” I ask.

“Sometimes hmm just means hmm,” Veronica says in her lawyer voice, then reverts back to how she normally speaks. “Take a fucking seat and chill, ‘kay?”

I give her massive side-eye until she breaks down laughing.

“Just so you know, I’m already low-key shipping you two.”

I make an involuntary face. “Gross.”

She shakes her head. “He sounds like a total snack. Fuck him fuck him fuck him,” she chants. Veronica sounds like the cheerleader she used to be, only pornographic. Luckily, the chanting is pretty quiet, and the restaurant isn’t full.

“As I’m trying to get him fired?”  I say dryly. “Sure. Makes total sense.”

“No, I’m serious. And it would be totally legal. I’m not talking coercion or anything like that. Get him to jump your bones. Then, after he falls for you, dump him. Bonus points if it’s both public and humiliating.” She gives me a mischievous smile then eats another tiny sliver of the chocolate tart.

“That’s evil,” I say. “And brutal. Your brain scares me sometimes.”

“I know,” Veronica says cheerfully. “It’s why I became a lawyer. It’s always smart to play to your strengths.” She points her fork at me. “Think about it. Not one part of my plan has the chance of getting you put in jail, and a civil lawsuit would be unlikely and difficult to prove. Oh, and if you can break up with him at work in front of witnesses?” She touches her fingers to her mouth. “Chef’s kiss. And completely legal.”

“I don’t care how ‘legal’ it is. I’m not skull fucking my evil stepbrother.” I get a nasty look from a lady one table over and it occurs to me I said that a little too loud. “Ever,” I add in a hiss. “Stop shipping us.”

Veronica smirks at me and takes a sip of her sugary bullshit. “We’ll see.”

I hate it when she’s like this because she only gets this level of smug happiness when she’s right about something. “No, we won’t.”

Veronica doesn’t bother to reply, but that stupid smirk doesn’t leave her face.

3

Kristoff Is Demoted

I’m accosted by Laura, the head of HR, as soon as I walk into the building on Monday morning. I’m here two hours earlier than the normal start of the workday, which means Laura must have gotten here at the crack of dawn. She already looks frazzled, her curly hair coming out of its bun to float around her head in feathery wisps and her lipstick is nearly bitten off.

“Laura, why on Earth are you here so early? I thought HR was physically incapable of getting out of bed before eight in the morning.” I can tell immediately by her sour expression that my attempt at humor has fallen flat on its ass.

She glares at me then plasters a fake smile on her face. “I’m here to get you settled into your new position here at Minola Corp., Kristoff. Welcome to the team.” She tries to manufacture some fake enthusiasm, but her heart clearly isn’t in it.

“Uh, Laura, you are aware you’ve known me since I was sixteen, right? What the fuck is going on? What do you mean by getting me settled? If I’m not settled by now, I never will be.”

“I’m just doing my job, Mr. Minola,” she grits out. “Follow me. And please refrain from using profanity.”

You can tell how rattled I am by me dropping an F-bomb at work. I’m usually far more in control of my emotions. I’ve got to get my shit together. This rigmarole with HR has to be Peter fucking with me. Or Father. Probably both of them. “Ah, yes,” I say to Laura. “Page twenty-three, third paragraph down. I sincerely apologize for forgetting myself. Things seem a bit confused today.”

Laura narrows her eyes at me but otherwise doesn’t acknowledge that I spoke. She leads me to building security. Automatically I take out my badge to be scanned in, but Laura ignores it. “I need a badge made for a new employee,” she tells the receptionist behind the desk tonelessly. “I’ll need you to set up a hybrid access. Can you do that?”

The girl nods her head, looking bewildered, but not half as bewildered as me. I don’t know the security receptionist’s name, but then I’ve never had cause to interact with her. I’ve had full executive privileges in the building for more than a decade. What the hell is going on?

I raise my hand like I’m in class. “Um, I already have my badge and security key card.” I wave it in such a way that either woman can’t ignore it. “See?”

“I’m afraid that card is no longer active,” Laura says. “Like any new hire you’ll need a new one.”

“This is ridiculous! I’m not a new hire. I’ve worked here for almost two decades! My name is on the goddamned building, for fuck’s sake.” Oh, hell. There I go again. Dammit.

“I’ll ask you again not to use profanity in the workplace. That can constitute a hostile work environment. This is your final verbal warning. If it happens again, your supervisor will write you up.” Laura refuses to look at me as she says this.

A beefy security guard steps over. “Is there a problem over here?”

“Yes!” I say in relief. “I don’t know what the… what’s going on here today, but I require it to stop. I need to get up to my office so I can get to work. These… silly games are a waste of my time.”

Laura gives the security guard a hard look. He glances between her and me uneasily then says, “Ma’am, is this man harassing you?” Before she can answer, he turns to me. “We don’t tolerate that kind of behavior here. I’d really hate to have to call the authorities.” That last sentence sounds completely sincere. The last thing this man wants to do is call the cops on me.

I open my mouth to ask to see his superior then shut it. Treating me like a new and unknown employee has to be my diabolical stepbrother’s idea. It’s too clever to have come from father, who lacks imagination. First shot fired, and much more quickly than I’d anticipated. “Fine,” I say. “I’ll play along with this ridiculous game. Give me a new security badge so I can actually get some work done today.”

“Look at me and smile, please,” the receptionist says.

In confusion I swing her way and she takes a picture of me with a digital camera.

“Make sure that’s sent up to his new desk as soon as it’s processed,” Laura tells the receptionist. “In the meantime, I’ll take him up in the elevator and get him situated.”

She leads me to the executive elevator and uses her keycard to call it. Because it’s so early in the morning, we get it to ourselves. Once the doors close, I round on her.

“Seriously, Laura, what the actual—what is going on?”

She closes her eyes, and her lips move like she’s counting silently in her head. “I’m just following orders,” she says. “Yelling at me isn’t going to help you, trust me. At least you didn’t swear directly at me. Then I’d have no choice but to write you up.”

“I wasn’t yelling—never mind. This has got to be my evil stepbrother’s doing. Please tell me what’s going on.”

Laura crosses her arms over her chest. “I was given a script to follow by the new COO and I’m following it. I treat you like a new hire and show you to your new desk. Your office has been cleaned out. The small items are at your desk and the larger ones are in temporary storage. You can have them released into your custody at the end of the workday and then arrange for someone to pick them up.”

“I… what?”

The elevator dings and the doors open onto the sixty-seventh floor. This is the floor that has all the C-level executive offices. My office is—or was—one floor down. It’s been my goal for as long as I can remember to work my way up to this floor, but not this way.

Laura stops at a tiny desk just outside the glass walls of the COO’s office. “This is where you’ll be working for our new COO, Mr. Verona,” she says.

“No,” I say. “No no no. This is unacceptable.”

“Yes yes yes,” says a cheerful voice. I look up and see my stepbrother standing in the open door to the COO’s office. “You’re late, but since it’s your first day, I’ll make allowances. Don’t be late tomorrow, however, or I’ll have to write you up. When I tell you to be here at six, I don’t mean six-thirty.”

A sick feeling of dread fills me. This is all real. Father wasn’t bluffing. He’s put a completely green baby MBA in charge of Minola. I want, in the worst way, to throw my coffee at him.

I think Peter must read my thoughts because he shakes his head at me. “Remember, assault is against the Code of Conduct. Keep yourself and that coffee under control if you wish to remain employed here as my assistant.”

I put my coffee cup down so I’m not tempted to take my chances. It’s just for a year, I tell myself. Not even a full year. Then it’ll be my thirty-fifth birthday, and I can throw this little usurper out on his fucking ear, right next to dear old Dad. I take a deep breath in then let it out slowly. “Fine,” I say. “And if I run into any problems, I can have HR look into them.”

“Ms. Prentess,” Peter says, “can I call you Laura? Laura, tell me. Is your daughter excited about being able to study abroad?”

Laura shoots me a look that’s half-guilty and half-defiant. “She’s thrilled,” she says stiffly.

“Of course she is,” Peter says expansively. “And we here at Minola are happy to sponsor her time at Oxford. Isn’t that wonderful, Kit? It’s one of my new initiatives for the company—scholarships and sponsorships for deserving young people.”

He says this like he’s fifty and not half that age. And why is he calling me Kit? “My name is Kristoff,” I say. “Or Kris, if you must shorten it.”

Peter rolls his eyes at Laura. “I see why he’s so popular here at the company,” he says to her, his tone dry as dust.

What does he mean by that? Of course people here like me.

She lets out a short laugh—one that’s not fake this time—but cuts it off when she sees me looking her way. “He doesn’t mean to be unsociable, I’m sure. Let me know if you have any problems.”

“Excuse me? I’m sociable!” I protest but they both ignore me.

“Oh, you can be certain you’ll be the first to know if I have any problems with Kit here,” Peter says. “I’ll allow him some leeway today, but I do have high standards I’ll expect him to meet. I think we’ll have his first evaluation in a month. Please plan to attend.”

“Let me know the date and I’ll clear my calendar, sir,” Laura says. To me she adds, “Hopefully there won’t be anything I’ll have to address at your first evaluation.” Then she turns on her heel and walks out.

“I see you’ve managed to bribe the head of HR to your side,” I say to my stepdemon.

He smiles just like the devil he is. “It’s a scholarship for her daughter, not a bribe. A scholarship for a bright young lady who is the daughter of one of our best employees. At Minola we’d never stoop to bribing our employees.”

“What about retaliation?” I ask meaningfully. “How does my company feel about that?”

Peter chooses to misinterpret me. “You do need to be aware that if you give anyone in security or HR a hard time because of your new position and restrictions, there will be consequences. Also, Minola isn’t your company. It’s presumptuous to call it that.”

“Presumptuous? Did you get that from a ‘Word of the Day’ calendar? And I was referring to retaliation against myself. Isn’t that what I’m being subjected to?”

“Think what you want, Kit, but remember that whatever goes down between us, seeing as you seem full of hubris, HR will back me and not you.” Peter turns and walks away from me before stopping and saying over his shoulder, “Feel free to get settled. I will expect you in my office by six a.m. so we can discuss what my expectations are of you in this position. I’ll tell you ahead of time, though, that I will not tolerate lateness. No exceptions, no excuses. I hope that’s clearly understood.” Then he walks through his office door and closes it behind him.

I feel like I did on my first day of being sent to boarding school. My legs are shaky and it’s hard to catch a full breath. Abruptly I sit in the chair behind my new desk. This is real, I know it’s real, but it feels like a dream. Or more accurately, a nightmare.

4

Peter Hatches a Plan

Ihave a battle plan in place, put together after I was given homework by Veronica. She gave me a list of movies to watch with horrible bosses abusing the hell out of their assistants, all of whom are intelligent, plucky, and cute as a button.

Peter: every single movie is a romantic comedy. The only one who didn’t fall in love with his/her boss was the assistant in that Devil Wears Prada movie.

Veronica: that was such a wasted opportunity. Who wouldn’t go full on lesbian for Meryl Streep?

Peter: me

Veronica: you know what I mean! 

Peter: I’m not saying I wouldn’t fuck her. Meryl’s got that hot cougar energy going on. But I’m not planning on fucking Kristoff, so not sure all those rom coms were the way to go.

Veronica: did you at least get some good ideas?

Peter: actually, I did

Veronica: You’re welcome

Peter: sarcastic bitch

Veronica: that’s why you love me

Peter: “love”

Veronica: [eye roll emoji] When does your campaign start?

Peter: shots have already been fired

Kristoff’s desk is right outside my office and I can see him through the glass wall that separates us. His back is ramrod straight and I can practically see waves of impotent rage radiate off him. As my grandma used to say, he’s both madder than a wet hen and wound tight as a clock. He’s human C4, waiting to be ignited so he can explode all over the place.

I pick up my Starbucks cup, labeled “Petre” because I guess that’s how you spell my name in Baristaland, and take a sip. It’s stone cold, which shouldn’t be a surprise because I bought it over two hours ago. I have several options at this point that a rational human being might choose from. I could have a replacement delivered, use the extremely expensive espresso machine or Keurig here in my office, or just drink it cold. I just got my MBA after being a college student for six years. I can drink coffee at any temperature from boiling hot to unintentionally ice cold. It’s coffee. Life-giving caffeine. It shouldn’t be wasted. When I’m sure Kristoff isn’t looking, I throw it down my throat. Then I text his company phone because Petre might drink hours old cold coffee but Peter Verona, future CEO of Minola Corp, does not.

The Boss: come into my office

Kristoff jumps comically. When his old work phone was confiscated and this new one provided, I had the IT guys do me a solid and make his notifications as loud as possible, unable to be changed, and sound like an air horn. They tell me I can have the sound changed to anything I want at any time. Endless possibilities await.

It makes me want to rub my hands together and cackle like a cartoon villain.

Instead of obeying me by standing up and coming in here, Kristoff replies back by text.

Kit: Why is my name in this phone Kit? And why can’t I change it? IT tells me it’s impossible, which is BS. This is completely unacceptable.

I laugh because righteous indignation is a cute look for him. That makes me pause. Kristoff Minola is in no way cute. I can acknowledge he’s aesthetically pleasing, but he’s not really my type. And the cuteness isn’t real. It’s… theoretical cuteness. Moreover, all I can see is his back. It’s nicely broad, and fills his suit jacket beautifully, but it’s still just a back and not cute in any way.

I picture Kristoff’s back stripped bare, his skin glistening with a sheen of sweat, and muscles clenching and unclenching as someone pounds into what I imagine to be a tight ass. None of that is cute, but my dick is completely on board.

Kristoff is gay and I’m pan but screwing him over in the literal sense isn’t part of my battle plan. My cock, which has its own opinions on things, disagrees. Obviously, I’m overdue to get laid, and it’s not going to be my evil stepbrother. Ever.

Before I can get into an argument with my dick over why we won’t be fucking Kristoff, I see that there’s another message on my company phone.

Kit: duck you. I mean DUCK you. I DID NOT TYPE DUCK DANGIT. Or dangit. That’s not even a word. How the heck is my autocorrect doing this? F U C J WHY CAN’T I TYPE K?

It takes everything I have not to burst into laughter. I see Kristoff stand up and can’t help a grin spreading across my face, but I stomp it down and manage a reasonable expression of sangfroid as he turns around and glares at me. If wishes were rocket launchers, I’d be toast. Luckily for me, they’re not.

Kristoff marches to the glass door of my office and slams it open, or at least tries to. Because it’s glass, it’s got this kind of hydraulic door stop to keep that from happening, so instead of slamming it just kind of sighs and stops before the door can collide with the wall, which is also glass. It’s impressive engineering, as it should be, because Minola Corp, or rather one of its subsidiaries, invented it.

“What. The. Actual. Fuck?” I can practically smell the smoke coming out from Kristoff’s ears.

I look up at him. “Inappropriate language contributes to a hostile work environment, Kit. Please don’t make me remind you again.”

Kristoff closes his eyes and is probably counting to ten. “Why—no—how is my phone doing this?”

“Doing what?” I ask. I look down at my computer and pretend to be typing something important.

“You know damn well what,” he snaps back. I think he’s about five seconds away from throwing hands, but I like to live dangerously.

“That’s strike two, Kristoff. One more verbal violation of our code of conduct and I will be forced to write you up.”

“For having a conversation?” Kristoff asks. “That’s bullshit.”

I look up at Kristoff and shake my head. “I did warn you. Twice, in fact. I’m afraid that now I will be giving you a write up. If you’re not already aware, three write-ups in less than six months is cause for automatic termination of employment at Minola Corp.”

Kristoff’s overly pretty mouth drops open in astonishment or outrage, or maybe both. I imagine looking down at those soft, open lips and shoving my cock inside his mouth over and over. It’s a damn good thing my desk has a modesty panel. Then I imagine him under my desk, hidden by that panel, sucking me off then letting my cock stay warm in his mouth. Now I have to reach under the desk and arrange my cock into a less uncomfortable position.

Control yourself, I think. He’s your stepbrother and the worst excuse for a human being you know. Stop getting hard when I think about fucking him. And brain, stop thinking about fucking him. It’s gross.

I expect Kristoff to splutter and tell me that I can’t get away with what I’m doing, but he surprises me. “I see,” is all he says in frigid tones. “What, precisely, can I assist you with?”

That’s so much better. Good boy. I want to pat his head and then give him a treat. I should bring some in. I wonder what the Kristoff equivalent of a Milk Bone is. Although it occurs to me it’s missing something.

“Sir,” I say.

Those weird pale silver eyes of his look confused. “What?”

“You forgot to say Sir.”

Kristoff’s eyes bug out with outrage then narrow. “No, I didn’t.”

I make a buzzer noise. “Wrong Answer. Care to try again?”

“Calling you Sir is at no point addressed within the corporate code of conduct handbook,” he says stiffly.

We’ll just see about that. But I can put a pin in it for another day. “Mr. Verona will do,” I allow.

Kristoff clenches his jaw then asks, “Is there something you needed from me, Mr. Verona?”

I smile at Kristoff smugly. “There, that wasn’t so hard, was it, Kit?”

“My name is Kristoff,” he grates out. “It is not, nor has it ever ben, Kit.”

“You can help me, Kit, by getting me coffee.”

He stares at me. “There’s an espresso machine right behind you.”

“I know. I want coffee from Intelligentsia.”

“Of course you do,” Kristoff mutters.

“I’m sure you’re familiar with it.” I open my wallet and take out a ticket. “While you’re at it, pick up my dry-cleaning. The name of the shop is on the ticket. I expect you back within thirty minutes. Any time you waste past a half hour will have to be made up at the end of the evening. I hope you understand me.”

Kristoff’s mouth opens then snaps shut. His eyes convey his irritation adequately, though. “What is your order for Intelligentsia?”

I smile at him and mentally crack my knuckles. “A double flat white made with one-third almond milk and two-thirds coconut milk, extra hot.”

He gives me a look that would melt concrete then turns on his heel and leaves my office.

To that sexy back I call out, “The clock is ticking, Kit. Better get a move on.”

Kristoff doesn’t turn around or say anything, but I can hear him growl and note that he does, in fact, start to walk more quickly.

5

Kristoff Is Summoned

I’m going to need lots of therapy or a prescription for Valium before we get to my birthday. Probably both, plus some sort of crippling addiction, like alcoholism or gambling or sex.

That last one is wishful thinking. I couldn’t tell you how long it’s been since I came in the company of another human being, although I can say for sure that the protection involved condoms and prep, not a face mask. I went without sex, except solo, during that entire viral shit show, and now I’m out of practice going out and hooking up. Not that I was ever good at it in my prime.

Not that I ever had a prime.

I’m only in my thirties but I feel a decade older. I’m a prematurely grumpy old man wanting pesky kids to get off my lawn.

Not that I have a lawn. I have a condo at the top of a residential skyscraper and a very obliging landlord: my grandmother. When Grandfather died, he left her an extremely wealthy widow along with her large, if not controlling, chunk of Minola stock, several residences and other real estate holdings world-wide, a yacht, a private jet, and her own tiny island in the Maldives.

I live rent-free in my condo as a condition of Grandfather’s will, not that she would’ve charged me anyway. She’s currently the only human being on this planet that I love without reservation. Nonna is all I have left.

I’m told I have attachment and trust issues. No shit, Sherlock. My mother left when I was little and my father packed me up, sent me to a distant boarding school, and largely forgot about my existence. When he did remember me, the result was generally to be sent to another, even more distant, boarding school.

I will admit that I got a world-class education, despite my father shooting me around the globe like a pinball. What I never got the knack of, however, was making friends. I find it hard to be close to people because I’m afraid they’ll leave me or be taken away. It’s not exactly rocket science to figure that out. Add to that a naturally introverted disposition and you get a man who finds most human interaction to be far more trouble than it’s worth.

I will let you down without even realizing it. I’ll forget your birthday, or that we had plans. I’ll never be able to read your body language and know that when you say you want to be left alone, what you really need is a hug. Even if I figure out that you need hugging, I’m not good at it. My touch is never the right amount of pressure—either too soft or too hard. My muscles never learned the knack.

I took to social distancing, however, like a duck to water. Enforced personal quarantine wasn’t the punishment for me that it apparently was to others. I’m uncomfortable at parties and find small talk to be tedious. Hell, people are tedious. I liked working from home and could go weeks without interacting with a single soul except through my phone or computer. Without unwanted distractions, I got so much more work done than I ever had before. Instead of interminable business lunches, I was able to negotiate over the phone or Zoom. I no longer had to fly to have in-person meetings in Asia or Europe. I didn’t miss the unfamiliar hotels, airport lounges, or intrusive drivers.

The only things I missed during lockdown were sex and my grandmother, two things that should never be together in the same sentence. I haven’t dated anyone since the quarantine was lifted, but I’ve got Grindr, so who needs dating? Grindr is efficient. My profile shows strategic shots of my body and is upfront about what I require. I never have a hard time finding someone to get me off, and when we’re done, I can shuffle him out my door and out of my life. Single-serving sex is perfect for me. The only thing more perfect would be a sex robot. When I didn’t require its services, it could be kept in a closet. Perfection.

I am doomed to die alone, eaten by my cats. Although I’ve read that dogs are more likely to eat you than cats are, so maybe they’ll just use my rotting corpse as something to scratch and take naps on.

I like cats. They’re unashamedly themselves at all times—tiny predators who deign to live with us. They either like people or don’t—there’s no forcing a connection with a cat. I provide them with food, warm places to sleep, high places to perch, and immaculately maintained litterboxes. In exchange they sometimes will sit on my lap and purr when they feel like it. Put down in words it sounds like a dysfunctional and potentially abusive relationship, but it’s one that suits me.

When I get off my private elevator, they are there to greet me, acting like they haven’t been fed in decades, even though I know my housekeeper fed them at noon, as she always does. They, however, are insistent that they’re starving and if they could figure out how to use a phone, would put in a complaint with the Humane Society and potentially PETA, then order sushi from Door Dash.

I toe off my shoes and hang my coat in the front closet, all while listening to loud complaints.

“I’m coming, I’m coming,” I mutter to my pitiless overlords. “Keep your fuzzy pants on.”

I start toward the kitchen and two sets of claws scrabble on the hardwood floor as they race to their food dishes. Falstaff’s days of running, however, are long behind him. He rubs himself along my ankles, threatening to trip me, until I pick his enormous self up and lug his majesty to his food bowl.

Polonius and Laertes meanwhile sit beside their bowls and sing me the song of their people. It’s a borderline hostile song, full of recriminations and threats. I take their prepared food from the fridge, warm it just enough to bring it to room temperature, then dish it out. There is a bit of squabbling between Polonius and Laertes, but all it takes is some gentle nudging and they remember that each one has his own bowl newly filled with food.

With my overlords fed, I look for my own dinner. I never learned to cook and don’t care to remedy that, so my refrigerator contains seasonal fruit, crudités, milk, butter, and two stacks of premade meals—one for breakfast and one for dinner—that are replenished on a weekly basis. I grab whatever’s on the top of the pile and stick it in my convection oven to heat. Then I pour a glass of the pinot gris that’s been chilling in the fridge and allow myself to sit down at my kitchen island.

This is my first time since I entered the Minola building this morning, that I’ve allowed myself to relax. If I’m not careful, I might become unconscious sitting here waiting for my food to be done. I’m more exhausted than I’d been while studying for finals in college.

I’ve been demoted, ignominiously, to a mere assistant. My salary is unchanged but everything else is. I’ve had assistants but never been one, and the past few weeks have been an exercise in frustration. My stepdemon is going out of his way to make my job difficult. I get that, but he’s more than a demanding boss—he’s nonsensical and unpredictable.

I shudder every time I think of Father and my stepdemon being in charge of Minola. The company will crash and burn in less than a year. As it is, I’m going to have to work overtime to keep the company afloat while also meeting the stepdemon’s unreasonable and capricious demands. I take a large swallow of my wine and barely taste it as it goes down.

A timer dings so I rise, fetch my dinner, then sit back down. Apparently tonight is chicken piccata with grilled vegetables and faro. I cut my chicken into precise cubes, stab one to bring it to my mouth, then my phone rings, making me jump and drop my fork.

I think I’m going to have to bribe someone in IT to change the ringer on my office phone before it drives me entirely insane. It’s ear-splittingly loud and scares my cats. Even Falstaff manages a credible amount of speed on his way out to hide under my sofa. He can barely fit under there, and one of the few joys of my life is seeing him wiggle his tubby ass into the small space, but stopping the noise on my phone is currently my top priority.

My lord and master flashes up on my screen and I glare at it then swipe to cancel. I’m off work. Whatever that asshole wants, it can wait until tomorrow. I put the phone down, pick my fork off the counter from where it fell, then bring the bite of chicken to my mouth.

While I’m chewing the infernal phone screams at me again. Again I refuse the call. In response, a text pops up on the screen.

My lord and master: be a good little minion and pick up the phone

Kit: I’m off work

My lord and master: correction – you’re salary I own your ass. Not that there’s much to own

I take another gulp of wine before replying.

Kit: you do realize this is a company cellphone. Anything on it can be used against you in a court of law.

My lord and master: lolololololololol

My lord and master: you’re cute

My lord and master: get your tiny ass over here. I need your assistance

Kit: over where? Why?

My lord and master: you’d know if you answered your phone 

My lord and master: now you’ll find out when you get here

Kit: where is here?

An address flashes up on my screen and I shake my head even though the stepdemon can’t see me.

Kit: no

My lord and master: I need your ass

I can feel my eyes bug out.

Kit: absolutely not

My lord and master: your help

My lord and master: that better?

Not even a little bit.

Kit: I just sat down to eat

My lord and master: then the faster you get over here and help me, the faster you’ll eat

Kit: this better be important

Kit: and an actual emergency

My lord and master: would I send for you after hours if it wasn’t important and an emergency? Now get a move on. I expect you here in 20 min

Kit: with traffic? That’s impossible.

My lord and master: this is time sensitive. Guess you better start moving

I pull my Mercedes into the circular drive of the address my stepdemon gave me. I park the car and sit in it, looking up at the mansion with a mixture of competing emotions battling for supremacy. So far the winners are anxiety and dread.

Even at night you can see the house is Americana-perfect. It’s built in the Georgian style with rose-colored brick and a slate roof. The landscaping is perfect, and the lawn is dark and velvety smooth. The house is lit from the outside with subtle spotlights and garden lights that march up the walk to the ornate front door. The house, by contrast, doesn’t seem lit up inside at all, like no one’s home. It’s the opposite of welcoming.

Appropriate, since I was exiled from there after my mother had the gall to take off, leaving me behind.

I sometimes wonder what life would’ve been like if Mom had taken me with her. It is, of course, impossible to know. I barely remember her like I barely remember this house. The wound is decades old and shouldn’t still hurt as much as it does. My therapist says that we can grieve not just for people we’ve lost, but also for lives we never led. I feel, though, that if I started grieving for everything my life should have been but wasn’t, the enormity of it would pull me under like a rip current in Lake Michigan, and I would drown under the weight.

I don’t think I can walk into this house and survive.

My phone makes its horrible air horn notification and I jump, my heart feeling like it’s going to beat right through my ribcage.

My lord and master: get out of your damn car

I don’t type a reply, and I don’t get out of my car. I’m stuck fast, like an insect caught in tree sap. I don’t know what to do.

My obnoxious ringtone screams through my car’s stereo speakers. Without conscious thought my thumb moves and I’ve accepted my stepdemon’s call.

“Why are you still in your car?” Peter asks. “Nice wheels, by the way. It’s a good neighborhood, though. If you get out of your car no one’s going to steal it, if that’s what you’re afraid of.”

Being afraid of my car being stolen isn’t anywhere near the top of the list of things I’m currently worried about.

“Come on, Kit,” he cajoles. “I know you’re there. You answered the call, for fuck’s sake.”

I swallow and hope my desert-dry throat will allow me to be heard. “What… why do you need me? My help, I mean.” Maybe it’s something I can do without going into that house.

Now the silence over the line is coming from Peter. That’s okay. I have all night to not talk or get out of my car.

Eventually he says, “The Greenberg proposal. I need your eyes and input before the board meeting tomorrow.”

“Things you could’ve had me do while at work instead of running errands and getting you coffee,” I growl.

Peter laughs and it’s such a carefree sound I want to punch him in the throat. It’s almost enough incentive to leave my car and enter my dreaded childhood home. “Then I needed coffee. Now, I don’t.” His voice changes and becomes serious. “Dad’s not here. He flew to Palermo this afternoon.”

“Jesus Christ, why now?” I ask. Minola has a European headquarters but it’s in Switzerland. “And why not Geneva?”

“Don’t know, dude, but this has been shoved in my lap and is important now. I need your assistance, Kristoff. I need you to do your job.”

My hands tighten their grip on the steering wheel but he’s right. And even if he wasn’t, I want Minola to succeed. Torpedoing Peter right now would be cutting off my nose to spite my face. “Don’t you have Steve’s notes?”

“Steve?” he asks blankly.

“Jesus fucking Christ, Peter. Steve Bennett. Your predecessor, you idiot. Surely he left you all his notes on the proposal.”

Peter’s voice goes frosty. “Watch yourself and your tone.”

“Do you need my help or not?” I taunt back.

“What I want,” he hisses, “is your ass, in this house, fifteen minutes ago, deciphering the hieroglyphics Bennett used to take notes. Nothing is computerized. It’s not even typed and printed out. It’s all in some sort of secret code and while I don’t have Dan Brown to help me out, I do have you, Kristoff. Now get out of your car and come inside and help me. I already told you Dad isn’t here. What the hell is your damage?”

“Fuck you,” I say before I can think better of it.

“Kristoff,” Peter says, his voice still icy but silky now as well. “Are you telling me that you are unable or unwilling to perform the duties of your position?”

Fuck. “No.”

“Good. Then get—”

“But not here. Anywhere but here.” That reveals far more than I’m comfortable with, but I can’t go into that house and still function. “I will do my job, Peter, but not here.”

“Sir,” he says.

“What?”

“While in your capacity as my assistant, you will call me Sir or Mr. Verona. Take your pick.”

I bend my head down to lean it on the steering wheel. “Fine.” It’s not fine but calling him Sir or Mr. Verona won’t kill me. Not if I don’t have to say it forever. “Mr. Verona, I will do my job to the utmost of my abilities but not here.”

“It’s not your decision, as my assistant, to dictate where you think I should conduct my business. Get out of the car and get in this house or there will be consequences.”

“Fine,” I snap out, exasperated. “Fine. I will help you with Steve’s notes and advise you on the proposal. I will call you Sir or Mr. Verona. I’ll take the consequences of insubordination or whatever. All of it. Just bring whatever you have down, and we can go wherever you want. Hell, we can do this in the car. I don’t care. But I’m not entering that house. I won’t.”

Peter grunts in frustration. “Then why the hell didn’t you tell me that before coming here? You’ve wasted at least an hour on acting like a spoiled child.”

It was because I hadn’t realized until I got here how impossible going in there would be. I don’t want to say that to my stepdemon, however. Instead, I sigh. “I apologize, Mr. Verona, for wasting your valuable time. I understand there will be consequences and I accept them. But you can come down here and get in my car or you can watch me drive away and we’ll deal with all of this tomorrow in the office.” He would be within his rights to write me up, but not fire me. He’d need more of a history of disciplinary actions for that. Now I’m the one with the upper hand and we both know it.

Peter hesitates then concedes. “If that’s the way this is going to be, then fine. But it’s on you that you’re letting a little bit of childhood butt hurt to interfere with your job. I can’t say I’m happy with your performance so far.”

Instead of telling him how and where to go fuck himself, I disconnect the call and wait. He must have been right by the front door because seconds later he emerges with a thick file folder in his hand.

After sitting down in the passenger seat of my car, he buckles his belt then says, “Take me to your place. We can do this there.”

I don’t want Peter in my home but that’s a fight I don’t have energy for. And if I’m lucky, he’ll be deathly allergic to cats.

6

Peter Is Nosy

“Ihope you’re not allergic to cats,” Kristoff says, voice completely insincere, as he unlocks the door to his home. “They have run of the condo. There’s cat dander in every single nook and cranny.”

I’m not allergic to cats and I can smell immediately that Kristoff’s home is immaculately clean. There isn’t even the tiniest whiff of cat. “They?” I can’t help but ask. “How many do you have? Are you secretly a crazy cat lady?” I detect zero evidence of cats, but the condo Kristoff ushers me into is pitch dark. The only light comes through the windows in the form of twinkling city lights seen from far above. Beyond the lights is the huge black void that is Lake Michigan at night. I haven’t gotten a good look at it and I’m already jealous of his view.

“I have three cats,” Kristoff says flatly, then, “Lights.”

The lights around us blaze, making me blink. When I’m accustomed to the brightness, I see his place is cavernous. You could take my enormous office at Minola and dump eight of them in here and still have room left over, and that’s just what I can see. There’s a huge, sterile-looking kitchen, a massive dining table with a dozen chairs, and a seating area facing the view of both the city and the lake. One wall is covered in bookcases so high it has one of those rolling ladder things to reach the upper shelves.

Like Kristoff’s Mercedes, this place is both understated and ostentatious as fuck. There’s no obvious bling or anything at all showy, unless you count that library ladder, but the entire space reeks of effortless wealth.

The conspicuous waste of it sets my teeth on edge. He’s one human, with three theoretical cats, living in what amounts to a high-rise mansion. He doesn’t need half of all this expensive square footage. He doesn’t even need an eighth of it. Meanwhile his father can’t afford the cancer medication my mother needs. It makes me want to smash things.

I turn and thrust the folder full of Beckett’s notes at Kristoff, hitting him in the midsection and forcing a soft “oof” from him. “Start translating this for me.” Then, because I’m nosy, I make a beeline for the wall of bookshelves.

“Just make yourself at home,” Kristoff says dryly, then goes to sit on a high stool at the kitchen bar. He opens the folder and starts sorting through the papers inside.

Leaving him to it, I traverse the wide expanse of his home like a hobbit on a mission to find the One True Ring until I’ve reached the nearest bookcase. I was expecting the painful tidiness of the condo, so I’m unprepared for Kristoff’s bookshelves. The only order I can see is that there is no order at all. It would probably give Marie Kondo a heart attack. Battered and threadbare books are shelved carelessly next to ones that look pristinely new. There’s A Tale of Two Cities next to On the Origin of Species, which almost makes sense in that they were published at the same time, but next to them is a tattered copy of Dirk Gently’s Holistic Detective Agency. I think maybe the connection is that they’re all written by English authors but the next book is Running With Scissors so I give up figuring out the mysteries of Kristoff Minola’s book collection. Mysteries aren’t my forte, anyway, which is why I’m here in the first place.

For lack of anything better to do I move on to the next bookcase, but I feel the ankle of my slacks snag on something. I look down and see an orange paw hooked into the fabric, so I stop and stoop down to see the first shred of evidence that there are cats in this condo.

This cat is barely contained on the second shelf from the bottom. He’s absolutely massive, and at first I wonder if this is two cats, or if the cat is female and pregnant with a dozen kittens. Tentatively I pet the cat’s soft orange fur, eliciting a loud asthmatic purr.

“That’s Falstaff,” Kristoff says absently. “He sheds, drools, and might throw up on you.”

I turn to look at Kristoff, but he’s still got his head bent to his task. “Charming,” I say.

Kristoff grunts but doesn’t otherwise reply so after extricating myself from a pawful of claws, I move on. For every book I recognize, there are two or three here I don’t. Fiction, non-fiction, historical, scientific, and every kind of genre fiction I’ve ever heard of and a few that I haven’t. Space opera and steampunk novels are next to mysteries featuring bakers and, inexplicably, corgis. There are several fantasy novels involving cats, although I suppose those make sense to a cat daddy, but just as many books with dragons and unicorns. There are even romances in here, which are probably the oddest find of all. I can understand Jane Eyre. That’s literature. But right next to it are several vintage bodice rippers, complete with shirtless heroes and heroines almost wearing gowns on the covers, and most unexpected of all, Amish romance.

I pivot to look back at Kristoff. He’s now flanked by two Siamese cats, each one sitting on a stool next to him. Their blue eyes watch intently as he flips over pages and writes down what each one means.

“Why Amish romance?” I ask.

Kristoff looks up, one inky eyebrow raised in aristocratic hauteur. “Why Amish romance in what way?”

“No. Just why Amish romance? Why does it exist and why do you own it?”

“The books exist because there is a market for them. Did you pay attention in any of your classes or did my father just buy your degree?”

“That’s rich, coming from you,” I snipe back.

“Excuse me?” Kristoff sets his pen aside. “You’re the one who can’t read shorthand and didn’t think to do any kind of exit interview with Steve. Meanwhile it’s fortunate for you that I do read shorthand. Because I hoped to take over his position, I became knowledgeable with Steve’s day-to-day tasks as well as any projects that were coming up on the horizon. I graduated magna cum laude with my bachelor’s from Yale and summa cum laude with my MBA from Harvard. I earned my education. I’m beginning to wonder if you can say the same.”

His words make me angry enough to throw one of his precious books across the room, but I breathe through it. I was accepted at both Harvard and Yale, as well as Princeton, but where I went for undergrad was the University of Michigan and then I did my MBA at Northwestern. The schools I went to are top rated for business, but they’re not Ivy League, and both were considerably cheaper than a Yale/Harvard double whammy. No expense was ever spared for the son who couldn’t be bothered with his family. The red-haired stepchild got the scraps. Which is fair, I suppose. I’m not blood. But I have done everything to be the perfect son. I’ve swallowed my true thoughts, I’ve pretended to be straight, hell, I’ve jumped through every single hoop like a trained dog. Nevertheless, I’m never good enough. I will always be lesser to people like Kristoff. There is nothing I could ever do to prove that I’m worthy.

It makes me that much more determined to win this little game we’re playing. I’m the one who deserves to be Baldwin Minola’s heir. Kristoff lives in this giant, beautiful home and inherited half of his grandfather’s money. He doesn’t need to work a day in his life. I need this job way more than he does. I don’t have a trust fund to prop me up my entire life. All I have is my education and a shit ton of determination. I will win.

I have to.

When Kristoff hands me the translated notes I read through them, wondering if he’s setting me up, but what he’s got here makes sense, based on what I already know independently. I nod and thank Kristoff absently.

He gives me a very strange look in return. “Um. You’re welcome?”

It occurs to me that I’ve been polite and courteous, which is my default setting. I’m supposed to be antagonistic twenty-four/seven, but it’s late and I don’t have the energy right now. Still, I’m not supposed to be nice to this asshole, even if he’s not at all what I expected him to be. He’s haughty and arrogant and obviously a snob, yes, but he has the most interesting library I’ve ever seen, and he owns a fat, drooling, and vomit-prone cat. There is more to him than what he shows on the surface, which is all prickly asshole.

“Be in my office tomorrow at six,” I say, knowing that won’t allow much sleep for either one of us. I look at the couches in his library and want, more than nearly anything else in the world, to curl up on one and go to sleep.

Kristoff’s expression changes but is still off in a way I can’t quite put my finger on. “Is that when I have to face your consequences?” he asks.

That throws me for a second, which shows how tired I am. “Uh, right. Yeah.” I have no idea what kind of punishment to mete out. This kind of situation was not covered in any of my business classes.

Kristoff smiles sardonically. “You have no idea what you’re doing, do you?”

“I know exactly what I’m doing,” I snap back at him. This is, however, debatable.

He nods sarcastically, which up until now I didn’t know was possible. “Do you, though?”

I glare at Kristoff, my drowsiness temporarily pushed away by my anger resurfacing. “Just be in my office at six,” I say stiffly. “Don’t be a minute late.”

He raises an eyebrow at me again. “Or what?”

Why is he pushing me? It’s like he’s throwing down a gauntlet. Mental note, Kristoff does not lose his edge when tired. If anything, he’s edgier.

“Guess you’ll have to find out,” I say in as carefree a voice as I can manage. I tuck Beckett’s notes under my arm then stroke each cat behind its ears. I’m amused to find this is what finally ruffles Kristoff. He looks sulky as fuck that his cats like getting scritched by me. “Jealous I didn’t rub you behind the ears too?” I ask him sweetly.

Kristoff grits his teeth then says, “I’ll see you in the morning, Peter.”

“I believe we already established that it’s Mr. Verona or Sir.”

He shoots me an undecipherable look. “Put it on my tab,” he says. Then he stands, clucks his tongue, and says, “Time for bed, boys.” The two Siamese on the stools jump lightly down onto the floor and the fat, orange library cat oozes off his self like a fur sack containing no bones whatsoever. Kristoff turns his back on me and strolls away into his home. I, clearly, have been dismissed.

Shaking my head, I let myself out of his condo and order a taxi to take me home. The entire night was very strange and I’m not sure exactly what to make of Kristoff. There’s a push and pull to him I don’t understand. At least not yet.

It Isn’t until much later that it occurs to me. Kristoff never explained the reason why he had Amish romance in his book collection. Kristoff is a puzzle, but I’m going to take him apart, piece by piece.

7

Kristoff Contemplates Chaucer

Ican’t sleep, but this isn’t unusual for me. I’ve never been a good sleeper. I think it’s all the moving around I did, and the lack of a permanent home. This condo is the closest thing to a permanent home that I’ve ever had. I should feel comfortable and safe here. I should be able to sleep, but insomnia is too ingrained in me, I suppose. My body never learned to sleep and doesn’t feel the need to learn now at this late date. I’m often unable to turn off my thoughts and tonight the show du jour is all about my stepdemon.

Over the past few weeks of working with Peter, I often find myself forgetting how young he is. He hides it very well under a shell of self-confidence and bravado. It reminds me of the shell I crafted around myself for protection at every school I was ever sent to. The shell proclaimed to everyone that I didn’t care what anyone thought because I was above it all. I shunned any overtures of friendship well before I could be disappointed that none existed. I rejected well in advance of being rejected myself, and inside my shell it was safe, if lonely.

Peter is a little like that, I think, although I could be wrong. He could be the same as every bully who ever tried to make my life miserable. There were glimpses of him tonight, though, that paint me a different picture—one of a man well out of his depth and absolutely determined no one finds out.

I wonder if my father did this to him. It’s a stupid question. It’s clear my father is at least partially, if not fully, responsible. He raised Peter like he didn’t raise me, and I think it’s clear that with or without his absence, he’s a shitty parent. Peter and I have that in common, at the very least.

It occurs to me It's bordering on cruel to have thrust Peter into the COO position. He’s far too young for it and every single person at the company knows it. They’re afraid of my father, so they’re afraid of Peter by proxy, but I don’t think any of the employees truly respect him.

Granted, I’m not convinced they respect me, either, but at least I started at Minola as an intern and worked my way up. Everyone knows where I was bound to end up, but I didn’t cut corners to get there. I’m not riding on my grandfather’s or my father’s coattails.

I wonder how Peter will do tomorrow in the meeting. Theoretically it would be good for me if he crashed and burned, but I’m trying to take a more long-term view. All I have to do is outwait my father and Peter while at the same time keeping the company running like it should. It’s a huge task, but it’s also, in a way, what my grandfather raised me to do. He taught me that the company’s success is always the number one goal of a CEO, and that means more than just making stock price projections. The entire company needs to be functional and healthy. It needs space to breathe and workers who want to do their jobs well. There are a lot of moving pieces that you need to keep moving and not colliding into each other.

One of those pieces is now Peter in the COO position and another piece is me demoted to his assistant. It’s meant to humiliate me and put me at a disadvantage, and so far that’s exactly what my demotion and the stepdemon’s promotion has caused. I’m sure my father intends on keeping me banging my head against a figurative wall until I give up and cede the business to him. I will give up Minola over my dead body, though, so I either need to get better at banging my head or pivot and do something else. Something that gives me an edge.

A million ideas filter through my head, some of them completely ridiculous, just to amuse me, like breaking into the Shedd aquarium at night and kidnapping all the penguins then training them to be my minions. I’d have them wear little black bowties, like debonair avian secret agents, and have them infiltrate the Minola building to do… I have no idea. But it’s still a fun thought.

While running through various scenarios in my head, even ones including kidnapped and radicalized penguins, an insidious idea worms its way inside my head. It’s a crazy Idea. One that very well might blow up in my face. But if it works… my entire body flushes and I break out in goose bumps all over. It’s the same shivery feeling I get when I’m on the edge of coming.

What if, instead of fighting Peter tooth and nail, I give in?

I don’t mean admitting defeat and quitting, letting my father win. What I’m thinking of is a sort of malicious compliance mixed with taking one for the team, that team being Minola Corp. as a whole. I examine the idea from various angles, coming up with pros, cons, and potential responses to my ploy. If I choose this avenue, how will Peter respond?

I know this is a path I shouldn’t tread. There is far more risk than reward. Probably. But I’ve also seen a glint in Peter’s eyes a few times that makes me think my idea isn’t that outlandish. While I stand by what I said to Peter earlier—he has absolutely no idea what he’s doing—I don’t think he’s all that far from figuring it out. As much as I’d like to think Peter is stupid and lazy, I don’t think he’s either. If I’m going to make this work, I have a very small window of opportunity to make it happen. But I think, if I pick the right moment, I can regain the upper hand without Peter realizing what’s happened.

If I can nudge Peter in the proper direction. If Peter is the type of man I think he is, or might become. If I’m lucky. If a million things manage to go my way. If Father doesn’t figure out what I’m up to

There are a lot of ifs to worry about, I know, but the reward is so very tempting. I can potentially put Father into a checkmate while at the same time getting something I’ve wanted for an exceedingly long time. Something far more elusive than winning Minola Corp. Something equally dangerous and alluring.

Submission.

It’s not what most people think. Or, rather, when done correctly it’s not what most people think. A common association with submission is abuse, and while the idea isn’t completely wrong, it’s far from being completely right.

Willing submission is all about having power. Far more power than any Dom ever could. Granted, this is all theoretical. I have no first-hand experience. I wouldn’t have the slightest idea how to find a Dom, let alone one that I could trust. That’s just not me. But maybe, if I’m both lucky and smart, I can create one.

I shouldn’t be even considering molding my stepbrother into my own personal kink toy. It’s wrong. And immoral. And it would also be extremely satisfying to thwart my father while indulging in my secret desires. That wrongness curves around and becomes right, much in the same way submission wraps around and becomes power.

I don’t know why I’m like this. Therapy, so far, hasn’t given me a ton of insight, other than this theory: I’ve always felt powerless and the idea of being in control of my powerlessness flips my dick to the ON position. It’s possible, I suppose, but personally, I think the person really to blame is Chaucer. That, and Dr. Oswald for assigning an already sexually confused teenager several of The Canterbury Tales in a literature class. They were all very eye opening, but especially, and probably not at all in the way Dr. Oswald intended, The Clerk’s Tale.

“I could be the stepdemon’s Griselda,” I murmur out loud, much to the annoyance of either Laertes or Polonius. In the dark, I can’t tell which is which, but one of them lets out an annoyed mew then bats my mouth to shut it up.

Message received, my little tyrants, I think, slipping into a familiar fantasy. I’ll be quiet.

In my mind I wander down a well-worn path, putting myself into the story and embellishing as I go. When I get hard, as I always do at some point during the fantasy, I don’t do anything to ease the ache. That, after all, is the entire point.

The Clerk’s Tale isn’t one of the more famous of Chaucer’s stories, like The Miller’s Tale or The Wife of Bath, but it is one of the more contentious. At face value it’s the story of a poor but pious and devoted woman, Griselda, the daughter of a serf, who marries a nobleman. She promises absolute loyalty and devotion, and she delivers it—hard. Her husband, wanting to test her seemingly endless virtue, puts her through some insane trials to see if she’ll turn against him. She does not, even after he pretends to kill their infant children then takes another wife, whom Griselda will now serve. Our heroine sucks up all the abuse and keeps on smiling. And when her noble husband starts to see that his people revere her more for her piety than him for his nobility, he’s like “Just kidding, folks,” and shows that he never killed their kids or divorced her in order to marry someone younger. Everyone lives happily ever after, blah blah.

The obvious take from this little parable is that it’s demonstrating how women should behave, but if you dig down, you’ll see what really happened in the story. Griselda won and gained power over her noble husband, and she did it through malicious compliance. And if, like me as an over-horny and under-sexed teenager, you dig down even further, you get what for me was my very first glimpse of how hot that kind of submission could be. It made me feel achy and shivery and needy for something I didn’t have a name for.

The school I was attending at the time had completely archaic rules involving cell phones and the Internet. Internet use was strictly monitored and firewalled to hell and back. Cell phones were forbidden under all circumstances. But while kids who were connected managed to get their hands onto unmonitored Internet via contraband burner smartphones, I was not so lucky or popular. I found a work-around, however: books. That school, bless them, didn’t give a crap about what kind of books we ordered from Amazon. Reading, after all, was encouraged. Especially the kind that involved a physical product.

That’s how I first found The Story of O, and it was a slippery slope from there. I learned porn was readily available to me as long as it was contained within the written word, and I read everything from absolute filth to scholarly books written by doctors. I learned about the Kinsey scale and a mind-blowing array of kinks and BDSM. I discovered I was definitely gay, probably a bottom, and very much on the subby side of things. I learned about safe words and contracts and consent. Most importantly, I learned I wasn’t alone or some sort of deviant freak. I was bent, but that was okay. Most people are bent in one way or another. As long as you kept things safe, sane, and consensual, then everything would be okay.

And always, in the background of my thoughts, was Griselda. Biding her time and taking what was dished out to her and still coming out as the winner. Without once meeting a Dom, I learned that there is great power in submission.

Theoretically, of course. It was all theoretical. It still is. I was born and raised to be the nobleman in the story, to give orders and be obeyed. I was never, ever supposed to be Griselda.

Until now, if I can play my cards right and nudge my stepdemon in just the right way. It can be my secret; a bit of harmless role play on my end to make the time go by. Peter doesn’t need to know how much I get off on him punishing me. He never has to know that I’m actually the one in charge. I’ll be aware and that’s the only thing that matters.

The only pang I feel is knowing it can’t last forever and it could never, ever, be real.

8

Peter Is Confused

Kristoff is confusing the hell out of me, and I don’t like it.

One minute he’s blatantly disobeying my orders and the next he’s being an indispensable employee. I’ll be pissed off because he’s brought me a latte flavored with hazelnut instead of mocha and just when I’m about to tear into him he puts a report on my desk that I didn’t ask for, but I’ll find in less than a half-hour that I need desperately. It’s infuriating.

He knows I’m not up to this job without his help and he’s still helping me. He could’ve let me crash and burn any number of times but he’s always there along with anything I need to solve whatever problem is in front of me. Then for lunch he’ll bring me a turkey and Havarti sandwich when I specifically asked for roast beef and aged cheddar.

I honestly don’t know what to make of it. I’ve considered talking about it with my stepfather, but I’ve held back for a few reasons. He’s still in Italy, several time zones distant. When I call it feels like every single time I’m interrupting something more important than me. Beyond that, though, of all the people on earth, Baldwin Minola probably knows the least about his son and is bound to be the least help in solving my little Kit dilemma.

“He’s been late to work every day this week,” I bitch to Veronica. Today had been full of tiny infractions that were annoying, but not severe enough to be considered against the code of conduct. At the same time Kristoff solved a problem we were having with one of our suppliers and he shoved all the credit for it in my direction. He’s up to something—I’m sure of it. I just don’t know what.

Veronica shrugs. “Then write him up. Isn’t that what you’ve been wanting to do from day one?”

Yes, obviously, but… “It’s always only 4 minutes or less. And he stays for far longer than he’s scheduled. Even with HR in my pocket, I have no justification for writing him up. He’s always at work within five minutes of his start time and he’s been consistently working ten-hour days.”

“Then enjoy your extremely overqualified assistant. You know, even if he’s not showing it, being at your beck and call has to be killing him.” Veronica takes a bite of her strawberry mille-feuille and makes a yummy sound.

It reminds me of how earlier today Kristoff had brought me coffee—my incorrectly made coffee—then sat down to drink his own. He made that same yummy noise and for some reason it had gone right to my cock. Hard. I wanted to make Kristoff make that noise, but because for me, and I have no explanation for the why of it. Other than, of course, how very pretty he is and that my cock has no discrimination when it comes to skull fucking a pretty mouth.

I’m here to humiliate then throw Kristoff out on his ear. I want him on his knees before me, but not just figuratively. I want to stick my cock in his mouth and have him make that yummy sound before I force it down his throat until he chokes on It. I want him gagging on me and my cum. I want to see it spill out of his mouth because he can’t swallow it fast enough. I want him to lick up every drop that falls on the marble floor then beg me for more.

I want a lot of stupid shit. If Baldwin had any idea I wanted to skull fuck his son, his response wouldn’t be pretty, and the consequences would be… bad. Really bad.

“Earth to Peter,” Veronica says. “Come in, Peter.”

“What?”

“You were a million miles away. I stole two of your madeleines and you didn’t notice. How is your mother doing?”

I’m grateful for the change of subject. “The same. She’s got her good days and bad ones. How about you? How goes the grad school application process?”

Veronica wrinkles her nose at me. “The same. My parents are being a pain. They want me to get married and have babies, like humans are going extinct or something. They keep asking when you’ll pop the question.”

“Tell them that I’m holding out for a wife that’s got a post-graduate degree. That might shut them up for a year or two.”

She snorts and somehow makes the sound delicate and pretty. “I wouldn’t hold your breath, but sure, why not? I’ll give it a whirl.”

Afterward I go home, realizing I’ve settled nothing inside my own head. I still don’t know what to do about Kristoff.

“Try harder,” Baldwin says implacably when I attempt to explain to him why I’ve made no progress with his son.

Baldwin is home, but apparently it’s only temporary. He still has more “business” to conduct there, but he won’t share with me what that means. I’m beginning to think it might be something illegal.

“I’m sure he’s trying his hardest, aren’t you dear?” my mother says, giving me a brilliant, if brittle, smile. She’s pretending to eat but is just pushing food around her plate.

Baldwin snorts, the sound neither delicate nor pretty. “I expect results, boy.”

“Yes, Dad,” I say dutifully.

“Kristoff is sly and ungrateful, just like his mother. He’s been planning on taking the company from me for most of his life. We can’t let him win.”

“No, Dad.”

I try to eat my meal, which is probably delicious, but it’s like sawdust in my mouth. All I can see is my mother wasting away a little more each day.

“We’re running out of time,” Baldwin says.

I shoot him a surprised look. “Kristoff’s birthday isn’t for months.”

“There’s no reason to let this drag out for months, Peter. I’d hate to think you’re going soft on me.”

The dining room has a painting in it of a ship on a tossing sea. My stomach feels like I’m on that ship. I Googled the painting, doing a reverse image search. Turns out it was painted by Simon de Vlieger and is worth somewhere between three to five million dollars, easily, if sent to auction. I can’t help but calculate how many doses of that new cancer medication its sale would buy for my mother.

“No, Dad.” The last thing I feel is soft. I’m all jagged edges looking for something to destroy. But while that thing should be Kristoff, right now all I can think is how Baldwin told my mother, and I there would be no money to spare until the company was ours.

Or in actuality, his.

Everything is always his. The company, this house, the cars we drive, the clothes we wear, hell, even that damn painting of a ship hanging on the wall. It all comes from Baldwin and no, it’s not something I am ever able to forget. He would never let either one of us forget that we owe everything to him and that we would have all the money we needed if only Kristoff wasn’t in the way.

I look up and stare holes into that damned painting. It belongs in a museum, not this dining room. It’s not the only original artwork in the house, either. There’s a Degas and a Singer-Sargent and one by Dali that’s a bunch a dicks when you look at it closely. There’s even a mosaic by Matisse in the sunroom, seen mostly by my mom when she has to dust it.

How much money would they bring in if we auctioned them off? Baldwin’s new Cadillac Escalade would have paid for five or six months of medication easily. All I can see around me is this house full of precious things that have no purpose while my mom slips away from me a little more each day.

Abruptly I stand up from the table. “Forgive me,” I say stiffly, not forgetting my manners even in a fit of what Baldwin would call a childish rage. “I’m not very hungry and I have a ton of paperwork to catch up on.”

Baldwin gives me a narrow look but doesn’t say anything. I lean over to kiss my mother’s thin cheek. “Love you,” I say softly.

She reaches over squeezes my hand. “Don’t work too hard. You’ll make yourself sick.” Like she’s not dying in front of my eyes.

“Don’t let me or your mother down,” Baldwin says.

I want to throw up or smash something but instead I give my stepfather a nod and polite smile. “I’ll do everything in my power not to disappoint you.” Because if I do disappoint him, my mother will never get the medicine she needs. It goes unsaid but all three of us know that’s what he’s really saying.

My only choice is to follow this through and get Kristoff fired. It’s my one and only option.

I drive aimlessly, wishing I could outrun my problems and knowing I can’t. I make aimless turns and take random streets, but I’m inexorably drawn south, into Chicago. Maybe to find a bar and some whiskey then a warm body—or two—to fuck, but where I find myself stopping is outside the entrance to a skyscraper.

The valet comes to my side of the car and pulls the door open then hands me a ticket. “Any of the residents can validate it for you,” he says smoothly. He has an accent but it’s soft and distant, only noticeable to someone who was put through years of speech therapy. Someone like me.

I mutter a thank you at him and walk around the car to the entrance of the building. A doorman ushers me inside and tells me to speak with the building’s concierge.

She’s exactly my type, with long inky hair, blue eyes, and a mysterious smile. “Can I help you?” she asks in a beautiful contralto.

I’m suddenly sure this is a terrible idea and I’m not sure which would be worse—finding Kristoff here or learning that he’s out. Perhaps he’s with friends, or on a date, or at one of the many gay clubs in the city. He could be anywhere. Eating dinner in New York, for all I know.

The concierge suddenly smiles at me. “You must be Peter Verona. Mr. Minola informed us that you were to be taken to his residence when you arrived.”

I feel like I’ve been sucker punched. “What?”

She frowns prettily. Veronica would be impressed—and possibly in love. “Are you not here to see Kristoff Minola?”

I blink at her. No, I’m not. But yet, here I am. And he knew, somehow, I was coming. I feel drunk without having tasted a drop. “I… yes,” I finally say, because I have no other response.

The concierge goes back to smiling at me. “Wonderful. You can use the elevator at the end. I’ll let him know you’re on your way up.”

I regain enough composure to shake my head. “No, don’t do that. I’d like to surprise him.” I wink at the concierge and give her a roguish grin.

She smiles wider and shows dimples. “Of course, Mr. Verona. And I hope you have a lovely evening.”

I walk to the elevator and force myself not to look back at her. Just what did Kristoff tell that woman, and more importantly, why? The elevator doors open as I approach and it starts moving up once the doors are closed. I don’t have to worry about what button to push because this elevator contains no buttons. I swallow my nerves and dig up every shred of gravitas I have or can quickly manufacture. In just a few moments, I’m going to have answers to my questions.

Or else.

9

Kristoff Pushes His Luck

I’m reading Vinegar Girl by Anne Tyler for the umpteenth time when several loud thumps shatter the silence of my living room. Polonius and Laertes scatter to hide but Falstaff gives zero fucks and remains draped over my feet like the world’s fuzziest hot water bottle.

Either I know this thumping person or everyone at the front desk is dead and I’m living in The Purge. There are only a few people I allow into my apartment and none that I can think of would be here this late, unannounced. One of my neighbors wearing a mask and toting a mace made from barbed wire and a broken chair leg would be more likely.

The pounding switches to someone kicking their foot against the door. “Open up this fucking door, you fucking asshole!”

It’s Peter. Peter is here. Without calling on that hateful work phone and scaring me and the cats half to death. Why is he here? What does he want?

A frisson of fear mixed with hopeful excitement runs through me. I am a fish out of water, gasping for air and my heart beating its way out of my chest. “I’m coming,” I say, but not loud enough because my mouth is so dry.

“If you don’t answer this door, Kristoff, I swear to god I’m kicking it in!” Peter sounds enraged, like he’s spoiling for a fight.

After trying—and presumably failing—to provoke Peter for days, I’m just desperate and masochistic enough that my cock is already growing hard in my sleep pants at the thought of all that fury concentrated on me. He’ll see my erection easily if I open the door and let him in. I should grab a robe to wear, or not open my door to him at all, but do I really have anything to lose here? He can’t know the erection is for him. Not for certain. I have plausible deniability. Maybe I was watching porn before he came huffing and puffing at my door. And inner debate aside, I am going to let him in. This is a forgone conclusion.

When I open my door, Peter stumbles and half-falls into my entryway. He must have been leaning on the door, or maybe he’s startled by my cock trying to puncture a hole in my pants. Either way, he rights himself quickly and glares at me. He’s wearing the same suit he had on at work, only minus the ugly tie and with a few buttons of his shirt undone. I can see the hollow of his throat, his Adam’s apple, and a fine sheen of stubble just starting to show.

“Do you need my assistance with something?” I ask mildly, as if it isn’t late at night and I’m not dressed for bed with a hard-on that could put his eye out.

Peter pushes his way into my home, knocking against me as he does. His hip catches hard on my cock, and I see stars for a few seconds. Pain and pleasure muddle together exquisitely.

“Ow,” I protest for form’s sake. “Watch it. And just make yourself at home already.”

Peter, completely ignoring me, goes right to my freezer and opens it. He pulls out my emergency bottle of Ciroc and twists the cap, then looks up at me. “Glasses?” he asks impatiently.

Too fascinated to do anything but let this play out, I point to the cupboard where I keep my glassware.

He grunts in response, gets a juice glass out, and pours out vodka until it’s three-quarters full. He then downs half of that in one gulp. I’m reluctantly impressed.

“It’s not right,” he says.

“Could you be more specific? Or are you referring to you breaking into my home and stealing my vodka? Because you’re correct. Not one part of that is right.”

Peter scowls at me. “You let me in. There was no breaking involved. And I’m not stealing your vodka. I’m drinking it. There’s a difference.”

“I didn’t offer you any.” Again, I keep my voice polite and calm because I think it’s doing a spectacular job of pissing Peter off more.

“Not my fault you’re a bad host. Offering a beverage to a guest is the polite thing to do. Didn’t you learn that in any of your fancy schools?”

Not really, but he doesn’t need to know that. “I didn’t invite you and I only let you in because I had no other choice.”

“Hmm,” he says, looking me up and down. His gaze snags for a few extra seconds at my crotch. “Were you busy?”

“Is that any of your business?”

Peter picks up his glass and moves toward me in a swagger. “Everything about you is my business.”

I raise my eyebrows at him and cross my arms over my chest. “No. I’m not really your employee, you’re by no stretch really my superior, and after my birthday you will be absolutely irrelevant. I owe you nothing.”

Peter slams down his glass, making vodka jump out and splash on my countertop. “You owe me everything,” he snarls at me. His face has gone dead white in his anger, making his freckles stand out like beacons and his copper hair glow. He looks sharp and mean and dangerous, and I am so hard it’s painful.

Why do I have to be like this? Not that it matters. I am like this, and Peter can’t possibly know how much he’s been turning me on, or that tonight he’s dialed it to eleven.

“How so?” My voice wants to shake from nerves—both good and bad—but I shut that down. My words come out far smoother than the vodka Peter is so carelessly sloshing around.

“You have everything,” Peter bites out. “Every. Single. Thing. You’ve always gotten what you wanted, and the only things left for us were the scraps you didn’t want. Don’t pretend like you haven’t been taking your whole life and giving nothing back. You are a parasite. Some idiot might not believe it but you and I know better and I’m tired of pretending there’s no elephant in the room.”

I’m honestly not sure what he’s going on about. “If anyone’s a parasite it’s you. You’re not even a Minola. You aren’t owed anything.”

Several emotions I can’t decipher flash across Peter’s face. Finally, his face hardens. “I’m your boss. You will show me respect.”

That’s so out of left field that I laugh reflexively. “Make me.”

“Maybe I should,” he growls at me, moving closer.

“Maybe you should,” I agree, not giving any ground.

Peter puts the glass down on the counter. “You shouldn’t push me. Not tonight.”

I’m itching to know why tonight is special, but I have bigger fish to fry. “I’m not afraid of you.” That’s nearly the truth.

He moves closer. “You should be.”

I can smell him. Cologne and sweat. It should be a turn off, but I want to drown in his scent. “Make me,” I say again. It’s not a dare; it’s what I need. What I crave in all the secret parts of me I never let anyone see.

Make me. Use me. Notice me.

Something in his gaze shifts and he’s finally looking at me. Not what he thinks I am, but me, in my pajamas and bare feet and full of a need I don’t completely understand.

“You should kneel before your betters.”

Close, but no cigar. I don’t move but my cock jumps and I know he sees it. I shake my head at him.

Peter reaches out a finger and touches my nipple then pinches it hard, making me involuntarily gasp. “Good boys do what they’re told,” he says, like he’s trying the idea out.

“I never claimed to be good,” I say. “But… I could be. If I’m… properly motivated.”

This is going too far. I don’t think there’s any safe way back to casual enmity.

He seems to realize the same thing. “Is that what it takes? Proper motivation? What kind of motivation do you think is proper?” He gives me a few seconds to retreat and when I don’t, he pushes on. “How do I properly motivate a man like you?” Peter’s voice is light, but his eyes are both hard and wary.

“Make me,” I say, my heart in my throat. This could be the worst decision I’ve ever made. It could ruin me completely. But for once in my life, I want to be seen for what I am and not what I’m supposed to be.

“Excuse me?” Peter says. “I didn’t quite catch that.”

“Make me,” I say louder. In my head I add, please.

“Make you do what?” Peter reaches over and pinches my other nipple, this time digging his nails in. The pain is sharp, almost electric, and I love it. It feels real. I feel real.

“Anything,” I say. It’s almost a whisper but he hears me.

Peter’s hand drops to my over-eager erection. He strokes along the length of it through my pajama pants then reaches lower to cup my balls. He's so gentle that I think I’ve made a huge mistake. I’m about to say something when his hand tightens. At first it’s nice, then uncomfortable, then painful, then absolute agony. The pain ripples through me, making my nipples peak and gooseflesh to breakout on my arms and legs. Meanwhile, I don’t think I’ve ever been thus hard in my entire life. I’m in so much trouble and for once I do not care. Not one little bit.

“Then get on your knees, Kit,” Peter says, his voice like a caress, “and suck my cock.”

10

Peter Gets Kit On His Knees

This isn’t happening. It can’t be happening. I should be anywhere at all instead of here. If Baldwin knew…

No. I’m not thinking about what Baldwin would want or think or do for once in my life. This beautiful impossible man is looking at me like he’s drowning and I’m the only flotation device around. Kristoff wants—actually, I’m not sure what he wants, or why, but he seems to need whatever it is desperately.

“Make me,” he keeps saying, like he’s daring me, but it sounds more like pleading. Experimentally I hurt him by pinching one small, brown nipple and he looks at me like I’ve given him the keys to heaven. Not that they’d let him in, but they wouldn’t let me in, either.

He goads me over and over, pushing hard at me while I try to point out all the emergency exits on this flight. Kristoff doesn’t want to escape—he’s trying to go down in flames and aims to take me with him. I should step back. I should leave. I shouldn’t have come here in the first place.

I stay, though, for so many stupid but valid reasons. The wild, desperate look in Kristoff’s pale eyes. The way he stares at me like he’s trying to memorize my every last detail. Or maybe he’s trying unsuccessfully to develop pyrokinesis so he can set me on fire. It’s heavy, whatever it is. Thick and sticky like honey, drawing me nearer instead of pushing me away.

It doesn’t help one bit that he’s too fucking pretty with those sharp cheekbones and spooky eyes and tousled dark hair. His chest is bare, broad but lean, and completely smooth, like acres of golden silk I itch to run my hands over. Standing out are his nipples, drawn hard and tight since I barged in here. When I pulled at one, trying to snap him out of his fugue state, I—

No. That’s a lie. I pinched his nipple because I had no other choice. Besides, I don’t want Kristoff to turn off and turn away. I want him…

“Make me,” he says for the millionth time and it’s the last flake of snow that falls right before an avalanche.

“Make you do what?”  I reach out and give his other nipple and even harder pinch. I’m just this side of drawing blood with my nails.

It’s nowhere near a caress—I have to be causing him pain—but you can’t tell that by looking at his face. Or his cock. Like his pretty nipples, it’s been hard and prominent since the moment I came into his home. I don’t know what he was doing before I got here, but nothing I’ve said or done has softened that monster just barely covered by smooth fabric that has to be silk.

Because of course Kristoff Minola sleeps in silk.

Just because I want to, I touch his hard cock through that silk. It feels even better than I thought it would. I move to cup Kristoff’s balls and have to lock my knees to keep from kneeling on the floor and taking them into my mouth. He must like what I’m doing, or at least not hate it, because his body responds eagerly to me. Even so, I can feel Kristoff’s need for more, so I slowly squeeze his balls until I’m not sure how he’s not screaming.

Holy fucking shit on wheels. Kristoff Minola likes pain. Scratch that, I think he loves it. He might even need it.

The same look of bliss I saw before falls over his features again and that’s it. There’s no going back. Fuck the keys to heaven—I have the key to Kristoff’s desire and I’m going to use the hell out of it. Because I can. Because I want to. Because it’s now something I need like water or air.

Kristoff—no, Kit, like this he’s only Kit—is mine to take and use and punish. The crazy part—the best part—is that he wants me to do it. All of it, and probably all kinds of kinky shit I haven’t even imagined. I’m pan and adventurous, but Kit is something else altogether.

“Anything,” Kit says, and at first I think he’s reading my mind then I realize he’s answering the question I just asked. What can I make him do?

Anything. Anything. Anything. That word ricochets through my brain tearing apart any last lingering doubts. Anything.

Absolutely anything. I can do that.

“Then get on your knees, Kit,” I say like I’m speaking to a lover, “and suck my cock.”

Miracles must be possible because he does. Gracefully, like he’s done it before. How many times, I wonder, have you knelt just like this for some other man?

I give myself a mental shake. I can’t be jealous. That’s insane.

Kit looks up at me, the need in his eyes so great it’s almost scary. His hands lift to the fly of my slacks then drop away. At first I think he’s having second thoughts, then I get it. He needs me to tell him what to do.

I undo my fly then reach inside my not-silk boxer briefs to bring out my cock. I’ve got only half a hard on because my cock has been hella confused for the past twenty minutes, but it’s catching up with that steel bar Kit’s been sporting since I got here pretty fast.

“Open your mouth.” Kit opens up and I rub the leaking head of my cock over his tongue. “Such a good boy. You deserve a present, so let me in.”

I thrust forward and hold his head in place until he begins to struggle then I let him pull back. He does, but not all the way. My cock is still inside the wet heat of his mouth and that, right there, is heaven. Before I can thrust inside him again, Kit grabs the backs of my thighs and pulls me closer so I slip down his throat again. Then he swallows around me and the only word for it is exquisite.

It’s the kind of pleasure you could die from and not care.

“God, this is good, so good, you suck cock so fucking good,” I babble, the words just vomiting out of me.

Kit makes a noise around my cock. Unfortunately, it sounds more annoyed than aroused, and at first I don’t know what’s got him all pissed off. He hasn’t stopped sucking my cock, but his enthusiasm has taken a nosedive.

I grab his hair and tug him sharply forward. “You don’t get to stop now,” I say. “I’m getting my cock sucked even if I have to skull fuck you.”

He makes another noise, but this one is pleased and greedy, like he’s sitting down to an anticipated meal, and I think I understand what he wants. Maybe what he needs.

“Take it,” I tell Kit, shoving myself deep into his throat over and over. “I wonder if you’ll be able to talk tomorrow. Guess what? I don’t care. Not my problem. You’re just—oh fuck, fuck, just like that, like… something to stick my cock in. Jesus. A toy.”

I groan and look down. Kit’s eyes are closed, and his hand is roughly stroking his own cock. Should I punish him for doing that without permission? I have no idea, and the thought is hazy and hard to pin down. All I feel is how close I am to coming and how hot the mouth enclosing me is. My nuts ache and I know I’m about to come.

“Take it,” I order. “Every last drop. God, fuck, just like that. Jesus. Fuck.” My world explodes and narrows down to just my cock in Kit’s mouth and my cum filling him up. “You swallow all that down, hear me? Don’t waste it.” The pleasure is almost too great, but maybe it’s just because it’s been too long since I had such an eager mouth sucking me off.

When it gets to be too much I pull away from Kit and have the pleasure of seeing him swipe his hand over his mouth then lick it clean. He even swipes up some that fell onto his floor and sucks it off his finger with obscene eagerness. He’s got the cleanest kitchen floor I’ve ever seen but there’s something so dirty in the act that my spent cock starts to revive.

“Lick me clean,” I say, and Kit obeys with slow, delicate thoroughness. By the time he’s done I’m ready to go again.

Kit, in contrast, sits back, licking his lips. His cock is soft and there is a dark stain on the silk where he came. I tap the area with the tip of my shoe. “Looks like you were bad, Kit. I didn’t say you could come, did I?”

He looks up at me, his eyes dreamy and far away, and says nothing. I pinch his right nipple hard and quick to get his attention. “Did I? Don’t make me repeat myself again.”

The pain seems to focus Kit, and he shakes his head at me. “No.” The sound is low and raspy.

“No, what?”

A flush spreads upward from his chest to his face then Kit manages to speak, “No, Sir.”

No, Sir. Holy shit but that is hot. I just graduated from college, for fuck’s sake. Sir isn’t a term I’ve ever associated with myself but damn, it feels good. I could hear Kit say it all day long. I should make that a rule. Speaking of rules, I need to address the spreading stain on his sleep pants. I bet they’re a bitch to get cum stains off of.

“And what happens when boys don’t obey?” I ask Kit softly, but with as much menace as I can.

I could drown in Kit’s wide eyes and have an overwhelming urge to kiss his pink lips. I think, though, that it would be like trying to pet a feral cat. I might get purrs, or I might get bitten. The idea fills me with more excitement than I’ve felt in a long time when it comes to sex. Kit is my toy. My new shiny thing to play with and potentially break.

“They get punished,” Kit rasps.

I nod at him. “That’s right. They get punished.”

“When?” The word is barely audible.

“When I feel like it,” I tell him cheerfully. I put my cock away inside my boxer briefs then pull my pants up and fasten them. Kit is still kneeling, so I tweak his nose just to see him scowl at me. It’s adorable. “When it’s time, you’ll know. Now get up and get some sleep. We both have work tomorrow.”

Kit rises and it’s not as graceful as his descent. “Tomorrow’s Saturday.”

“I know!” I tell him. “I’ll see you at six. Don’t forget my coffee.” Then I saunter out of Kit’s kitchen, feeling like a million dollars. Screw that. A billion.

Just before I close the door I hear him say, “Asshole.”

It makes me grin wider. I have no idea what Kristoff intended when he started whatever that was tonight, but I know this won’t be a one-off. I will be fucking that tight, round ass of his, but before that, he’ll beg me to do it. On his knees.

Right where my Kit belongs.

11

Kristoff Hates His New Nickname

“Asshole,” I say to the front door as it closes. I don’t know if Peter hears me or not. What the hell kind of game is he playing? He gave me a taste of everything I’ve always wanted then noped out. I would’ve done anything he asked of me. Absolutely anything.

It occurs to me that Peter has actually done me a favor. Absolutely anything is absolutely more than I can afford. I still feel thwarted, however. My endorphins are crashing, and my throat feels like I tried to swallow a bowling ball and succeeded. I imagine what his cock could do to my ass and that feeling of want and dread fills me again. My stupid cock wants more. More it’s not going to get.

Peter’s easy waltz out of my kitchen shows how insignificant the impact I have on him is. Not while I was sucking his cock—he enjoyed that. What man doesn’t? But after, when he was spent, he was also done. Done with sex and more than done with me. He saw that I surrendered and then fucked off, leaving the spoils of war—me—behind without a second glance.

All Peter wanted from me was to win.

He’s not interested in being anything to me but a thorn in my side. Fine, if that’s the way he wants it. I don’t need Peter’s cock in my life or anywhere else. The phantom ache for completion will fade eventually. All I have to do is give it time. That thought doesn’t make my residual disappointment any easier to handle. I want what I want. The likelihood of me getting it has nothing at all to do with it. I can lie to myself all I want, but I’ve always been a terrible liar.

None of this is fine, including me.

Stiffly, I shuffle into my bathroom. The cats pick this time to come out of hiding and race to see who gets there first. There’s a tie between Polonius and Laertes for first place, Falstaff comes in a distant second, and I follow just behind his ungainly scramble, shaking my head when he loses his footing on the marble floor and knocks Polonius over just as Laertes leaps away.

My grandfather never understood my love for cats and Nonna thinks all cats are evil incarnate, but they are small bright spots of joy in my gray life. They don’t expect more from me than food and a clean litterbox. In return, they allow me to love them and in their vague feline way, they love me back.

I know you can’t go around expecting devotion from a cat, but they have done all the things cats do to supposedly show that I’m their human. They touch me with their little noses, rub their chins on me to claim me, and when I’m in the bathroom they do their shaky tail thing at me. I have been assured by my vet that means my cats love me, but I also heard her unsaid but implied, as much as they can.

For me, it’s enough.

Polonius and Laertes leap onto the bathroom counter and receive my scritches. Falstaff’s fat elderly ass can’t jump that high any longer, so he remains on the marble floor, lying on his back with all four paws in the air. I pet him with my foot, and he purrs appreciatively then bites me to show he’s done.

Ritual completed, I turn on my shower and step under the pounding hot water. It sears my skin in the best way and allows my thoughts to drift without conscious direction.

I ponder my next move. Did I get the result I wanted? Should I stay the course or pivot in another, more profitable, direction? My subconscious brain chews on that while my conscience thoughts are full of all the problems our company faces and what steps need to be taken to avoid or mitigate any negative unseen consequences.

Or at least that’s what my conscious thoughts should be thinking about, but instead all I can focus on is that I just had the best orgasm of my entire life while sucking off my stepbrother.

What is wrong with me? I’ve always known something was. My mother left and didn’t take me with her. My father can’t stand the sight of me. The closest things I have to friends are my cats. I’m not a virgin but I’m the next best thing. I crave sex but it’s never satisfying enough for the effort involved in getting it.

Until tonight, that is.

Peter made me feel… something. Low and small, yes, but also desired. Powerless, but safe. Untouched, but well-used. Most of all, Peter made me feel seen. He gave me, without me needing to spell it out in the most uncomfortable and awkward way possible, exactly what I wanted, like a blasphemous combination of Santa Claus, Jesus, and fairy godmother.

I should be ashamed of myself but I’m not. I got what I wanted, if only temporarily, and I made an impact. I think. I need to do more than just endure my time with Peter. I must win, but not at the cost of damaging Minola. I can’t afford to be reactive. I need to be as far ahead of my father and Peter as possible because I have to win. No other outcome is acceptable.

I used to play chess with my grandfather, and I learned early that winning can require you to surrender nearly every piece you have. The queen might be the most powerful piece on the board but even a pawn can checkmate the opponent’s king. I may have been demoted from queen to pawn, but that doesn’t mean I can’t win this game. Not by a longshot.

Moreover, I want to win, and I’ll stop at nothing to get everything I deserve. If that means kneeling in front of my stepbrother and letting him fuck my throat until he comes inside me, it’s a sacrifice I’m willing to make. I’ll make that sacrifice over and over if I have to. However, many times it takes.

I’m startled out of my thoughts by banging on the shower door behind me. I jump, imagining Peter will be there when I turn around. He’ll open the door, letting out a cloud of roiling steam, and push me against cool marble tile. I can feel his hard cock rubbing against my ass, his lips on my neck, and the hand that holds my cock in a tight fist. I’d let him own me but the whole time it’ll be me owning him. Pawn takes queen.

A yowl Is added to the cacophony of banging and my fantasy pops like a soap bubble. Falstaff, Polonius, and Laertes have decided I’ve been in the shower long enough. I turn off the water and the banging stops. Falstaff stares at me as if he can read my thoughts and doesn’t approve so I avoid his gaze as I step out of the shower.

I dry off, put on a clean pair of sleep pants, then follow my furry overlords to my very lonely bed where I drift off to sleep. Tomorrow will be, as they say, another day.

The next morning, I wake to find a message on my phone from Peter.

Your Lord And Master: don’t bother coming in. There’s nothing much for you to do. I’d tell you to enjoy your weekend but you’re YOU. On Monday I want an extra hot peppermint mocha latte made with cashew milk.

Oh, no. That’s not how this goes. If Peter’s a work, so am I, and I won’t leave for the night until he does. He can’t fuck my throat then pretend I don’t exist. I’m going to pull a Sharon Stone and not be ignored.

Peter is less than happy to see me but says nothing. Internally I’m gloating and it fills me with delicious warmth like hot apple cider.

The next week at work I go out of my way to be perfection itself while still being annoying as fuck. I don’t step one toe out of line. I’m not late and I stay in the office well into the evening. Whatever task Peter tries to give me I’ve already done hours previously. At first he seemed to not even notice, but by Wednesday I can tell he’s about ready to commit murder.

I let Nonna know that if I disappear under mysterious circumstances that Peter should be the police’s number one suspect. I think it’s hilarious, but Nonna is not amused. She smacks the side of my head then mutters in Italian. I have no idea what she’s saying, but I go on the assumption it’s not complimentary to her beloved and only grandson.

On Thursday morning I feel unsettled from the moment I open my eyes. I have a tough time defining why. I get up, feed my overlords, eat breakfast, and am dressed for work with more than enough time to pick up Peter’s ridiculous coffee order du jour and still make it to the office by six.

Peter is already there. He’s always here before me and I’m beginning to think that he sleeps in his office. He’s a relentless taskmaster today but I’m just enough ahead of him to be able to produce whatever paperwork he needs—or says he needs—within moments. As the day wears on, it becomes obvious he’s testing me, trying his damnedest to trip me up.

Not today, Satan. Not today.

But being one jump ahead of Peter hasn’t dispelled my feeling of unease. Although unease isn’t the right word. I feel spiritually itchy, emotionally thirsty, and ravenous for something that isn’t food. It isn’t sex, either, but that’s closer to the mark than anything else I can think of. I crave something just out of reach, like Tantalus’ grapes.

This is all Peter. It’s all his fault I’m like this today but I’ll be damned before showing that what we did last Friday has gotten to me. I am cool as an entire grocery store of cucumbers. I am persistently, relentlessly perfect. I can hear Peter clench his teeth every time he looks my way.  My presence is as irritating to him as his is to me.

Good. I hope he chokes on how irritatingly efficient I am at this joke of a job.

“You can leave if you want,” I hear Peter say. It’s the first thing he’s said to me since lunch that wasn’t a demand of some sort.

“Early?” I ask. “Are you getting soft on me, Mr. Verona?”

Peter barks out an incredulous laugh. “It’s almost eight.”

I look at the clock on my computer and see that he’s right. Where did the day go? The only useful thing I did today was be an over-qualified assistant. I had thought we’d crossed some sort of Rubicon last Friday, but one skull fuck was apparently all Peter had needed from me. Well, that and endlessly redundant paperwork.

I’ve been fooling myself, that’s obvious now. All I have to show for my campaign of malicious competence is a lingering sore throat and desire I have no idea how to quench. Jacking off in my shower, then again in bed, then a third time in my morning shower has had no lasting effect on me. I know Peter’s not pleased with me, but that’s not new. He hasn’t been pleased with me since my father met his mother.

He wants me to leave here with my tail between my legs like a good little underling, so I resolve to outstay him instead.

“There’s no lack of things unfinished,” I point out. “But if you’re too tired…”

“I never said I was tired,” Peter snaps at me.

“Of course not,” I agree soothingly. “Still, it’s been a long day and I’m sure it’s past your bedtime.”

“Fuck off, Kit,” Peter says, sounding beyond exhausted. “I don’t want to see you until tomorrow morning.”

“I couldn’t possibly go home while you’re still working,” I respond. “That wouldn’t be very assistantly of me.”

Peter rakes a hand through his copper hair, making it stand up in a way I refuse to find boyishly endearing. “Go home. Now.”

“Make me.”

“What did you say?” Peter stares at me like his eyes could burn a hole right through me.

I’m treading on thin ice. He could always call security, but I’m gambling that he won’t.

“Make. Me.”

Peter’s eyes widen and his nostrils flare. “Go home, Kristoff. Don’t push me.”

As much as I hate being called Kit, somehow Peter reverting to Kristoff is worse. I don’t want to push Peter. I want to shove him so hard he gets bruises. “Is running a multibillion-dollar business starting to wear on you?” I ask, feigning concern. “Is it all too much for those narrow shoulders of yours to handle? There’s no shame in admitting you can’t hack it. You’re barely old enough to drink.”

Peter continues to stare at me and say nothing. Something about his expression makes me poke at him harder.

“You should be out,” I continue, “having fun with your friends. Bar hopping and trying to pick up college girls still in their teens.”

A muscle tics In Peter’s jaw so I press on. “Run along. You can leave all this to the grown-ups. I’ll finish going through the Padua proposal and have it summarized for you. I’ll make sure to use words of two syllables or less wherever possible.” I smile at Peter both sweetly and insufferably. I hope he chokes on my courtesy. “Or if that’s too much,” I add, definitely pressing my luck, “I can put together a presentation with illustrated slides. I’ll even make you popcorn.”

Peter’s lips quiver. Did I break him? That seems too good to be true, but maybe…

His face splits and he laughs at me. “Do you have any idea what you sound like?”

Now it’s my turn to be silent. Fuck Peter. Fuck him so hard he can’t sit for a week. No, a month. Hell, a year.

“You should see your face,” he gasps. Peter takes his phone from his pocket and takes a picture of me. What the fuck? He flips the phone around to show me. “You look like you sat on a fucking buh-buh-broom handle.”

Great. I’ve reduced Peter to stuttering because he’s laughing so hard at me. Fantastic. Grandfather would be so proud.

“I don’t appreciate your antics, Mr. Verona,” I say as frigidly as possible.

“I’m sure you don’t,” Peter murmurs, leaning over my desk until his mouth is near my ear. “I know what you do appreciate, Kit.” Peter’s voice rubs over my skin like rough silk, making me shiver involuntarily. “That’s right. I know what you’re up to. I know what you need. What you crave. I might even give it to you if you’re good. Are you a good boy, Kitten? Can you be a good boy for me?”

Kitten is the worst nickname he’s come up with so far and I try not to react but it’s hard. “I am your extremely overqualified assistant, Mr. Verona, not your pet.”

“You are what I say you are, Kit.” Warm breath feathers over my ear.

“And what’s that?” I ask, mouth dry, heart pounding, and all my command and bravado gone.

“Mine.”

12

Peter Needs a Word With Kit

Kristoff is giving me whiplash, his behavior ping-ponging all over the damn place. Not regarding work—he’s a frustratingly excellent assistant. No, what’s making me dizzy is his mood swings. One second he’s obsequious, then condescending, then caustic, then cringey, then bitchy, then unaffected, then he’s a spoiled child. He’s a million times worse than Veronica with PMS. I wonder if chocolate would fix him and whether Chicago contains enough to do the job.

It's obvious Kit’s trying to provoke me into some kind of response but I’m not in the mood for manipulation. I’ve been ignoring everything he’s thrown at me all day long. It’s run the gamut from outright insults to silent pouting and it’s all irritating as hell, but I’m not losing control again.

Not like I did last week, when I snapped under the weight of Kristoff’s need and ended up fucking his face.

It’s not that face fucking my assistant is unprofessional, because it sure as fuck is. It’s not even that I came down my stepbrother’s throat, which sounds disgusting no matter how you spin it. No, the real problem here is how easily I folded under the black hole of need and want that is Kristoff Minola. He’s a complicated man. Fucked up, definitely. Daddy issues, absolutely. Mommy issues, too, probably.

That’s his own damn fault. We’d have been his family if he’d given us even half a chance. I’d been so excited to get an instant big brother, and I know Mom would’ve loved him like her own kid. She loves so easily. Probably too easily.

But Kristoff rejected us all and it’s his own damn fault he’s such a big bag of need and neuroticism. None of it is my fault or my responsibility. I owe Kristoff Minola exactly nothing. Not one little thing.

Even if I did open a big can of worms last night. That might be a tiny bit my fault. Kristoff didn’t force my cock down his throat, not that he fought me, either. I think I might know what he wants from me, but I’m not positive, and it’s no use asking him directly. He’d never in a million years give me an honest answer. And even if he did, where would that leave us? I’m not this thing he thinks he wants.

That’s what I tell myself all day long after making myself a promise last night that I won’t give Kristoff any more of what he so obviously craves. The more I avoid his obvious, and not so obvious, lures, the faster he cycles through moods, no doubt trying to find the key that’ll open me up.

I never should have gone to his home last night. That might turn out to be the biggest mistake of my life. I know Kristoff is trouble with a huge neon pink flashing T. He’s messy and difficult while I prefer casual and meaningless hookups. Kristoff is the antithesis of casual and meaningless. He has “run away while you still can” plastered all over him.

I need to leave him the fuck alone, while simultaneously angering him sufficiently to make him quit the company that bears his name. It’s a task so monumentally impossible that even Hercules would’ve said, “Nah, man. I’ve got my limits.”

Meanwhile Kristoff has been flirting his ass off at me all day. I’ve managed to ignore him for most of it, but now its late and I’m hanging on by my fingernails, but he won’t fucking go home and leave me in peace. He must know he’s getting to me. He has to know it. He can’t be oblivious to how close I am to cracking.

I desperately don’t want to give in but I’m only human. There’s only so much temptation I have the ability to resist. No matter how hard I try to hold it in and be indifferent to him, I end up laughing at Kristoff, exposing a major fault line in my defenses. The offended outrage at me finding him hilarious pours off Kristoff in amusingly petulant waves. It’s irresistible so I take a picture of his expression, both to needle him and because I want to look at that face again and again when he’s not around, making my life a living hell.

“I don’t appreciate your antics, Mr. Verona,” Kristoff tells me in this prim little voice like he’s someone’s ancient spinster aunt. The broom handle in his ass has become an icicle.

“I’m sure you don’t,” I say, leaning over Kit’s desk until my mouth is near his ear and the intoxicating scent of him fills my nose. “I know what you do appreciate, Kit.” He flinches and it makes me smile because I’m not the only one here making mistake after reckless mistake. “That’s right. I know what you’re up to. I know what you need. What you crave. I might even give it to you if you’re good. Are you a good boy, Kitten?” Oh, fuck me. That’s the literal opposite of what I meant to say. What the ever-loving fuck is wrong with me? “Can you be a good boy for me?”

I blame Kristoff’s scent for my runaway mouth. He smells of expensive cologne on top of expensive skin care products, and underneath that, nervous sweat. He reeks of wealth, fear, and anticipation. I want to breathe in great lungfuls of it for hours on end. It makes me feel powerful, and even knowing that feeling is a trap he’s laid for me, I walk right into it anyway.

Kristoff sniffs and sounds sulky. “I am your extremely overqualified assistant, Mr. Verona, not your pet.”

“You are what I say you are, Kit,” I whisper into his ear.

He tries, and fails, to stifle a shiver. “And what’s that?” Kit’s voice has dropped an octave and gone husky. It might be the most stupidly sexy sound I’ve ever heard.

“Mine,” I growl, apparently losing my grip on sanity and rationality entirely. It’s all over now but the shouting. Just like always, Kit is about to get his way.

That doesn’t mean, however, that I have to be gracious in defeat. I grab Kit’s tie and yank hard on it. He fights me, but not hard enough, because he ends up right where I want him—with his knees hitting the floor.

“Be careful, you barbarian,” Kit fusses at me. “That’s Dolce & Gabbana.”

I can’t help but laugh at Kit again. I wonder if he realizes how ridiculous he sounds. I give his tie a thorough inspection. On it are overblown tulips, white against a white background, with hints of coral pink and charcoal. He’s paired it with a gray oxford and he looks every inch as filthy rich as he is.

I lean down over Kit, who kneels at my feet like the good boy he is definitely not, and give the tie another tug. “Don’t fight me and your precious tie won’t get ruined.” I head to my office, the floral tie firmly in my hand, not waiting for Kit to get his bearings. There’s scrambling and scuffling behind me but I don’t look around until I’ve dragged him to the part of my office that’s private. There’s a couch and chairs, a wardrobe, and a bathroom. With the door shut firmly behind us then locked for good measure, I look down at my nemesis.

He's sweating and his face is beet red, although I’m not sure how much is embarrassment and how much near-strangulation. “I should make you wear a collar,” I tell him. “Then I can break you to a leash.”

Kit sucks in a gasp of air, fighting for breath even though I’ve let go of his tulip tie. His cock tents the crotch of his dark charcoal trousers. I wonder if I’d be able to see a wet spot from precum if the fabric was a lighter color.

Feeling like I’m navigating a mine field, I rub my shiny black wingtip against the side of Kit’s erection. “You want to come, Kit?” I ask him.

Kit groans but says nothing. I lean down and grab his jaw between my thumb and forefinger, squeezing to the point of pain. “When I ask you a question, Kit, I expect an answer. I don’t care what a spoiled little prince you are. Here, I’m the only one in charge. I give orders, you obey. Simple. All you have to do if you won’t or can’t obey is leave. I won’t stop you and this ends. All of it.”

Kit gulps, making his Adam’s apple bob visibly, then nods.

“Good,” I say. “Now that we understand each other, let’s try this again. Kit, do you want to come?”

He nods, then lets out a raspy, “Yes, Sir.”

Fuck fuck fuck fuck fuck fuck fuck fuck fuck fuck. That Sir of his is the final straw. If Kristoff stands up this second and walks out of my office, I’ll let him. Probably. But his opportunity to stop this without consequences is quickly dissolving away. “This is your last chance to leave,” I tell him. “Don’t pretend later that you weren’t warned.”

Kristoff’s pale eyes are glassy, and his cheeks flushed with fever. This is either extreme lust or the flu, and either way, we’re going down together.

“Yes, Sir,” Kit rasps, reminding me of how I choked him on my cock last night. “I understand.”

“Good,” I say, not at all convinced it’s good but we’re both strapped into this roller coaster and there’s no escape until the ride’s over and we both get off.

I sit down on the leather couch with my legs spread then I unbuckle my belt and undo my fly. I let my hard, aching cock escape the confines of its cloth prison. “Suck me off, Kit. I know you want my cock in you. Down your throat, in your ass, it doesn’t matter, does it?”

“No, Sir,” he whispers, his face burning with embarrassment but his mouth practically drooling for me. He’s got to know all these Sirs are my kryptonite.

“Good boy,” I praise, running my hand through his dark hair. It’s far softer than I would’ve expected. “Now show me what a good boy you are and do what you’re told.”

Kit hesitates for just a second then hoovers me into his mouth. “Fuck!” I let go of Kit’s hair so I can dig my fingers instead into my thighs to keep from coming immediately. His mouth is too hot, too tight, and too talented. It won’t be long before I’m blowing my load into him if he keeps going at this rate.

I throw my head back and try to hold on. I want to come. I want to pump myself into Kit’s throat more than I want to breathe, but I also don’t want this over so soon.

“Enough,” I tell him through gritted teeth but if anything, Kit sucks me even harder, the bastard. I pinch his ear, and he comes off me in a wide-eyed gasp. “Heel,” I say firmly. I push his unresisting ass down with my foot. “Sit.”

Kit glares at me like he’s trying to barbecue my head. “Excuse me? I am not your dog.”

Truer words. If Kit was any sort of animal I think he’d probably be a cat. Stubborn, willful, independent, vicious, sneaky, sly, opportunistic, and completely untrainable. That’s at least half the reason why giving him orders is so damn addictive.

“Behave and I won’t need to treat you like a dog. When you’re given an order, obey.”

Kit narrows his eyes at me. “If you think I’m giving you unquestioning obedience, you’re crazier than my father.”

“You’re killing the mood, but that’s probably just as well. No, I don’t expect you to become some sort of brainwashed zombie. Although that would be convenient. Don’t act stupid because I know you’re not.”

Kristoff’s gaze is speculative. “We need a…” he pauses for several moments in thought then says, “…trigger word. Like a safe word, but the opposite.”

I can’t help but snort even if I can see the logic in it. “I could tell you to heel,” I offer.

“No,” Kristoff says coldly.

“Fine. You tell me your trigger word, then.” I put my now softened cock away and secure my pants, but leave my belt unbuckled. Kristoff follows my movements with disappointed eyes. “What would work for you?”

“Telling me to suck your cock would work,” Kit says, sounding testy. “I had been doing my best.”

“Your best was… a lot. I needed a breather.”

Kit honest to god preens at me in satisfaction. “It’s good to know you think my mouth is talented. Let me show you how much.” He leans forward.

I push him back firmly, but gently, with the sole of my shoe. “Don’t change the subject. What could I say to you that would be one hundred percent safe for work but also let you know that your ass belongs to me?”

Kit’s flushed cheeks darken but he says nothing.

“Fine, leave it to me. I know. I’ll tell you that I’d like a word with you.”

One of Kristoff’s arched eyebrows raises. “What if you want to actually have a word?”

“Then I’ll tell you I need to talk to you. Like a normal person. Kristoff, you are so weird.”

A shuttered look falls over his face. “You have no idea.”

“Actually, if anyone has an idea, it’s definitely me. Are you negative?”

Kit reels back. “Excuse me?”

“I’m negative. I’ve never even had chlamydia. I can get you the paperwork to prove it if you’d like.”

“Talk about conversational whiplash,” Kit grumbles, but he grudgingly adds, “Same.”

“Condoms, yes or no?”

He looks uncomfortable and shrugs. “It’s never come up before.”

I frown at him. “What do you mean it’s never come up?”

Kit’s tongue flicks out to wet his lips. He looks like he’d rather be getting oral surgery than have this conversation, which naturally makes me even more curious.

“I—I’ve only been fucked twice,” he finally admits, not looking at me. “For a lot of reasons. What gets me…”

“Off?” I supply when he stops talking.

He shrugs. “Sure. It’s not normal and—”

“I’ve seen the Internet, Kit. Fairly sure you’re not that kinky in the long run.”

“You say that now,” he mumbles.

“If anything’s actually wrong with you I’ll have you committed. How’s that?”

Kit looks up with eyes blazing and surprises me by giving me the finger. “Fuck you.”

“Put a pin in that for later. Condoms yes or condoms no?”

“I—what if I say yes, I want you to wear a condom?”

I give Kit a puzzled look. “Then I wear one, obviously.”

He gives me a searching look then nods. “Anything else?”

“Probably. But we can burn those bridges when we get there.”

“I don’t understand you,” Kristoff says.

“You don’t need to understand me. Just obey me.”

Kit crosses his arms over his chest. “Only when we’re having a word.”

“As we’ve discussed.”

“And no one can know,” he adds.

“Jesus Christ, no. This is between you and me. Period. You think I want people to know I go around face fucking my stepbrother?”

Kristoff smirks at me and it’s a surprisingly good look on him. “Not any more than I do.”

I stick out my hand for Kristoff to shake. “Is it a deal?”

He takes my hand in a grip that’s firm, but not too firm, and shakes it. “It’s a deal.” As if he hasn’t been kneeling on the floor for at least twenty minutes, Kristoff stands. “I’ll see you tomorrow.” He turns toward the locked door.

I make no move to stand. “Not so fast.”

Kristoff turns back to me. “What?”

“Sit down, Kit,” I say. “I need a word with you.”

13

Kristoff Underestimates Himself

Icome to an abrupt halt when I hear that now-magical phrase.

“I want a word with you.”

I hesitate for a moment. There are so many responses I could give, but only one will get me laid. Or off. Probably. All other roads lead to me alone in my apartment with only my cats. Staying—obeying—will lead somewhere new and exciting and terrifying. Can I do this?

Something long neglected inside me balks at the question. This is your chance, it says. Take it and don’t fuck it up.

I imagine saluting the voice. I’m going to do my best.

Do better than that, the voice chides then subsides back into my head.

I’m not crazy, although that’s exactly what a crazy person would say. I have a therapist who assures me that talking to myself isn’t abnormal, especially in someone who had my kind of childhood. It’s not something I like to dwell on, except at night, when I push at my earliest memories like a tongue wiggling a loose tooth.

And none of this is in any way helpful. I push my anxiety down and away, zipping it into a mental suitcase then sitting on it. My mind is made up. I want to have a word with this absolutely impossible man.

I turn back to Peter, bow my head, then kneel between his spread legs. I will do this insane, horrible, wonderful thing and maybe, for once in my life, I will get the thing I crave. The possible reward is more than worth the risk. Except…

“We keep this separate from the business,” I say, looking up at him, no longer a supplicant. “This is between you and me and has nothing to do with Minola Corp.”

Peter appears to think it over then nods. “Agreed. I want to fuck you, not Minola.”

A persistent part of me is still worried, but that’s always there, and easy to ignore when my cock is shouting at me much louder and far more insistent. I tip my head again, close my eyes, rest my hands on my thighs, and wait to be told what to do.

Instead of giving me an order, Peter ruffles my hair with his hand. “Breathe, Kit,” he says slowly. “In and out. In and out. Relax. We’re alone in my office, behind a locked door, in a nearly deserted building with your name on it. You’re safe here. Safe as houses.”

This isn’t anything like I expected. I should have his cock down my throat right now according to my calculations, but maybe Peter is using that incomprehensible new math. His voice is soothing, and I start to uncoil my muscles. My cock hasn’t lost hope yet but the rest of me could get used to a low rumbling voice and a hand petting my hair.

“Open your eyes, Kit.”

Peter’s voice brings me out of a near trance, but without startling me. I obey, because that’s what I do, and see he’s got his pants pulled halfway down his thighs, leaving a bulge barely covered in navy blue cotton. His cheap, ugly tie hangs untied around his neck, and he’s fully unbuttoned his shirt. He’s not wearing an undershirt, and I’m treated to a galaxy of copper stars spangled across milky skin. His nipples are pale pink and fuck me, one is pierced with a small barbell. I touch it lightly with my index finger then pull my hand back like I’ve been caught with my hand in a cookie jar.

“Why just one?”

Peter laughs softly. “Turns out I have a shitty pain tolerance.”

I like the thought of being pierced and tattooed but wouldn’t know where to begin. It’s part of a lengthy list of things I want but know I can’t have. CEOs don’t have tattoos or piercings. It’s unprofessional. It's not something a Minola would do.

On the other hand, a Minola probably shouldn’t be kneeling in front of a half-undressed man in his family’s skyscraper, either.

“Take my cock out, Kit, and suck me. Do it slow. Make it last. I don’t want to come in the first three seconds.”

“Pretty sure I couldn’t make anyone come in three seconds,” I say as I reach out to palm Peter’s hard cock and heavy balls.

“I think you underestimate yourself, Kitten.” Peter’s head is thrown back, showing the prominent arch of his neck. I want to bite it. “God, your hands are as bad as your mouth. I’m not gonna last long.”

“Maybe you need to get laid more often.”

“A-fucking-men to that. I need your mouth on me before I come in my underwear.”

I look down at the bulge I’m fondling and see a growing wet spot darken the blue cotton. I put my mouth over the area and suck at the salty fluid right through the fabric.

Peter moans and buries his hand in my hair. “More,” he croaks out.

In this moment I feel like I could do anything just because I have this man who hates me at my mercy. He is begging me for more, so that’s what I give him. I pull Peter’s cock out and, because he told me to go slow, examine it like the work of art it is. It’s thick and long, dark red at the tip, and also stippled with freckles. The hair there is neatly trimmed, and his balls are bare, so I can’t resist putting them in my mouth.

“Holy Jesus god,” he shouts, his hand tightening its grip on my hair. It hurts, but it’s just the kind of pain I love.

I take my time running my tongue over every inch of him. I adored having him buried down my throat, but I love the novelty of this just as much. I’ve never been given carte blanche to do whatever I wanted to another man’s cock and it’s not like I can suck my own. Even when I was young I was never that flexible.

“Hold still,” Peter commands, grabbing the sides of my head and thrusting up into my mouth.

I relax my throat as he shoves inside, using me as his fuck toy. I fumble with my belt, but I can’t get it open. Story of my life. So I hold onto the bulge in my dry clean only Burberry trousers and fuck into my hand as best as I can while Peter’s cock stretches out my throat. Tears and saliva stream down my face. My tie is probably a lost cause but there is no part of me in this moment that gives one flying fuck. What I want, even more than my own release, is Peter’s cum sliding down my throat as his cock softens in my mouth.

That is my nirvana.

Peter lets out a delicious keening moan as his hips speed up and he pistons hard and relentlessly inside me. Then he stiffens and stills, the grip on my hair perfectly excruciating as he empties himself into me.

“Ah, god, Kit. Fuck yeah. Take it. Fuuuuuuck. Every last drop.”

And I do. In this split second of ecstasy and agony I am Peter’s entire world, and nothing could ever feel this good.

Then the moment ends. His body relaxes, including the death grip on my hair. In the aftermath my scalp feels both scorching hot and also liquid cool at the same time. It’s like blood is flowing down the back of my head but I don’t need the involuntary touch of my hand to know the feeling is an illusion.

I haven’t come and that’s a good thing. I have no idea how I’d explain cum stains to the nice couple who own the dry cleaner I frequent. Overall, this was better than I imagined or hoped for, and from the look on Peter’s face, this time won’t be the last. Tonight, in my shower, I’ll relive the moment of Peter’s climax over and over until I spend. I can’t quite believe how lucky I am. Even if this all ends in disaster, it’ll have been worth it.

Then Peter, that asshole, has to go and fuck up everything by bending down and kissing me.

14

Peter Gets To First Base

Kit’s mouth is magic, and I swear to god I’ll die if I can’t taste it.

I struggle to sit up with no blood where it’s supposed to be in my body. My head spins and my fingers and toes tingle like they’ve been asleep. I eventually manage to push myself upright and see Kit sprawled at my feet instead of kneeling, an adorably dopey look on his face.

I put that look there. Me, I think with a surge of uncharacteristic possessiveness. It’s not that I think Kit belongs to me, or that I own him in any way. Rather I’m puffed up with pride that it’s because of me Kit is relaxed nearly to the point of unconsciousness. I’ve melted the icicle shoved up his ass.

Kristoff, like all the Minola men, is extremely attractive, but when he’s relaxed, his face slips into beauty, like a sleeping Cupid sculpted by Michelangelo. Kit’s angular, chiseled features smooth out and he looks soft and sweet, rather than the sharp and bitter man I’ve come to know. I can’t help myself. I kiss him.

The kiss is as sweet and soft as Kit appears, spun from cotton candy. Then whatever spell he was under pops and Kit punches me. Luckily for me it’s on my shoulder and not my face because that fucker can punch hard.

“What the hell, man?” I shout. It’s a good thing we’re practically alone in the building.

“We didn’t negotiate kissing,” is Kit’s peeved response. Mr. Salty Bitter is back, and with a vengeance.

“Why would we negotiate kissing, for fuck’s sake? Who does that? You negotiate shit like bondage or getting the crap beaten out of you or… I don’t know… someone taking a shit in your mouth. Kissing is just… normal.”

Some indecipherable emotion passes across Kristoff’s face. “I don’t like it,” he says, putting on his spinster schoolmarm persona. “Kissing, I mean. Although I don’t want you to defecate in my mouth, either.”

“Are you actually comparing coprophilia to kissing?”

“I don’t like it,” he says again, but this time with a sharper edge. “You wouldn’t understand.”

“Try me,” I say.

Kit glares at me. “I don’t want your kisses, you idiot. Do I have to spell it out in big, block letters? Use me. That’s what I want. It’s all I want. Don’t make this into more than it is.”

Why is Kristoff like this? He reminds me of a man I fucked around with in college. He was trans and had severe body dysmorphia. There were so many places on his body he hated to have touched. That’s not what’s wrong with Kit, but there is something wrong.

I never understood why my mother couldn’t hate Kristoff for hating us first. When I would get angry because I couldn’t have something because the best of everything always went to a kid who wouldn’t give his family the time of day, she’d shake her head and remind me to be grateful for what I had, and you never knew what another person’s life was like until you’d walked a mile in his shoes. Or in Kristoff’s case, his hand made Italian loafers.

I picture his home, and that’s exactly what it is. It’s not some place where he just happens to sleep. All those books, and most of them with spines worn from frequent reading. The black and white picture of his grandparents at their wedding, and another, more recent one, showing them grown old. And in the middle, it’s them at Disney, with a young boy wearing mouse ears standing in front of them, a slight smile on his face. He looks about the age he had to have been when my mother married his father.

I was going to ask Kit about the pictures, but he distracted me. He’s good at that, I’ve noticed. A master of misdirection.

“I don’t believe you,” I say.

“What?” Kristoff is obviously affronted. “What is there to not believe about me not liking kissing?”

So, so much. But in this case, I don’t buy that the only thing Kit craves is to be used. Oh, he wants that shit, that’s obvious, but it’s not all there is. He’s buttoned up tight, like Pandora’s box, and I’m exactly the kind of idiot who wants to open that shit up and let it all fly free.

I think that what Kit both craves and fears is intimacy.

I’m even more sure that I shouldn’t be touching him with a ten-foot pole for more reasons than I can count.

“You’re scared,” I say. “Admit it.”

Kit puffs up at me exactly like a kitten. “That’s ridiculous. I’m not scared.”

“Liar, liar, pants on fire,” I taunt, then risk being bitten as I trace my finger against Kit’s perfect, pouty lips.

He pulls away from my touch and glares up at me. “What are you? Twelve?”

“Just your pesky younger brother,” I tell him cheerfully.

Kit smacks my leg, but not as hard as he hit my shoulder. “Don’t remind me.”

“Calm your tits. It’s not like we’re related.”

“Stop it right now,” Kit warns, but I’ve always been one to push my luck.

“And even if we were related, it’s not like I can knock you up. I mean I know incest is frowned upon by the better class of people, but when we’re talking two brothers—or two sisters—who’s being harmed?”

Kristoff pulls his knees to his chest and hugs them. “You’re disgusting and I hate you.”

“I know,” I say, then tweak his nose. It’s a good thing we don’t live together because I’m sure if Kit had the opportunity to kill me in my sleep, he’d take it.

“Are we done here?” Kit asks with glacial hauteur.

I give him a look like he’s gone truly insane. “Fuck, no. What gave you that idea?”

Kit gestures to my naked flaccid cock. “You came. In my throat. Remember? It just happened.”

I want to kiss the prissy look off Kit’s face but there’s a very real possibility he’d bite my lips off. “You have a severely screwed up idea of how sex works. We’re not even close to done.”

Kit eyes me warily. “I don’t want… not yet… I’m not ready. It’s not off the table, but—"

Reading between the lines, I’m sure he means bottoming. Based on the look on his face, it’s something he’s looking forward to even less than kissing. Interesting that having his ass fucked isn’t a hard no for him. Hopefully he doesn’t have his heart set on topping. I don’t bottom. It's not my jam. Maybe it’s not Kit’s jam, either. Or maybe this is something else he’s scared of.

I lean forward to look Kit in the eyes so he knows I’m serious. “When and if I take your ass, Kristoff, you’ll be more than ready. You have my word on that.”

Kit’s expression says it all. He doesn’t believe me. Fair enough. It’s not like we’re really lovers. We’re not even friends. Hell, he won’t even let me kiss him.

“I want to make you come,” I tell Kristoff. I’m not sure why we even need to have this conversation. “Sex is more fun when all the people involved participate and have a good time. That doesn’t have to mean someone’s tab A has to be put into someone else’s slot B. Or C. Hell, I once went to an orgy where the only thing off the table was penetration. It was a hell of a lot of fun, actually. All those mouths on me was fucking fire.”

“All?” Kit’s eyes are wide as saucers, however wide that is. Wide enough I can see the whites all around his irises.

I shrug. “I’m not poly averse.”

If anything, Kit’s eyes get wider.

“Keep your panties on, princess. Poly isn’t my goal in life. It’s not a hard no, either. That means I’m open to fucking a couple, or a whole party, and I have. It doesn’t mean I’m going to start pimping your ass on a street corner. You need to calm the fuck down.”

“I am calm,” Kit announces, but he’s not fooling anyone.

“Look, stop trying to make this complicated. It doesn’t have to be complicated at all.”

Kit gives me a look, complete with a raised eyebrow. “You started the complicated when you kissed me. And I think fucking my fake boss, who is also my stepbrother, is extremely complicated.”

I grin because I can’t help it. “It’s not that complicated. And we haven’t fucked yet. You’ve swallowed my cock twice and haven’t taken your pants off either time. All I did was kiss you. That’s barely first base. I don’t even know what your dick looks like.”

“Do you want to see me nude?” There is a glint in Kit’s eyes that I don’t completely trust. And who the fuck—besides Kristoff, obviously—says nude?

“Ye-es,” I answer slowly, looking for some kind of hidden trap. “Are you deformed? Is that the problem? I promise I won’t laugh at your deformed dick.”

The glint in Kit’s eyes gets steely. “I’m not deformed, but what if I was?”

“I’d still want to see your cock. And your hideously malformed ass, too.”

Kit starts pouting, which I’ve already figured out is a good sign. Kit pouting is the closest his tight ass can get to flirting. “My ass isn’t hideously malformed.”

“Prove it,” I taunt.

“You’re such a child,” Kit says disdainfully.

“I showed you mine, you show me yours.”

“I haven’t seen your ass,” Kit says with a sniff. “You might be the malformed one.”

“Excellent point. Too bad you’ll never know.”

“What?”

I tsk at him. “Show me your junk and I’ll show you my ass. Fair’s fair.”

Kit puts his aristocratic nose in the air. “Who said I even want to see your ass?”

“You did, just now. Come on, Kitten. Show me what you’re packing in there.”

“It’s a penis,” says spinster schoolmarm Kit. “I’m sure you’re familiar with what they look like. And stop calling me Kitten.”

I take note that he’s stopped bitching about Kit. Score one for me. “I want to see what your penis looks like. Not just some random penis off the street.”

That glint is back in Kit’s eyes but this time it’s dancing with honest to fuck mischief. Where did that come from, and can I keep it around by feeding it cookies or something? “So you really want to see my cock,” he states.

“Fuck, yeah, I do. One hundred percent, baby.”

Kit’s cheeks are flushed red. That’s either a really good or really bad sign, and I’m about to find out which. “Okay,” he says. “Then make me.”

15

Kristoff Extends an Invitation

If my life was a rom com, after I said, “Make me,” I’d have jumped up and run out of the office like my hair was on fire, Peter right behind me in hot pursuit. There’d be a chase scene with us going in doors and then out of them in no rational pattern, ala Scooby-Doo.

That is not my life, however. I know how to run fast. Even more, I know how to escape and hide and stay that way. If I run, I might be too fast and hide too well. Peter might not find me. Worse still, he might not pursue me at all.

Some people in life can play hard to get but that is also not me. Instead, I stand my ground, glare at Peter, and wait to see what he’ll do.

Peter gives me a calculated look. “How much do you like that suit?” he asks.

The question throws me for a loop. “What?”

“I know you have enough money to burn all your clothing after wearing it once, but maybe this one is sentimental or something.”

There is so much wrong in that sentence I have trouble deciding where to start, but in the end go with, “Why the hell would I burn my clothes after wearing them only once?”

Peter shrugs. “Don’t ask me. You’re the rich one in this equation.”

He sounds genuinely annoyed and I’m not sure why. Unless he thinks that Grandfather’s money should have gone to Father and then trickled down to him. The main reason why Grandfather left half of his money to Nonna and half to me is that he knew I wouldn’t have gotten a cent if he’d left the money to Father instead.

Even so, it’s not like Father’s hard up for cash. He has his own trust fund, set up when he was a child, and has been taking in the CEO salary from Minola since Grandfather retired from the position. Even assuming he hasn’t invested any of the money, and I highly doubt that, Father is a multimillionaire.

I give Peter a hard look, but it’s not him I’m scrutinizing. It’s his suit. I don’t look closely at clothes. I don’t even buy my own. I have a personal shopper who does that for me and a tailor to make sure everything fits correctly. I have the ability to pair a tie and shirt with a suit, but that’s the limit of my sartorial expertise. It would have, for instance, never have occurred to me to buy the floral tie I’m currently wearing. I can appreciate its quality, however.

Peter’s tie is horrible. He’s also wearing—okay, half-wearing—a white shirt, which is nearly impossible to fuck up, but the cuffs are fastened with buttons, not cufflinks. The suit itself fits him like a second skin, but that’s from tailoring. The material, on closer inspection, looks thin and cheap compared to what I’m wearing, and this is off the rack. Tailored after the fact, but not bespoke. Certainly not the best suit I own, but more than good enough to work in.

“Why are you looking at me like that?” Peter asks.

“I’m not looking at you,” I clarify. “I’m looking at your suit. If you want to destroy clothing, start there. No, start with the tie, then you can burn the suit.”

Peter flushes. When a red head is embarrassed the entire world knows. “What’s wrong with my tie?”

“It looks like you bought it from Target.”

“Fuck you,” he shoots back.

“Tell me you didn’t really buy that tie at Target,” I say. “Was it some sort of tie emergency and all the other stores were closed?”

“Fuck. You.” His words are short, sharp bullets shot right at me.

I wonder if burning his clothes is a kind of fetish for Peter. It’s the only explanation I can think of to explain that tie.

“Forget your ugly tie,” I say. “It’s none of my business. Since you asked, this suit isn’t my best, but I like it. It’s comfortable. I don’t want to burn it.”

Peter puts a hand over his eyes and sighs deeply. “No wonder you’ve only had sex with two people in your whole life. You probably annoyed everyone else until they went away.”

I try not to visibly flinch. I don’t want Peter to know how close that barb hit.

“Jesus Christ, Kit. Stop looking like I just drowned your puppy. I wasn’t being serious. God knows if being annoying kept people from getting laid the human race would have died out millennia ago. Okay. Let’s just… get on the same page, okay? You told me what you want: to be used. Kinky, but I can help you out there. Now I’m going to tell you what I want.”

I am totally unprepared for this conversation. Isn’t using my body enough? I guess not. I wish I could turn time back and erase everything that happened from the moment Peter showed up unannounced at my door.

“You paying attention?” he asks. At my nod he goes on. “Good. My list of demands isn’t long or complicated. I want all of you. Not just that mouth of yours. You wanna be used? Fine. But I’m going to use every last inch. So strip or so help me god I’ll hold you down and rip that suit right off your bony ass. Do you get me?”

All I can do is nod again. The idea of ripping off my suit is ludicrous. Burberry suits wear like iron, as Grandfather used to say. If he was going to tear it off me, we’d be here all year. I wouldn’t put it past Peter to start cutting my clothes off, however. I’m also not sure how I feel about him using every last inch of my body. It’s terrifying and makes me feel dangerously vulnerable, but at the same time that part of me that wants Peter to be in charge is full of feverish anticipation.

“I get you,” I say, then start to undress like a civilized human being who’s about to hand himself over to the literal enemy.

My body isn’t deformed, as Peter implied, but it’s nothing to write home about, either. I’m thin. Too thin, according to Nonna, but she thinks everyone is too thin. For exercise I run, a habit I picked up after being sent to my first boarding school and never lost. Running doesn’t pack on bulk, however. My legs are the only part of me with any kind of muscular definition.

I fold each garment as I take it off because it gives me something besides Peter to focus on, but eventually I’m out of clothes and have to face his scrutiny head on.

He stares at me with his mouth slightly agape. I’m probably worse than he imagined.

“As you can see, my dick is perfectly normal.” I pivot on my heel. “There’s nothing wrong with my butt, either. It’s shaped exactly like a butt.”

Peter stands and then circles around me, probably wanting to look at the merchandise from every angle.

“Well?” I ask, unable to hold in my nerves or impatience any longer. “Say something.”

Instead of talking, Peter traces a finger over me, slowly touching everything from my hips to my neck. That includes my cock, which is hard again despite Peter’s close scrutiny.

“Are you going to say anything?” I ask, sounding needy as hell but I can’t control it.

“You’re smooth,” Peter says, awe and wonder in his voice. “Perfectly smooth everywhere.”

I used to do this thing where I pulled out my body hair whenever I was nervous. I would pluck each hair out one by one and dig out anything ingrown with a pair of wickedly sharp tweezers. I started having my chest waxed, then my legs and pits, and lastly, after even the idea of hair anywhere but on my head started to drive me crazy, I found a technician who agreed to wax absolutely everything. She always jokes with me, saying I’m the only man she’s ever waxed that thoroughly who didn’t act like a big baby about it. The truth is that I love it. The pain is cathartic and being completely free of irritating body hair is my reward.

My last… lover, for lack of a better word, found it creepy that I was absolutely hairless, and I got used to staying as clothed as possible. Maybe it is weird and creepy, but it’s not something I’m going to stop.

“Is that… does it bother you?” I ask Peter. “Because it’s non-negotiable. I’m not going to stop waxing for you, of all people.”

Peter lets out a shaky laugh. “Me of all people,” he says then laughs again. “No, Kitten. I would never tell you what to do with your body. It’s yours. But this is…”

“Weird? Gross? Creepy?”

“Um, no. Not where I was going with that. How about beautiful? Or exquisite. Or sexy as fuck. I love it. I want to run my mouth over every single inch of your skin.”

I swallow down an unexpected lump in my throat. “That might take a while. Will there be meal breaks?”

Peter barks out laughter. “Sure, Kitten. Whatever you want.”

“What I want is you to not call me Kitten.”

Peter leans forward and at first I think he’s going to kiss me but instead his lips touch the sensitive skin between my ear and jaw. “Don’t hold your breath,” he whispers.

“Asshole. Are you planning this detailed examination—”

“With my mouth,” Peter interjects.

“—with your mouth,” I add dutifully, “tonight? Because I might end up falling asleep on you.”

Peter looks at his watch and swears. “How the hell did it get this late? I might as well sleep here on the couch. By the time I drive home, eat something, then take a shower, it’ll be time to come back to work.”

“You could just… take the day off,” I suggest.

“No,” he says, looking dead serious, “I can’t. The couch is fine, and it won’t be the first time I’ve slept here. I’ve got a pillow and blanket and everything.” He waggles his eyebrows in a way that’s supposed to be suggestive but just makes him look like he’s having a seizure. “You could stay, too. It’s a big couch and I can make a start on inspecting you with my tongue.”

“Hell, no,” I say with an incredulous laugh. “I have a perfectly functional bed, and it’ll take me less than fifteen minutes to get there. Besides, I have feline overlords to feed. And myself.”

As if on cue, Peter’s stomach growls loudly.

Oh, for fuck’s sake. I pinch the bridge of my nose for a few seconds then make up my mind, for better or worse. As I start to dress, I tell Peter, “You can sleep on the couch in here if you want, but I’ve got a spare bedroom. It comes with dinner. But this is a limited time offer so you better be ready to go once I’ve got all my clothes back on.”

Peter stares at me, watching me dress for several long moments, then hurries into action, righting his clothes. “You had me at dinner,” he says, once he’s ready to go but still waiting on me. “You don’t need to put your tie on to go two blocks,” he adds. “The faster we go, the faster you can feed me.”

“I already regret this decision,” I say to the room in general, but that’s a lie. I don’t want to go home alone tonight. I’m sick and tired all the way down to my bones of being alone. My furry overlords help a lot, but sometimes the human in me longs for the company of another human. Don’t ask me why. Humans are terrible. The one walking beside me to the elevator is the absolute worst.

But in some ways, I add in the safety of my own head, he’s the absolute best.

16

Peter Is Woken By Falstaff

The night is warm for October in Chicago. Both of us are holding our suit jackets as we walk the two blocks to the high-rise Kit lives in. The Loop is never completely quiet, and the noise of traffic surrounds us as well as the voices of other couples and groups of people walking near us.

There is a taut silence between us. Kit is in his own little world, thinking god knows what, and I might as well not exist. I wonder if he’s regretting having invited me over. A better person would excuse himself and fuck off, back home or to the office, or even a hotel. But since I’m not a better person I stay, wanting my presence to impact Kristoff as much as his impacts me.

Out of nowhere Kristoff says, “I miss the smell of chocolate.”

I’ve never lived in the actual city of Chicago. I’ve grown up a dirty suburbanite in the wilds of the North Shore suburbs. The closest I’ve ever gotten is Evanston, which sits right on top of the northern edge of Chicago. Even so, I know about the smell of chocolate. Because of the Blommer Chocolate factory, Chicago has smelled like baking brownies, especially on warm, humid nights, forever. They finally closed the factory last spring, moving the operation to somewhere in Europe, and the nights no longer smell as wonderful as they used to.

“Yeah, man,” I say. “It sucks. That Karen who called to complain to the EPA of odor pollution is the hero no one wanted or asked for.”

“It’s still smells better than New York,” Kit says, making me laugh.

“I’ll have to take your word for it. I’ve never been.” Dad goes there on a semi-regular basis to oversee operations in that city, and before she got sick Mom sometimes accompanied him, but I never went with them. I’ve barely gone anywhere. To Florida for spring break in college, and only because I’d saved enough from the job I’d been working at.

Dad was a big believer in having to earn the things I wanted, as opposed to needed. It’s not a bad way to parent, I guess. I certainly didn’t end up spoiled. Not like the man next to me, who got every single thing he ever demanded.

My old feelings of resentment stir with the reminder of why I hate Kristoff, but the emotion is sluggish and dull. I’m too tired right now to deal with open animosity over an old grudge.

“You could bake your own brownies to get the same smell,” I suggest.

Kit gives me serious side-eye. “I don’t bake.”

“I could show you how,” I say before thinking that thought through.

Kit laughs, but the sound is more bitter than amused. “Oh, really? You think you can manage to wedge that in between working in a position you’re woefully underqualified for while simultaneously colluding with my father to steal my birthright?”

“It’s Dad’s birthright, not yours. Wait your damn turn.”

Kristoff’s laugh gets loud enough for people around us to give us curious looks. “If I did that, I’d be waiting forever. My father will never cede anything to me. If he passes it on to anyone, it would be you. Never, ever me.”

My reflex is to say that he’s made his own bed and now needs to lie in it but something keeps the words from spilling out. I grew up not knowing Kristoff but knowing of him. I knew he was demanding, spoiled, careless, cruel, and determined to destroy the man who’d tried to give him anything and everything. I knew all that because my stepfather had told me it was so, day after day, month after month, and year after year.

That Kristoff Minola, I’m beginning to realize, is not the same creature that’s walking beside me on a balmy autumn night in downtown Chicago. There’s a resemblance, sure, but just in passing. The thought sits in my stomach like lead.

Kristoff should be telling me to fuck off and find my own place to sleep, but he isn’t. It’s almost as if having extended an invitation to me, it doesn’t occur to him he could rescind it. And because I am not a good man, I make no move to remind him.

Once inside his home, I watch Kit greet his cats, petting them and scratching their ears and talking to them like they can understand every word. He feeds them then looks at his watch.

“I ordered pizza before we left work. It should be here soon. I hope that’s okay.”

I nod and sit down at his kitchen island. My gaze sweeps over the kitchen and reinforces my earlier impression. This is Kit’s home, not just the place where he lives. If he had a heart, this condo is where it resides.

Almost immediately I feel bad for that thought. The man is feeding me pizza and then lending me his spare bed. He’s the opposite of a heartless monster.

“Thank you. I really appreciate this,” I tell him sincerely as he puts a plate with two pieces of deep dish in front of me.

“It’s nothing,” he replies.

That’s a big lie that neither one of us acknowledges. We eat in silence, but again, it’s not strained. Kit, it occurs to me, must live in a world free of extraneous conversation. He’s used to silence, and it doesn’t seem to bother him. I’m much more naturally talkative but I’m also exhausted and have too many thoughts to process. The silence is good, though. Companionable.

After we’re done eating and Kit puts our dishes in the dishwasher, he gestures to me then leads me down a hallway. He opens a door to the left and switches on the overhead light inside.

“Here you go. The room doesn’t get a lot of use, but my housekeeper keeps it clean just in case I lose my mind and invite guests over.”

“Like tonight,” I can’t help saying.

Kit looks at me then flashes a brief, sardonic smile. “Yes, like tonight. When she comes to clean next week she’s going to be thrilled. Sleep here knowing that you’ll be making a nice woman extremely happy.”

“I live to serve,” I murmur. “Is there a bathroom I can use? I need a shower.” Belatedly it occurs to me that I could’ve grabbed clean clothes from the wardrobe in my office, but I’ve forgotten. I’ll just have to make it in extra early so I’ll have time to change.

“There’s a bathroom through that door over there. The other’s a closet. There are extra blankets and towels in there if you need them.”

“Thanks. I think I’m good.”

Kit nods his head at me in a jerky motion. “Sure. Uh, I hope you sleep okay. I’ll see you in the morning. And keep your door closed if you don’t want to wake up with a cat sleeping on your head.”

“Got it,” I say, and we look at each other awkwardly. What I’d like to do is grab Kit by the lapels of the suit he doesn’t want me to burn, push him against the wall, and kiss the fuck out of him. That’s off limits, though, at least for now, so instead I stand here like a big idiot while Kit makes an equally awkward retreat, closing the door behind him.

With a sigh and a feeling of loss for something I never had in the first place, I walk to the bathroom to get myself ready for sleep.

I’m woken by pounding on my bedroom door. The first thought that filters through my head is wondering if it’s Dad and if it is, what’s set him off this time. My thoughts go to Kristoff then I remember where I am. I also notice the banging is on the bottom of my door at approximately cat height.

I get out of bed and open the door. Outside is an extremely round orange cat. He starts to waddle past me, but I catch him easily then pick him up. It’s like hefting a soft, furry bowling ball.

“What’s your daddy feeding you?” I ask the cat. “A steady diet of cheeseburgers?”

He meows at me in response, his body thrumming with a purr like an engine badly in need of a tune-up.

There’s a noise in the hall and I glance up to see Kristoff standing there, a frantic look in his eyes. All he’s wearing is another pair of those silk pajama bottoms. I can’t make out the color in the low light but it’s something dark.

“Your cat wouldn’t leave me alone,” I say. I should probably put him down, but I like his rumbly purr.

“He’ll probably sleep with you if you leave the door open,” Kristoff says. “Sorry he woke you up. He’s got bad manners because no one taught him any better. He was a stray kitten I found outside the building. He was starving and I was sure he’d die, but as you can see, he survived. He never learned how to cat, though, and he’s only got the one brain cell. Sorry.”

Kristoff is babbling and I find it unreasonably endearing. I can’t drag my eyes away from his broad, smooth chest. I want to unwrap him like a present then taste every single inch of his stupidly pretty body. It would probably take me all night but that’s a sacrifice I’m willing to make.

“What do I have to do to get you into my bed, Kitten?”

Kit freezes, every muscle in his body coiled tight. He stands there, seemingly waiting for something that doesn’t come. Eventually he says, without much conviction, “Don’t call me Kitten.”

17

Kristoff Is Ruined

I’ve always been a light sleeper, and I stir almost to consciousness when Falstaff steps over me then thuds to the floor. My brain, somewhere between dreaming and awake, notes that it must be time for his nightly rounds. I’m so used to his routine that my small blip toward consciousness pops and I sink back into my dream.

I’m in a dormitory. It’s every school I’d ever lived at and none of them. I’m tired and someone is chasing me, and I can’t find my room. Every door handle I turn is locked. Whatever’s behind me is getting closer and I need to hide, but there’s nowhere. Just hallway after hallway. I start pounding on doors, begging to be let in, but no one answers. Door after door and I can feel panic setting in—

I wake as a paw with barely sheathed claws prods my bare arm. After momentary disorientation, I register that I’m safe in my own bed. No one is chasing me.

The silence is shattered by rhythmic thumping. It takes me a few seconds to place it then I realize it’s Falstaff and he’s probably banging on the guest room door.

“Shit,” I mutter. “Stupid cat.” I fling myself out of bed then try to move both quickly and silently to intercept my noisy cat before he wakes Peter up.

I see I’m too late as I skid to a stop and see Peter standing in the doorway of the guest suite holding a madly purring Falstaff.

My eyes meet Peter’s and there’s a jolt of awareness that runs between and through both of us.

“Your cat wouldn’t leave me alone,” he says. He makes no move to hand him back.

“He’ll probably sleep with you if you leave the door open,” I say. “Sorry he woke you up. He’s got bad manners because no one taught him any better. He was a stray kitten I found outside the building. He was starving and I was sure he’d die, but as you can see, he survived. He never learned how to cat, though, and he’s only got the one brain cell. Sorry.”

Peter blinks then stares as if he’s only now just seeing me. “What do I have to do to get you into my bed, Kitten?”

I feel like I’ve been sucker punched. Did he really just say that to me? Am I still dreaming? I say the only clear thought in my head. “Stop calling me Kitten.”

“Make me,” he says, smirking at me.

Falstaff starts the feline struggle that means he’s had enough of being held and wants down. There are only three possible outcomes: hold the cat tighter and hope for the best, don’t alter your grip and let him shred you like lettuce until letting go is the only option, or let the cat go and be grateful you got off easy. I’m curious which one he’ll choose, although holding Falstaff tighter would be in character. Luckily for Peter I have a fully stocked first aid kit.

Peter, to my surprise, not only chooses the third option but he bends down and puts Falstaff gently on the floor then pats his head.

Some part of me unclenches as Falstaff pads away to continue his nightly rounds. This man, dressed only in his navy briefs, has said more than once that he means to break me. He wants me so miserable that I walk away from my inheritance to get away from the torment. He’s done his best to be a shitty boss, giving me unreasonable demands and holding me to what he thinks are impossible standards. I’m fairly certain it hasn’t occurred to him that I’ve worked under my father ever since my grandfather retired. He’s been making my life miserable since the day I started working at Minola. Hell, he’s been making my life miserable for as long as I can remember. Peter has nothing on Father when it comes to being a terrible boss.

Peter scares me, but it’s because every time he looks at me it’s a queasy mixture of revulsion and desire. It’s a look I know far too well, and it never ends well for me. I saw it on the face of every school bully I had to endure as he hurt me, one way or another.

Lately, though, I feel like there’s more desire than revulsion in Peter’s gaze, but it’s hard for me to trust my judgement. There’s a part of me that will always expect cruelty over kindness, which doesn’t trust in the sanctity of safe words, and waits for the rug to be pulled out from under my feet at any time. But I’ve read that the way a man treats animals is a good reflection of his character. I need this to be true.

I tell Peter the absolute truth. “I can’t make you do anything.”

He tilts his head to the side, considering me, then asks, “What will it take for you to let me in your bed?”

It’s impossible for me to take the question seriously. “You could stop trying to get me to quit my job and give up my inheritance.”

Peter shakes his head. “Forget about Minola. Forget I’m your boss—”

“Temporary boss.”

“Forget that you’re Kristoff Minola and I’m Peter Verona, at least for tonight. Tell me what it’ll take. I want inside you, Kit, as deep as I can go. Do I have to make you, or can I just ask?”

That thing inside me that had earlier unclenched now cracks. I knew from the night Peter came storming over here that he’d end up fucking me sooner or later. It never occurred to me, though, that he’d bother to ask first.

The few men I’ve had sex with flicker through my mind. Voices ordering me to get on my knees or on my back. Hands pushing me into their desired position. Sometimes I was fucked hard and sometimes it was slow, lazy strokes. All of them telling me what they wanted to do to me but not one of them asking.

Needing to know his answer, I ask, “And if I say no? The time is ridiculously late. Or early.”

Peter shrugs. “I guess I’ll go mope and rub one out. Probably in the shower. That’s a really fucking nice shower. Then I’ll prowl around in your kitchen looking for a way to make coffee and I’ll eat cold pizza for breakfast while I wait for you to finish up your beauty sleep.”

It's obvious he’s serious. This is literally what he’ll do if I say no. He won’t make me because I haven’t asked for it. This is absolutely my decision and my choice, and Peter will respect whatever I decide. Something like fear and hope swells up inside my chest. “Okay. Follow me.” Then I turn and walk back to my room.

“Hey, wait a second.” Hands grip me from behind. First lips then teeth graze my neck. “Don’t take off without me. What if I got lost?”

Even though he can’t see me I roll my eyes. “No one’s sense of direction is that bad.”

“You said I could fuck you. I’m not losing out on an opportunity like that just because I make a wrong turn and end up in Narnia or something. What if my stars never align again?”

I take Peter’s hand and pull him after me. Within moments we’re at my bedroom. I turn on the light, meaning to shoo out the other cats, but they’ve already taken off. Once Peter is inside the room I close the door and go to turn off the light.

Peter stops me. “Can we keep it on? I want to see what I’m doing. Especially if this is my only chance.”

“Do a good job and it won’t be your only chance.”

“Ugh. The pressure!” But under his groan I can hear Peter laughing. He sounds happy so I turn to look at him and he looks happy too. His erection stretches out the fabric of his briefs.

I stand beside my bed, unsure what I should do next. “Um. How do you want me?”

“In every way possible,” he says, walking toward me until the backs of my knees touch the bed.

“I meant right now, not for all time.”

“Yes,” Peter replies happily. “Yes to all of it. Whatever you want first. I’m easy. But if you want me to pick, lie on your stomach. And take these off.” He pulls my sleep pants down to mid-thigh.

Perversely thankful that Peter is letting me decide to not decide, I pull my pants off entirely then crawl onto my bed on my hands and knees. I kick the covers out of the way then lay down on my stomach, my arms folded under my head.

I feel Peter’s fingers trace lightly down my back from my shoulders to my ass. When he reaches my hips, he pulls my legs apart so I’m spread wide.

“Fuck, Kitten. You’re so beautiful.” His voice is hushed and reverent. He pulls my ass cheeks apart then touches the skin there lightly. He’s close enough that I can feel his breath on me.

“Don’t call me Kitten,” I say, although at the moment he can call me any damn thing he wants to as long as he keeps touching me like that.

“Don’t hold your breath. No, I mean it. If you don’t breathe you’ll pass out.”

“What?” I ask.

He just hums in satisfaction then shows me.

The first touch of his tongue is… actually, I’m not sure because I’m fairly certain several key brain cells overheat then short out. If the perfect word to describe the feeling of Peter’s hot tongue on the most taboo part of my body exists, I’ve never heard or read it. I can come close, though, with luxurious, erotic, mortifying, and intense.

I tend to be quiet during sex, mostly out of habit. My first orgasm was secretive, stolen in the darkest part of the night when the boys I roomed with were deeply asleep. I learned to come moving slowly, cautiously, and overall, quietly.

My ability to keep my mouth shut during sex might have been my main appeal to my first boyfriend, but that’s not a thought I need right now. I forcibly shove everything out of my head and the only parts I let operate are the ones responsible for touch and sound.

The wet heat feels exquisite. A large part of the appeal is probably how profoundly uncomfortable having Peter’s tongue lap at my pucker makes me feel. I think I might be able to come like this. I’ll probably find out soon because when I try to grab my aching cock and tug on it, Peter knocks my hand aside and stops the torturous pleasure.

“The only one getting you off tonight is me,” Peter growls at me, the dangerous edge to his voice making my heart swoop in excitement and dread. “And when you get off is up to me, too. Come before I say you can, and I’ll have to punish you like you’re a naughty little boy.

“Fuck!” comes out of my mouth before I can stop it, but Peter doesn’t seem to mind.

He licks me again, this time going from the base of my balls, which feel like they’re made of hot lead, to the top of my crack. “I love the little noises you make, Kitten, but before we’re done, I’m gonna make you fucking roar.” Then he blows on my saliva-damp skin, making shivers run through my body. “And it’ll be my name you scream out. I don’t care if it takes me all night, you will come with my name on your lips.” He punctuates his sentence with a hard bite to one of my butt cheeks.

The pain is exquisite, and he pairs it with his hand wrapped around my cock. He smears my precum on his palm then jerks me with slow, deliberate pulls that end with his hand gliding over the wet, enlarged head and playing with my foreskin. Meanwhile that bite goes on while he sucks on my skin to leave a bruise. It’s nothing at all like any sex I’ve ever had. It’s overwhelming.

“Breathe, Kitten,” Peter tells me. “In and out. Then tell me how much you like this.” After which he bites another part of my ass hard enough that I might need a tetanus shot after he’s done with me. Peter lifts his mouth away and then his tongue is back on my hole, this time trying to work its way in. He pairs the unspeakable pleasure with a hard pinch to the tip of my cock.

“Jesus Christ.” This is the most intelligent thing I can think to say while my body copes with the conflicting sensations. It occurs to me, in a moment of lucidity, that Peter has ruined me for any future sex. Nothing could possibly compare to how he’s using my body to play music that’s only in his head. I am a helpless instrument in his hands as he plucks my strings and makes me sing.

Peter’s hand moves to cup my achy sac while his tongue penetrates me. How—why—is he doing this to me? When he’s tongue fucking me for all he’s worth, Peter’s hand slowly squeezes my balls until the pain is nearly overwhelming. I continue to sing for him, but more loudly. I have to keep reminding myself that no one but Peter can hear me cry and curse and beg for both mercy and release.

“Not yet,” he says, thankfully letting go of my balls, which throb painfully along with the beat of my heart. He licks and kisses up my spine until he gets to my neck, where he sucks a mark everyone will be able to see tomorrow.

I want him to stop. I want him to never stop. “Please,” I beg, and I don’t even know what I’m asking for.

“Do you want my cock, Kitten? Raw, just saliva for lube?”

I have no way to truthfully answer that question. “Yes” and “no” are both the truth and lies at the same time. The paradox is too difficult to pick apart.

“Trick question, Kit,” Peter says cheerfully. “You’ll get what I give you.

He rolls my trembling body over and I gratefully lie on my back, trying to get my muscles to unclench. I wonder if I’ll get the Lady or the Tiger.

“You’re just too fucking beautiful, Kitten.” He flicks one of my nipples and pinches the other. “Nipples all tight and hard and ready to bite. All this smooth, gorgeous golden skin. And that cock. You’re packing so much more than I expected. Makes me glad I live over here on the top side, because that makes you my bottom bitch. I’m gonna fill you up, baby. Breed you over and over. And then I’m gonna eat my cum out of your pretty hole.” Peter pushes his thumb against my hole, but doesn’t push inside. “You’re so tight right now. It’ll be like I’m fucking a virgin. But by the time I’m done, your little hole will gape open like the hungry thing I know it is. And you know what, Kit?”

“What?” I breathe, every cell in my body terrified and exhilarated at once.

“I’m going to ruin you. Take you apart and then leave you like that. Shatter your whole fucking world and I’ll enjoy every single second of your destruction. Are you ready?”

I’m incapable of making any kind of intelligent noise. The only thing that comes out of me is a squeak of alarm and anticipation.

“I’ll take that as a yes,” Peter says. “Let’s get started, shall we? But first things first. I need lube and if you want them, condoms.”

My brain has not fully followed events. Something about lube and condoms. “What?”

“It’s up to you, Kitten. Well, not the lube. I don’t care how masochistic you are, we’re using lube. And you mentioned you wanted to use condoms, didn’t you? So where are they? You don’t get to come until you fork over the goods.”

This conversation is harshing my sexual buzz. “I don’t have any condoms,” I say. Why would I have condoms? And what was the other thing? Oh, lube. “I’ve got lotion in my bedside table.”

Peter tilts his head slightly as he looks down at me, tsking. “Such an unprepared boy. No anal merit badge for you. At least not tonight.”

Disappointment crashes through me. My sexual frustration makes my eyes prickle with angry tears. “What are you even good for, then?” I demand bitterly.

Peter tsks some more. “That remark will get you a punishment, Kit, but later.” He reaches over me, opens up the drawer on the table by my bed, then holds his prize up for me to admire: a half-full bottle of Auteur serum. “For now, this’ll have to do. Any port in a storm, right?”

“Um, sure.” I’m tempted to tell him that the port he’s holding cost me over a thousand dollars and might end up being the most expensive lube in the universe. I decide I’ll spring that on him later.

He moves to straddle my legs and brings our cocks together. Mine is longer but his is thicker. He’s cut and I’m not. My cock is darker than his even though I’ve just about lost my erection, but he hasn’t.

“Sorry, I’m not…” I gesture to my flagging erection.

“I’ve got the cure for that.” He squirts out approximately two-hundred dollars worth of cream into his hand then covers both our cocks in it. If nothing else, we will have extremely well-moisturized penises by morning. He tightens his grip on us then begins to jack us both.

He’s right about having the cure. I get what the big deal is about frotting now. It’s not as earth shattering as being rimmed, but I also have a much higher chance of coming. My cock hardens within two strokes. Before Peter gets to a half-dozen, I’m on the edge of coming but I don’t know if that’s allowed.

“I need… please… I need…”

“What do you need, Kitten? Tell me.”

“C-come,” I stammer out. “I need to…”

“Ah ah ah,” Peter scolds. “You haven’t said the magic word.”

I frown. Didn’t I already say please?

“Say my name, Kitten. You can come, but you have to tell the world who’s responsible.”

“Oh fuck oh fuck. I’m coming. I… please… I…”

Peter does something with his hand and I’m about to fly right over the edge and into the first orgasm I’ve gotten from a person who wasn’t me in far too long.

“Say it,” he commands. “Say my fucking name as you come all over my hand. Say it.”

“Peter! Oh god I… fuck… Peter, I—”

“Now thank me.”

My world explodes and the words pour out of me as cum spurts out of my cock. “Thank you, Peter, fuck… I… fuck, Peter. Thank you thank you thank you.” The words burst from me as I ride out the ecstasy. Peter’s right. I am ruined.

Dimly I hear him groan loudly as his orgasm joins mine. Peter keeps stroking us until the pleasure is too intense then thankfully he lets go. He leaves the bed, and I can hear water running in the bathroom. He returns to wipe me off with something. Probably a towel. Then he slides into my bed beside me and snuggles against me, his arm draped over my chest. He makes a grunting noise of contentment then falls instantly asleep, snoring, although not loud enough to be irritating. Snores or not, I won’t be getting any more sleep tonight.

I think of the mark Peter left on my neck, and my ass, and how he told me when and how to come and I did exactly what he ordered. I ponder the unbearably intense orgasm that crashed out of me. Physically I’m sated but my mind already wants more.

He's won. That son of a bitch has won. Oh, I’m not quitting my job. I’m sure as fuck not giving up my inheritance to my so-called father. But that’s just money and the company. Peter has won me, whether he realizes it or not.

I am fucked, absolutely and completely. I’m ruined, through and through. There’s no going back to how things were before. My only consolation is that Peter is fucked just as hard and thoroughly as me.

18

Peter Does Not Buy His Tie From Target

Iwake wrapped around a warm male body in a bed that isn’t mine. As Veronica would say, “Sounds like Tuesday,” but then I remember. I fucked my damn stepbrother. That’s got to be an all-time low in the depravity department. I prod my feelings and find that none of me gives much of a shit if we’re legally related. Hell, I’m not positive I could’ve kept my hands off Kit even if he did turn out to be my long-lost brother by blood. But that’s some V. C. Andrews kinda shit and I was never a fan. The early eighties were a super weird time for popular fiction, but I digress and wrestle my squirrel brain off of shuffle mode.

Let’s just look at the facts. I’d like to think my A+ game got me here, but to myself at least I have to admit that Kit seduced me every bit as much as I seduced him. So we have two very consenting adults in this kinda sorta taboo scenario. That’s got to count for something.

Fact number two is that Kit blew my fucking mind last night. All my fuses are fried and need to be replaced. I’m not thinking clearly, and I don’t really care. If last night was an example of what not thinking gets me, sign me up for a lifetime supply of that shit. I’m not even close to being done with Kit. Not by a longshot. There is so much left of him to pick apart and explore.

The third fact isn’t a fun one. When Baldwin gets back from Sicily he’s going to blow a fucking gasket if he gets wind of what’s going on between me and Kit. Part of me would enjoy the look on his face when he comprehends what his son and I have done. And will continue to do. Kit has all kinds of bells and whistles and I’m going to play with every single one wherever and whenever I choose. That’s sure as hell going to involve the office in some way or another. Fucking in the corporate headquarters of Minola Corp sounds scorching hot, but also a recipe to give my stepfather an aneurysm.

For the first time I allow myself to consciously think what I’ve held in the back of my mind for most if my life—I don’t really care if something bad happens to Baldwin Minola.

Two things are clear to me in the watery dawn light seeping into Kit’s bedroom. The first is that Kit isn’t the spoiled selfish brat Baldwin has always insinuated he is. The tiny glimpses into Kit’s childhood that he’s let spill out paint the picture of a sad and lost little boy, forsaken by everyone except his grandparents. The second thing is that I’m also beginning to think Baldwin has been financially holding out on me and Mom, although I’m not sure by how much.

I think it’s telling that my lack of obvious signs of wealth confuses Kit. He doesn’t seem to understand why I’m not as well-off as he is. I don’t think he knows that I have no trust fund and after getting my MBA, I’m in debt up to my eyeballs. Baldwin has led me to believe that if I do what he wants, namely to humiliate and bully his son into giving up his place at Minola Corp, that he’ll be able to make all our money problems magically go away. I’ll be able to pay off my school loans and credit card debt and we’ll be able to afford that cancer pill for Mom so she doesn’t have to keep going into the hospital for radiation treatments.

I suspect that if I promised to be everything Kit needs in a partner that he’d make sure my mother was taken care of properly and lift the burden of debt off my shoulders without thinking twice about the expense. Money has no particular meaning for him. It’s the grease that eases his way through life and nothing else. He doesn’t want to hoard his wealth like a jealous dragon. What Kit wants, I think, is affection. Companionship. Love.

I’m not sure I’m capable of that last one. I love my mother and Veronica, obviously platonically, but I’ve never romantically loved anyone. I’m not even sure how it’s supposed to work. What makes you love someone, forsaking all others for as long as you both shall live? I have absolutely no idea, but I’m good at faking things. I know how to make a person feel loved and that’s nearly the same thing, right?

It might be enough for Kit, at any rate. If he paid for my mother’s medication I’d figure out how to be the most romantic son of a bitch that ever existed—if that’s even what Kit wants. I just don’t know. On the other hand, I’m planning on fucking Kit silly for the foreseeable future, so that gives me some time to figure this shit out.

I can do this. I plan on taming my semi-feral Kitten with pets and snuggles and plenty of romping around until he becomes a purring machine whenever he sees me. I have drive and I know how to be ruthless. Thanks for that, Baldwin. I’m going to use everything you drummed into my head for my benefit for a change, not yours. I’m going to make Kit happy like it’s my fucking job. It that means spanking his ass on a regular basis or whipping him or doing whatever the fuck kinky shit he likes, I am on it.

Kit, despite all the shit I’ve thrown at him so far, hasn’t blown up at me in a fit of rage. He’s sniped at me plenty and has been as irritating as possible while still doing a perfect job at work, but he hasn’t screamed at me once.

Baldwin, on the other hand, has screamed at me until he lost his voice. Or at least he used to, before I figured out how to be the little minion he wanted.

Taking all of this into account, I think choosing which Minola deserves my loyalty is a no-brainer. Even if love isn’t in my bag of tricks, I know how to be devoted. I am the perfect partner for Kit. Now all I need to do is prove it to him.

And also hope Baldwin doesn’t have us killed. I have no idea what Baldwin’s really up to in Palermo, but I doubt it’s just for an innocent family reunion with his mother’s people. From hints he’s let drop and a little Googling on my part, I’m suspicious his relatives there are Mafia. Whatever he’s asking his shady relatives in Sicily for, I know it can’t be good—not for me or Mom and definitely not for Kit.

I wonder if I should warn Kit then I wonder if it would do any good.

My churning thoughts are interrupted when Kit stirs and moves so he’s lying on his back looking up at me. “You stayed with me all night?” Kit says those words like they’re a question he wants the answer to but is afraid to ask.

“Your bed is very comfortable, Kitten.”

“Stop calling me Kitten.” Kit frowns slightly and without thinking I smooth the skin between his eyebrows and on his forehead until he relaxes. “And the guest bed has the same mattress and pillows as my bed.”

“The guest bed doesn’t have you in it,” I say, pleased when Kit’s skin pinkens to the same hue as the sky outside.

“I can’t believe this is happening,” Kit says, more to himself than me. “I can’t believe any of this is real. I was probably hit by a car on my way home and this is all a dream my comatose brain has concocted to keep me entertained.”

“If this is just a dream, we can do whatever we want with no consequences,” I point out, attempting to be helpful.

Kit looks up at me. He nibbles his lip, which for the record is super fucking hot, and asks, “What kind of things?”

“We could play hooky from work.”

Shock fills Kit’s face. “We can’t just not show up to work.”

“Why not?” I ask.

“Nothing will happen to Minola Corp if we take off for the day. Who’s going to stop us?”

Kit blinks rapidly like his brain is rebooting. Then, in a small voice he asks, “Can we go see Sue?”

It takes me a second to figure out what he’s talking about but when I do, I grin down at him. “We can absolutely go see Sue.”

“There’s clean underwear in that middle drawer. My dressing room is that door right there. While I’m in the shower, pick out something to wear.” Kit says this to me over his shoulder as he walks into the bathroom then closes the door.

I immediately miss looking at his ass. A deep, but loud and insistent, part of my brain won’t stop telling me that Kit is too beautiful and a million miles out of my league. I know that no matter how much privilege I’ve been given, or how well I was educated, despite even the manners and social etiquette that was drilled into me so hard it’s become as natural as breathing, I will never lose the taint of my origins.

My stepfather made it clear how grateful I should be for him scooping my mother out of the gutter and giving both of us a life we could only aspire to, but never attain on our own. I was the replacement child for the one that had abandoned him, and I was taught to be thankful for every single thing I was given due to my elevated circumstances.

Part of me has always hated that narrative, even as a small child who had no idea what a narrative even was. I knew I was smart because my teachers and Mama said so. I was the one who earned the happy stickers and stars and A’s attached to my schoolwork. Nevertheless, I strove to please a man who, I learned soon after my mother married him, couldn’t be pleased.

He's strung both my mother and I along for years with crumbs of praise and affection along with the promise of more, if we can only be worthy of deserving it.

By college I had a clear plan that I chased with dogged determination. I would get my degree, and my MBA, work at Minola for a few years, and make the business contacts I needed. Then I’d look for a position in a company unaffiliated with Minola. Then I’d be free to be and say and do whatever I wanted. I’d convince my mother to leave Baldwin and take care of her. She knew I was pan and wouldn’t care who I was dating, as long as that person made me happy.

Then Mom was diagnosed with cancer and Baldwin’s father had died, leaving everything to his wife and grandson but nothing at all to Baldwin but a paltry trust fund. An insult of an inheritance, according to my stepfather. But he had a plan, and he needed me to enact it.

I was catapulted to importance in my stepfather’s eyes and that attention had been sweet like a cool drink of clear water after wandering in the desert. Of course I’d help Baldwin get his inheritance back. It was only fair, and the sooner my stepfather got that money, the sooner we would be able to afford the medicine my mother needed. And I’d also get to stick it to my asshole stepbrother.

I saw nothing wrong with my stepfather’s proposal to ruin Kristoff’s life, and when he turned out to be a cold, snooty asshole, taking everything away from him had only seemed like the perfect solution to everything.

Then I’d actually met Kristoff Minola and saw the kind if man he truly is. He works his ass off, strides for perfection in all things, is reliable and knowledgeable, and is the first person to make me feel like I’m not the smartest person in the room.

He's also a complete mess of a human being. Neurotic, high strung, cold, unapproachable, and sad. What he isn’t is the type of person who would reject even a crumb of affection offered to him.

One of the truisms of my existence is wobbling unsteadily and on the brink of crumbling into dust. I am beginning to realize how much Baldwin has been lying about his son. It makes me feel a little queasy about how I’ve been treating Kit—and how I’ve been using him.

I’m also filled with even more resolution to claim him as mine, but not for solely my sake. I plan to claim Kit, make him love me, and then keep him forever. I want, like a junkie wants heroin, all those untapped reservoirs of devotion I sense barely concealed under Kit’s cool composure. And once Kit loves me, I’m never letting him go.

With that goal in mind, I hurry after Kit and open the bathroom door in time to catch him stepping into his shower. The shower in the guest room en suite, while far better than the shower I have at home, did not prepare me for this.

Like his bedroom, the bathroom is in shades of black, gray, white, and silver. There’s a double vanity, a toilet and a damn bidet, and then the… shower? I don’t know what to call it. It’s enclosed by clear glass and enormous. I’ve never seen anything like it. First of all, there is no shower head. Water just falls from the ceiling like extremely steamy rain. Kit stands in the middle, legs braced, and his face turned up to the spray.

“Why is there a bathtub inside your shower?” I ask.

Kit’s eyes are closed but my appearance doesn’t seem to startle him. “I should have known you wouldn’t follow orders,” he says, eyes still closed as he lets the hot water fall on the relaxed features of his face.

I want to kiss him but that’s the one thing he’s absolutely said no to. The urge inside me burns painfully but I push it down. I will kiss Kit, and more importantly he’ll kiss me back, but not yet. He’s not ready. “From you?” I scoff. “Not in this lifetime. Why is there a tub in your shower?”

He finally deigns to look at me. Kit’s face appears vulnerable with his hair slicked back with water and his lashes in spiked clumps around those spooky silver eyes of his. Again, I’m struck by how devastatingly beautiful Kit is and doesn’t seem to have the first clue what he looks like.

“It’s called a wet room,” Kit says, as if the answer is an obvious one.

“What the fuck is a wet room?” Because no, it’s not obvious.

Kit shrugs. “It’s a shower with a bathtub in it. As you’ve already pointed out.”

Smartass. “I’m not going to prowl through your clothes like a creepy stalker. Especially not your underwear.”  I feign a shudder. “If you feel that fussy about what I’m wearing to a museum, you can choose my outfit. Pretend I’m a giant ginger Ken doll.”

His lips quirk up in a lopsided smile. “That’s probably for the best. I don’t trust anyone who would buy that tie then wear it to competently dress himself for any occasion.”

I did not, for the record, buy the tie at Target. I couldn’t tell you where it’s from, but I didn’t buy it from a big box store where you can also purchase a television, Christmas tree, and a stuffed unicorn head to hang on your kid’s wall like the world’s creepiest hunting trophy. It was from a store that sells only men’s clothing, most of it designer brands.

I don’t contradict Kit, however, because he’s giving me exactly what I want. He will select something he wants me to wear, and I have no doubt his choices will speak volumes. Instead, I walk over to him and stand close enough that we are chest to chest and dick to dick. His begins to stir against mine and that makes me grin. “I could just eat you right up.”

“I can make you breakfast,” Kit says, prissy as fuck.

“I’m hungry for you, Kitten.”

“Stop calling me Kitten.”

Kit backs away from me and I pursue him, finally catching him when the backs of his legs hit the built-in shower bench. I push on his shoulders and he sinks down until he’s sitting on it. I stand in front of him and grab my cock as his eyes devour my every move. I give myself a few slow pulls and I swear Kit is drooling for me.

“Open up,” I tell him. “That’s not a request, Kit.”

His eyes dilate and darkness swallows his silver irises. Obediently, Kit opens his mouth wide and eagerly accepts my cock as I thrust my hips forward. I’m not fully erect but it's not long before I’m hard as steel and Kit is choking on me like the good boy he wants to be.

I stroke Kit’s wet hair then cup the nape of his neck and force him to take every last inch of me into his throat until his nose is buried into my groin. He gasps and gags around me but doesn’t try to pull back. In fact, his hands come around me and squeeze my ass as I thrust into Kit’s glorious mouth over and over and over. I only stop when I notice he’s tapping the side of my leg with the flat of his hand like he’s trying to convey a message.

I pull out of his heaven of a mouth and cup his face. “What is it, Kitten? Tell me.”

“Don’t come in my throat,” he rasps. “Come on my tongue so I can taste you.”

My cock throbs at his request. Kit, as a sexual being, is just one perfect surprise after another. “Open up.” He obeys and I jerk myself a few times until I’m spilling on his lips and tongue. “You eat that all up like a good boy,” I say, wishing I could pull him up to his feet then kiss the shit out of him.

That’s my new goal on my path to operation Make Kit Love Me. I will, one way or another, get that man to kiss me, even if it’s the last thing I do.

19

Kristoff Gets To See Sue

Ican’t help but compare the child I was to the children in the Field museum today. They wiggle and laugh and shout. When they’re tired they just give up and lie down on the hard marble floor. Some of them are clearly here with school groups but others have been liberated from school by the adults with them. Playing hooky, as Peter had said. They all look happy and well-cared for and loved.

The kids I grew up with weren’t all like this. Some were, yes, but there are reasons why people send their children to boarding school and most of them aren’t good. At the very least you have a parent or parents who can’t be with their child to supervise them properly. At worst, the children are nascent psychopaths always on the lookout for a new victim. The vast majority of the kids I went to school with were either bullies or bullied.

You could make a case that I was sent to a bad school, but there were so many of them. I met so many other children that I can barely remember what a handful looked like and what their names were. The rest just fall into a backdrop of misery, either causing or receiving.

I wandered through all the schools trying to be invisible. A small ghost who avoided conflict and harmed no one. I couldn’t afford to get into trouble because there was never anyone to take my side or back me up. I had a runaway mother, a father who couldn’t stand the sight of me, and no friends. I stopped trying to make friends after the third school. By then, I realized there was no point.

Peter kicks my foot, startling me out of my thoughts. “What are you thinking so hard about over there? I can practically see smoke coming out of your ears.”

The truth is so depressing that I don’t bother with it. Instead, I veer off in another direction. “Fun fact about me: this is the first time I’ve ever skived off work or school.”

After wandering about the museum, looking at everything that caught my interest, I’m as tired as one of those children on the floor. When Peter suggested coffee at the bistro in the main hall of the museum, I was grateful. My sandwich was eaten long ago, and my coffee is nearly gone, but I don’t want to get up because then our day will be over. I’m not ready for that yet.

“Your facts aren’t fun,” Peter remarks, but any bite to his words is absent.

Still, I feel the need to defend myself. “I have this crazy immune system. I never get sick, not even as a child, but you wouldn’t have known it by my appearance. I was the poster child for looking perpetually ill and underfed. I was small for my age and didn’t start to get any height until I was fifteen or sixteen. I was also pale and serious. I didn’t like sports. I didn’t even like sunny days because bright light hurts my eyes. The only thing I liked was reading books.”

“Shocker,” Peter says with a smirk. “I’m now picturing one of those creepy children illustrated by Edward Gorey. You know. K is for Kit, who fell onto a knife.”

“The Gashlycrumb Tinies!” I exclaim. “I loved that one. I had all the Amphigorey books.”

Peter leans forward with a salacious grin. “Did you ever read The Curious Sofa?”

“The one with all the implied kinky sex? Yes. Several times. I didn’t understand everything going on until I was older, though.”

“I still don’t understand everything in that book, but I’d be willing to give any of it a try.” Peter does that eye brow waggling thing that should be stupid and unattractive but somehow on him, is charming. “Do you have a red sofa with seven legs and nine arms? Or was it nine legs and seven arms? Whichever. Either. It must have a huge-ass lever in the back.”

“I do not,” I say, doing my best to keep a straight face. “No one does.”

“That’s a shame. I want to know what made Alice start to scream.”

“Anyway,” I say, attempting to get this conversation back on track.

“We could play a game where you’re Alice and I’m the sofa. I already know I can make you scream.”

“Anyway,” I try again, hoping there aren’t any children listening to us. Or any adults, either. “I might have looked like I was constantly at death’s door when I was young, but I never got sick. Not even once. Certainly nothing bad enough to allow me to stay in my bed and not go to school. I still am rarely sick. A cold here and there. That’s all.”

“You make good health sound like a moral failing,” Peter points out, as if I weren’t already aware of that.

“I never got Covid, either.”

“Seriously?” Peter asks. “That seems unlikely.”

I shake my head. “Not really. I got all my vaccines when I was supposed to and if it’s one thing in life I’m good at, it’s social distancing. I worked from home for most of that time. I started getting my meals and other groceries delivered. When I needed new clothing I had it shipped to my tailor, who made the necessary alterations based on my measurements and then had them delivered to my home. Nearly everything you could ever want can be ordered online. I went months without talking to another human being in person.”

“The King of Social Distancing.”

“The story of my life,” I say, and I’m not able to keep all the bitterness out of my voice.

“I envy you,” Peter says. “I had to social distance with my parents and do grad school online. Mom isn’t so bad. But my stepfather…” he trails off.

“Is awful,” I say, then regret it. Peter probably looks at my sperm donor and sees a father figure. He might even, god help him, love the man. “I’m sorry. I shouldn’t have said that.”

Peter gives me a long, curious look then says, “Why?”

Now I feel as squirmy as the small child at the table next to ours. He’s being ordered to finish his sandwich by his parents and having none of it. The threat of no ice cream is put out there but doesn’t seem to help.

“Just because he was a crappy father doesn’t mean you had the same experience,” I say. There. That’s diplomatic.

Peter shakes his head. “Nah. He was a crappy stepdad, too. My mom loves him though. No idea why, but she does.”

I want to ask why he’s acting on my father’s behalf if he dislikes him so much, but I keep that back. Things are too nice today and I don’t want to keep talking about the man who point-blank refused to love or raise me. I think, if it hadn’t been for my grandparents, I would’ve been given up for adoption. Boarding school was the compromise, but adoption might have been kinder. I shake my head as if that will shake the thoughts loose and let them blow away.

“We’ve seen the titanosaur, of course.” Our table is nearly under its tail. “And that scary pterosaur thing.”

“The Quetzalcoatlus,” Peter supplies helpfully.

“But not Sue. According to the map she’s upstairs.”

“Will you throw a tantrum if I say we’ve been here long enough and it’s time to go home? Because that, young man, will earn you a spanking.”

I weigh seeing the world’s most complete T. rex skeleton against Peter giving me a spanking. It’s a difficult choice, but I’m good at negotiating. “How about we go and look at everything upstairs, especially Sue, I don’t have a tantrum, and then you can spank me anyway when we’re home.” I realize what I’ve said and nearly choke on a sip of coffee. “I mean back at my apartment. Unless you want to leave. You’re probably ready to go home by this point.” I can feel how red I must be from the prickling heat in my face.

Peter stands, grinning down at me unfazed. “I suppose we can stay a little longer if you promise to be good.” He takes my hand and draws me to my feet. In my ear, he adds “We can discuss any punishments you might have coming to you later.”

I want to burst with happiness, excitement, and pure lust. I haven’t felt like this since I was a teenager with my first boyfriend.

A cloud of bad memories blocks my sunny mood. I always want the wrong kinds of men. Nothing ever changes. Nevertheless I take Peter’s hand in mine as we climb the wide stairs.

Sue is absolutely worth the trip to see her massive skeleton. Some wound inside me I’ve been carrying since childhood begins to heal. With Peter’s hand in mine I feel full to the brim and like I could float away. It is, I realize, happiness.

Apparently not caring that we’re sitting in the backseat of a taxi, Peter grabs my thigh and squeezes it then says, “Do we need to make a stop at Walgreens, or do you have lube and condoms at your place?”

I want to sink into the seat and disappear, but physics hates me, and I remain solid.

“I asked you a question, Kitten.”

“Don’t call me Kitten,” I hiss back at him. “And it’s taken care of.”

“Taken care of how?”

I look out the window at traffic and don’t answer.

The hand on my thigh squeezes harder. “I guess we’ll see, but it’s your ass, not mine. Even if it’s not ‘taken care of’ as you claim, I am going to be inside you, even if I have to take you with nothing but spit and precum.”

In the front seat, the driver winces, and laughs. “You got some balls on you, man. Be careful your boyfriend doesn’t cut them off while you sleep.”

Peter grins unrepentantly. “I’m not worried. The last thing my kitten here wants is to castrate me. Isn’t that right, Boo?”

“Fuck off,” I grumble, but all that accomplishes is making both Peter and the driver laugh their asses off at me. I give Peter the silent treatment all the way back home.

Sitting in front of my door is a small gift bag in black and gold with the building’s logo on it. I pick it up then unlock the door, preparing, as always, to block the door with my body if my cats try to escape.

Minus any kind of feline greeting, I open the door wider and hope no one is under a kitchen chair, just looking for the right opportunity to bolt. None of my cats tries for a prison break, however, and we enter my condo without incident.

I put the small bag on the counter then look up when I hear Peter dragging out a kitchen stool. He moves it to the middle of the room then sits on it and looks at me.

Eventually, because apparently my will is as strong as cotton candy, I’m the one to break the silence. “What are you doing?”

“I’m waiting.”

Apparently we’re playing some sort of game now. “For what?”

Peter is silent, just staring at me. I do my best not to fidget while I wait. He’s doing this on purpose—that much is obvious—but I don’t know what his end game is.

Eventually he says, “Come over here, pull down your pants, and bend over my lap.”

“Excuse me?” My voice cracks like I’m thirteen again.

“You’ve earned ten spanks, Kristoff. Fight me on this and that number will keep going up.”

“Earned? Doing what?”

“You’re breathing, aren’t you? That’s reason enough.” Peter’s lips curve into an evil pirate’s smile.

I’ll admit that I’ve fantasized about this. A man who gives me the right sort of pain. One I can trust to hurt me, but not hurt me. That I do trust Peter is crazy in and of itself, but I do. I couldn’t tell you why, but I would trust him with my life.

This will both hurt and be incredibly uncomfortable. Humiliating as well. My cock is already hard thinking about it. I wish I knew why I was like this, but I’ve never been brave enough to bring it up with my therapist. It’s a door that, once open, can’t ever be closed again. I’m worried she’ll think of this every time she sees me.

Dreamily I drift toward Peter. Obediently I loosen my belt, undo my fly, then pull my pants down to mid-thigh. I’m reminded that the muscled legs I’m draping myself over are wearing my jeans. They’re a little tight on Peter and cup his ass in a way that should be illegal. The green cashmere sweater I can feel along my bare hip is also mine. Peter looks far better in it than I do. The color of the sweater makes everything about him a degree more attractive. His hotness has been dialed to eleven.

Part of me is screaming internally that I’m being foolish and reckless. The rest of my brain wants to get off and that’s the part that wins.

Time stretches out like taffy and it’s maddening. I’m going to scream if Peter doesn’t do something soon. Then his hand falls hard to the accompaniment of a meaty crack of sound and a sudden sharp burst of agony.

It's so, so sweet. I want another and another. Enough to shut my brain down and let things just happen to me.

In the end I do scream, but it’s as I come, grinding my cock along Peter’s denim-clad legs frantically while he caresses my sore, stinging ass and murmurs soft but filthy words of encouragement.

I’ve never been in love or been loved by anyone but my grandparents. It’s not an emotion I’m particularly familiar with or good at, but if it was possible for me to fall for anyone, I think that person might be Peter.

I’m in over my head so deep that I might never make it back to the surface.

20

Peter Is Addicted

Kit is addictive and I can’t seem to keep my hands off him.

After spanking Kit, which might be one of the hottest things I’ve ever done with any person, I lead him back to his bedroom and lay him face down. The skin on his gorgeous ass is a deep pink bordering on crimson. I climb onto the bed behind him and liberate Kit from his clothes. I want to rip every last shred of fabric that hides his body from me, but I don’t. Kit would hate that, and I’m also not sure it’s possible to tear off a wool sweater with just bare hands. Instead, I undress him carefully and he is loose and pliant in my hands. The only sound from him is an occasional hum of contentment.

He hates it when I call him Kitten, or at least pretends he does, but that’s what Kristoff is. If he had the ability to purr, it would be rumbling out of his chest and vibrating through his throat.

I’m too impatient to touch Kit so I leave my clothes—or rather my borrowed clothes—on. I cup the globes of his reddened ass with my hands then bury my face in all that heat. Kit moans, in pain or pleasure or both, and I can’t get enough of it.

I’ve spanked my partners before when they told me they wanted or needed it, but it’s never been my kink, and those relationships never lasted long. Although I love being in power, spanking someone just didn’t flip all my switches. I’m not sure why it’s different with Kit, but I can feel deeply that it is. Bringing him pleasure gives me pleasure in return—that’s nothing new—but my own obsession with Kit’s marked body is.

I have no desire to push Kit past his limits, should we ever get there, but I can’t deny the primitive primal urge to have the world see that he’s mine—every last inch of him. Every bruise, stretch of hot skin, and every scratch on his perfect body belongs to me. I want everyone to know that I’m the only man who can give Kristoff Minola what he needs.

It's more than a little scary, I’ll be honest. It’s a metric fuckton of scary but all I want is more and more and more. Even more terrifying is my need for Kit to claim me as I have claimed him. It wasn’t my intention to catch feelings for Kit, or at least not like this. I vowed to myself that I’d give back to him in equal measure to what I took but I never intended this. There is little I wouldn’t do just to see Kit smile. If that brilliant mind of his puts all the pieces together and realizes I need him far more than he could ever need me, I’m well and truly fucked.

Unless I can make him fall in love with me. It’s laughable. Cold, sharp, and deadly like an icicle, Kit Minola doesn’t love anyone. Everyone knows that—everyone except me. I will make Kristoff love me so hard he can’t imagine life without me in it. It’s the only outcome I’ll accept.

That’s my endgame, but for now I’m content with ensuring Kit becomes addicted to my touch.

Tonight, I’m going to make Kit beg for release and tomorrow I’m taking his ass at least once. More than once if I can get away with it. Then we’ll go to work on Monday, and I have no fucking clue what happens then, but that’s a problem for Monday. In the short run the only item on my to-do list is the man sprawled out underneath me.

“I’m going to fuck you so hard it’ll hurt every time you sit for at least a week,” I tell him confidently.

“Oh god,” Kit gasps. He sounds scared, but he also pushes his ass against my seeking hands. “Want… need… inside me.”

“Patience, Kitten, we’ll get there. Now spread those pretty legs of yours really wide. Show me that sexy hole of yours.”

Kit reaches back and spreads his cheeks for me, his hands digging hard into his reddened sore flesh. It’s got to hurt but he doesn’t let up. “Need you inside me,” he insists.

I give Kit’s thigh a hard, stinging slap. “Be good and take what you’re given. Now hold still.”

He practically wails in frustration but holds as still as he can. My plan was to open Kit up with my fingers until he was ready, but I’ve got different plans now. I want so many things, including sinking my cock into Kit’s tight hole, but I promised I’d take this slow no matter how much it kills me. Instead, I give into another temptation and taste him again.

Kit’s moans are lovely, almost like music. My mouth is too occupied to talk but I soothe and comfort Kit with my hands while my tongue teases and laps at his tiny rosebud of a hole. I don’t want to take things slow just to torture Kit. I need to take them slow, or I’ll tear him in half with my cock. It's one thing to dish out pain with desire. It’s something else entirely to harm Kit intentionally. If he’s mine, and he is whether he realizes it or not, then I need to take care of him. That includes a lot, but especially my cock in his ass.

“Fuck me, please, fuck me,” Kit begs.

“No, and if you keep whining about it I’ll put a cage on your cock then throw away the key. You want to come sometime this century, Kitten? Then be good.”

Kit growls at me but that’s good enough. I go back to my all-I-can-eat Kit buffet, determined to get my money’s worth. One of these days I’m gonna tie him up, fuck him full of my cum, then eat him out until I’m ready to go again. Rinse and repeat until one of us collapses or dies. I can’t wait to tell him that, but it’ll have to be later. It’s rude to talk with your mouth full.

When I realize I’m sweating my ass off, I pull away from Kit long enough to strip myself bare, ignoring his cute little protests. Sorry, baby, but if I don’t get naked soon, I’m going to keel over and die.

“Please tell me that cute little black bag has lube in it,” I say, feeling a million times better with no clothes on.

Kit grunts and I take that as a yes.

I give him a light swat on his hip. “You can let go and relax, Kitten. I’ll be right back.”

Kit goes completely limp and collapses onto the bed with a groan. “Can I please come?” he asks in this tiny little voice like Oliver Twist begging for more gruel.

“You already came, greedy boy. Now it’s my turn.”

Kit sighs loudly but is smart enough not to protest. I will totally put his cock in a cage if he keeps pushing me, but I’d never really throw away the key. I might pretend to, though, if I think Kit deserves it.

Humming cheerfully, I go to retrieve the lube from the kitchen only to get a huge amount of side-eye from the three cats. “Shut up,” I tell them. “We’re two consenting adults. Go judge someone else.” They just keep staring at me, so I add, “Look, kids. Your dad really needs me to fuck him stupid. He’s way overdue, and I know you don’t get it because none of you still have balls, but trust me, boys, daddy Kit will be fine. More than fine by the time I’m done with him.”

“Are you talking to my cats?”

I whip around to see a gloriously naked Kit standing just behind me. I put my hand on my heart. “Fuck, Kit, don’t do that. I about had a heart attack, and you’re supposed to be in bed.”

“You were talking to my cats, weren’t you? I heard you telling them I’d be fine.”

“You will be once you’re riding my cock.”

Kit shivers and his nipples harden into stiff buds. “Why were you assuring my cats I’d be fine?” He steps close and winds his arms around my neck.

For a second, my mind goes blank. All I can see is Kit’s beautiful mouth and all I want is to see how it tastes. I can’t, though. I promised him I wouldn’t, so instead I focus and attempt to answer Kit’s question.

“They seemed concerned about you.”

Kit laughs and rests his forehead against mine. “You’re such a fraud, Peter Verona.”

I open my mouth to protest but nothing comes out because my Kit is kissing me.

21

Kristoff Likes Peter. A Lot

When I hear Peter talking to someone in my kitchen I have to investigate. No one should be there, but his voice doesn’t sound either afraid or threatening. I think he might be trying to negotiate with someone.

Someone, it turns out, is Falstaff, Polonius, and Laertes.

“Are you talking to my cats?”  I ask.

Peter whips around, one hand held dramatically to his heart. “Fuck, Kit, don’t do that. I about had a heart attack, and you’re supposed to be in bed.”

I roll my eyes at his attempt at evasion. “You were talking to my cats, weren’t you? I heard you telling them I’d be fine.”

“You will be once you’re riding my cock,” Peter says, his voice full of filthy suggestion.

The timbre of his voice gives me a full body shiver. I want to ride Peter’s cock more than almost anything in this world. “Why were you assuring my cats I’d be fine?” Feeling brave, I step close to Peter and wind my arms around my neck. Being skin to skin with Peter is the best feeling in the entire world.

Peter stares at me blankly then says, “They seemed concerned about you.” I’d be concerned by his bland response if his cock wasn’t rock hard and pushing against me insistently.

I can’t help but laugh. I feel so light, like I could float out the window and up into space. He wants me. I can feel how much he wants me, but today I’ve learned something even more important. Peter likes me. Despite his charm and affability, I’ve gotten the impression that Peter genuinely cares for as few people as I do. It’s a strange thing to have in common with another person, but it’s nevertheless comforting. If Peter cares for me as much as I think he might, it’s significant.

I rest my forehead against his. “You’re such a fraud, Peter Verona.”

He opens his mouth to protest but before he can say anything, I kiss him.

When I told Peter I didn’t like kissing it wasn’t a lie. Kissing is terrifyingly intimate. It’s far more intimate that sucking a cock or eating ass or even having a man come inside me. I know it’s not something most people would agree with me on. Kissing is tame but cum in your ass is a huge deal, and I can see why most people feel that way, but I don’t. My therapist has suggested it might be a result of having so little affection as a child. I can’t remember my mother kissing me before she left, and I am positive my father never did. Grandfather loved me very much, but he wasn’t physically demonstrative. Only Nonna ever kissed me, but I don’t think it was enough to fill the gap.

When I kissed my first boy I was disappointed because it wasn’t anything like I’d imagined it would be. It was sloppy and quick and completely unsatisfying. Continued experience didn’t produce significantly better results. When I lost my virginity the best part was the man doing it wasn’t interested in kissing at all. Or foreplay. Or prepping me. It was incredibly painful, and I didn’t repeat the experience with him, or anyone else, for many years. By that time, my sex life consisted mostly of blow jobs and hand jobs from guys I found on Grindr.

My last relationship was with a nice man who made sure nothing hurt, and I had no way of explaining to him or myself why I found it dissatisfying. I thought, for a long time, that despite feeling desire I didn’t want actual sex. Not in the traditional sense. I found place where there were men who would hurt me just enough, but not too much. They didn’t want or expect intimacy or my affection. All they needed was my submission. I thought it was the perfect solution.

Then the worst man possible inserted himself into my life and wouldn’t leave me be. I couldn’t ignore him, and he wouldn’t be pushed away or kept at a distance. Before I knew it I was willing to let him do anything at all with my body. I didn’t worry about pain or humiliation because I knew that’s what I was signing up for and was resigned to it. Then everything went completely sideways.

He talked me into ditching work then took me to the Field museum. He held my hand and bought me a book about extinction events from the gift shop. Every time I looked at him there was a dopey smile on his face. I enjoyed every minute spent with him and none of it had anything to do with getting off. Peter and I had fun. With our clothes on. For hours.

I don’t hate my stepbrother. I like him. I like him a lot. There is a scary amount of like within me. I feel as if anything at all is possible. Peter might just like me back.

I want to kiss Peter in the worst—or best—conceivable way. Not because kissing is just a step on the path to sex or because it’s expected. I want the intimacy, even if it doesn’t go well.

It's been so long since I kissed another man that this almost feels like my first time, only a thousand percent better. I’m nervous and have no idea what I’m doing, but it doesn’t matter. Peter wraps his arms around me and takes the kiss over, leaving me free to just let it happen. I follow his lead, opening my mouth to him and letting him take whatever he wants. He can have it all, especially me.

Peter pulls his lips off mine but he’s still a breath away. I realize he’s pushed me up against the wall and he’s rubbing his cock along mine. “I could do this for hours,” he growls, then goes back to kissing me.

When he moves down to my jaw and then my neck, I tell him, “I’m pretty sure you could fuck and kiss me at the same time.”

“Such a demanding boy,” Peter croons. “My greedy kitten.”

“I will stop complaining about you calling me Kitten if you’d just fuck my ass with your cock. That’s my best and final offer.”

Peter laughs low and seductively against my ear then bites the lobe. The pain zings right to my cock and I swear I see stars. “I think those are terms we can agree on. Grab your goodie bag then get on your bed, ass up and face down.”

I try not to feel disappointed. I don’t even like kissing and now I’m disappointed that Peter’s not going to fuck me face to face.

My expression of disappointment must show how I feel because Peter gives my ass a hard slap that stings like a bitch and feels like heaven. “Just do what I say, Kitten, and I’ll give you everything you need.”

I do what the man says and before I know it he has three slick fingers inside me while his other hand fondles my balls. He starts fucking me hard with his fingers while stroking my cock and I know I’m going to come. I have no idea if he’s given me permission to do that or not, but I’m not going to ask and maybe he won’t remember either. As my climax creeps closer and closer my muscles stiffen, and my breath comes out in short hard bursts. I can feel it getting closer and closer. I’m right on the edge when Peter pulls away from me.

“Oh my god I fucking hate you,” I snarl. If Peter was close enough, I’d bite him.

He gives my already sore ass a few smart smacks. “Quit bitching. I never said I was going easy on you.”

“Fuck you. I hope you die and go to hell and get gangbanged by demons with enormous spiky dicks.”

Peter laughs so hard he collapses next to me and pulls me close. I can feel his cock digging into the cleft of my ass, but nowhere near the place I want him to be. “That is disturbingly specific,” he says. “Do you fantasize about demons with spiked dicks, Kitten?”

I probably will now. “Fuck you.”

Peter responds by using some kind of wrestling move that ends with him pinning me on my back. “Be a good kitten and I’ll let you come.”

I don’t know what that means. I only know I’m completely at his mercy. “Please.”

“Please what?” Peter slips a hand between my legs and fingers my ass. He strokes my slick hole then plunges two fingers inside me and finds my prostate easily. Maybe too easily, as he’s working it over to the point where I want to explode. “I suggest being specific.”

I suck in a deep breath then say in a rush, “Please stick your cock inside my hole and fuck me until at least one of us gets to come.”

Peter’s fingers slip out of me, and I whimper with both hope and disappointment. He’s opened me up so far that now I feel achingly empty. I need him to fill me up.

He comes back with an unwrapped condom that he slides down his cock. “Safety first,” he says cheerfully. He crawls between my legs, spreading them apart, then he pushes his cockhead inside my hole.

I go from feeling empty to being too full. It’s been too long, maybe, or he’s bigger than I realized, because my body is now screaming at me that now would be an excellent time to retreat. The heat, though, feels fantastic. And I think that given a minute to adjust to the girth inside me, everything is going to be fine.

“Jesus, you’re tight.” Peter moves inside me experimentally. “You want this slow or fast?”

I try to think which one would be better when he makes a sound like a buzzer. “Too late. We’re going with fast because I don’t think slow is in the cards.” Then he thrusts sharply inside me and for a second I feel like I’m being torn in half. Then he’s completely inside me and the pain morphs into a deep pleasure I’ve always wanted but never experienced.

This might be a Goldilocks thing. The first guy who fucked me was too big and didn’t know what he was doing. The second one was not so generously endowed and was so slow and gentle that it didn’t hurt, but I also didn’t experience much pleasure. Peter is perfect. Big, but not too big. Willing to let me feel the tiniest edge of pain in a way that won’t cause me harm. I’m pretty sure that now I’m ruined for all other dicks.

He takes one of my legs and pushes it up, letting him thrust deeper. With his other hand he fists my cock. He jacks me hard as he pistons in and out of my body. I’m completely helpless from sensory overload. He could do anything to me and I’d let him.

Anything turns out to be him pulling out of me, tossing the condom aside, then jacking his cock until he comes on my chest. Then he leans down, licks it off my skin, and kisses me. It’s filthy and wonderful but it’s not enough to distract me from still not coming.

When he comes up for air I push his head down my body. “Get me off or I’ll kill you.”

Peter huffs a laugh at me. “So bossy.” But he lets me guide his mouth to my cock. As he sucks, he pushes his fingers inside and pegs my prostate over and over like that’s his job. I come so quickly I’d be embarrassed if I didn’t feel so goddamned good.

I pull him up to me and this time the cum he feeds me is mine. We kiss as our hearts slow down to a normal rhythm. Eventually I say, “That was the best sex of my life. I might as well become celibate because it’ll never be as good with anyone else.”

“You’re never going to have sex with another man because no one can compare with my magnificent dick?”

I give Peter a playful shove. “Yes, you’ve ruined me for other men. I hope you’re happy now.”

“I am. Extremely.” That’s evident by how smug he sounds. “Guess that means you’ll have to keep letting me fuck you.”

I sigh heavily. “I suppose.”

“Good, because you’re mine and I’m terrible at sharing.”

You’re mine. He doesn’t mean it, but I want it to be true.. “I guess that means we’re stuck together.”

“Looks like it.”

“Forever?” I ask. That seems like a lot.

Peter gives me a hard kiss. “For the foreseeable future. Probably. Enough yapping. Let’s get ready for bed.”

I look at the watch that’s still on my wrist. “It’s not even nine o’clock and I’m not sleepy.” In fact, I feel like I could easily run a marathon, sore ass and all.

Peter kisses me again. “I didn’t say anything about sleeping, did I?”

22

Peter And Kit Get Some Hard Truths

Iwake up as the little spoon, the man behind me snuggled close with his morning wood poking me in the ass. Kit, I remember. That’s Kit behind me.

We’re surrounded by the scents of sex, sweat, and sheets that were pristinely clean yesterday but today are… not. And sure, it’s not whatever cologne Kit normally wears, but it’s the combined scent of us and I love it.

Kit must also be awake because he’s moving behind me, grinding his hard cock into my crack. I reach behind me and give him a little smack on the hip. “I’m not bottoming, Kit. I thought we covered that.”

“Don’t wanna top.” Kit’s voice is low and sleepy in my ear. “But this feels good. You feel so good. Can’t be real. Not that lucky.”

I stretch and my hand finds the bottle of lube buried in the sheets, thankfully capped. I toss it lightly over my shoulder in Kit’s general direction.

“Ow,” Kristoff says indignantly, clearly now wide awake. “That hurt, you bastard.”

I snort. “This from the man that gets an all over body wax on the regular. Stop complaining and prep yourself. When you think you’re ready, let me see.” I stretch out on my back, my arms folded above my head.

Kit sighs heavily, making sure I’m aware he’s being put upon, and begins to finger himself. After a brief time, he goes from one finger to half of his damn hand crammed up there. Don’t get me wrong, I could watch this all day. In fact, I put that on my mental to-do list: have Kit suck me while he finger fucks himself. Although I’m not sure how flexible Kit is, but I’ll talk to him about taking up yoga just in case. We could do it together, maybe.

I’m thinking of Kit and I as a couple. This is crazy and not like me, but on the other hand it feels right. I should probably stop thinking about the two of us like we’re a done deal. It’s way too premature. This is just two guys who’ve been thrown together and bonded over disliking the same person. That’s the set up for a fling, not a lifelong commitment.

“Peter?” Kit asks.

I look up and he’s no longer humping his hand. Instead, he’s kneeling between my legs, looking concerned.

“Mmm?”

“Are you okay? You checked out on me. I didn’t… did I do something wrong?”  Kit gets a look in his eyes that stabs right through me. Fear, anxiety, and resignation. He looks lost.

I sit up and wrap my arms tightly around him. I have an overwhelming need to make everything better for him. “No, baby. You didn’t do anything wrong. There’s nothing wrong.” He holds his body rigid, but I can feel a tremor under that.

“It’s… I do that. Every single time. I’m too much or not enough.” He lets out a laugh that could slice through glass. “Even my parents didn’t want me. One ran away and the other sent me away. My father hates me, and I have no idea why.”

Everything inside me grinds to a halt. “Wait. You left. That was your choice. You hated me and my mother and…”

Kit pushes back so he can look me in the eyes. “I never ever asked to be sent away. Father told me that he had a new family, and I couldn’t stay. That day is etched in my memory. My nanny packed a suitcase for me while my father explained—no, he didn’t explain a damn thing, he just told me that I wasn’t his real son and that my mom ran away because she didn’t want me either. So he was sending me away so I wouldn’t taint his new family.”

What Kit is saying can’t be true—except I know he’s not lying. The anguish in his face isn’t something anyone but an extremely talented actor could fake. It also explains so much, but also poses more questions. “That’s the craziest thing I’ve ever heard.”

“I’m not lying. Why would I lie about my parents not wanting me?”

I pull Kit to me and hold him tightly. “I know you’re not lying. I meant… everything. Baldwin always said that it was your choice to leave, and he was always spending all this money on you. You’d demand to go to a new school at the drop of a hat, and each new one was more expensive than the one before. There was that year we were supposed to go to Disney, but you had to have that horse and that was so expensive…”

Kit bursts into laughter bordering on hysteria. “A horse?”

A sense of unreality sweeps over me. “And then there was that Maserati for your sixteenth… holy fuck. My stepfather conned me. He conned my mom, too. Fuck. There was never any horse or sports car or fancy vacations, were there?”

He shakes his head at me. “No horse. No car, either. I bought my first car, and it wasn’t a Maserati. Who buys a teenager a Maserati? My first car was an incredibly boring Mercedes sedan. I paid for it out of my trust fund, and I couldn’t get anything really cool because my grandfather was the administrator of the fund.”

“No wonder you never wanted to spend time with us on school vacations.”

Kit gives me an incredulous look. “Peter, I never spent time with you on my school holidays because I wasn’t welcome. My home, when I wasn’t in school, was with my grandparents. They were the only ones who cared about me.”

“So many fucking lies.” I can’t seem to get over that. “And for what?”

“I’ve spent most of my life trying to figure that out,” Kit says. “Why wasn’t I good enough? Why did my parents hate me?”

“Your mom probably didn’t hate you,” I say, rubbing his back. “And Baldwin is clearly a sociopath, so you were probably better off far away.”

“If my mother didn’t hate me,” Kit says, sounding close to tears by now, “then why did she leave? And why didn’t she come back to get me?”

I push Kit a bit away from me so I can look in his face. “Is that a serious question?”

“It’s actually rhetorical. I’m sure you don’t know why my mother left and never came back.”

This might be the most fucked up thing of all. How can he not know? It’s insane. On the other hand, until five minutes ago I been positive Kit had been gifted with both an expensive horse and an even more expensive sports car by Baldwin Minola. That fucking con man.

I honestly don’t know how to say this. It’s something I shouldn’t have to say. It’s definitely not my story to tell, but I’m sure as hell not letting him think his mother abandoned him.

“Kit. I need to tell you something. Something that’s going to upset you and… god, I don’t know how to say this. It’s so wrong.”

“Just tell me,” he says, sounding infinitely weary. “How much worse could it be?”

Potentially bad question to ask. “Baldwin lied to me and mom about you. Said you refused to live with his new wife and stepson, told us how spoiled and demanding you were, and how he couldn’t do anything about it because you were his father’s favorite.”

“Like only ten percent of that is true,” Kit says flatly.

I am so the wrong person for this job. I take a deep breath then go for it, like I’m pulling off a Band-Aid. “Your mother didn’t leave she died.”

Kit goes ramrod straight like someone stuck an entire fire poker up his ass. “Excuse me?” His voice is quiet and disturbing as hell. “That’s not funny, Peter. That’s not something to joke about.”

I can tell that he would like to think I made a joke but knows I didn’t. “Yeah, it’s not funny. Not even a little bit. You were pretty young when it happened.”

“No. This doesn’t make any sense. There would’ve been a funeral. I would remember that. Right?”

“You were probably still in the hospital. Mom said Baldwin’s first wife was killed in a car accident. You were in that car, Kit. In the backseat. You ended up with some kind of head injury. That I’m sure of because you were in a coma. Not for a long time, I don’t think. A few weeks, maybe. I’m sure my mom would remember.”

I keep expecting some kind of explosion from Kit but there’s nothing. Just an eerie stillness that kinda scares the crap out of me.

“Kit?” I venture, skating one hand lightly over his hair. It occurs to me that I’m treating him like a wild animal that will bite or scratch me any minute now. “Are you—”

“If you’re going to ask if I’m okay, no, I’m fucking not okay. Not even a little bit. I need to talk to Nonna. I need to talk to her right now.” Kit pulls away from me and walks stiffly out of the bedroom, still naked as a jay bird. I can faintly hear him talking and assume he’s called his grandmother.

What an absolute fucking shit show. I need a drink. Or several. Many drinks. Yes, it’s morning. I don’t fucking care.

Kit walks back into the bedroom, not even looking at me, then goes into the bathroom. He doesn’t exactly slam the door behind him, but it’s the next best thing. That door is closed. I hear the shower start up and wander into the guest room to use the shower in there.

After the shower I walk back to Kit’s room and find the bathroom door is wide open and there is no Kit to be seen. I hear my phone buzz and find it eventually on the floor halfway under the bed.

I have several messages but the one I’m interested in is from Kit.

Kit: I’m going to see my grandmother. Help yourself to anything in the house. No idea how long I’ll be.

Just in case he’s driving, I don’t risk messaging him back. I’ll do that later. In the meantime, I paw through Kit’s wardrobe to find something to wear that’ll fit me. I end up with the jeans from yesterday and another sweater. This one is blue and is so soft it feels like I’m touching a kitten.

I go out to the kitchen and the cats look at me like they’ve never been fed before in their entire lives. It’s possible Kit fed them, but just in case I scoop some food into each bowl. Falstaff starts eating but the other two look at me like they were expecting something better. Fucking cats.

Unsure what to do, I pace the kitchen. I need to talk to Baldwin but I’m not really in the mood. I mean I’m never really in the mood, but today has been a super fucked up mess. I can only deal with one crisis at a time, so I pull out my phone to text Veronica.

Me: I need brunch and alcohol stat

Veronica: I’m in. Where?

Me: anywhere with a liquor license, lol

Veronica: okay Betty Ford

Me: who’s Betty Ford

Veronica: learn some damn history. Meet me at La Luna in like an hour

Me: is there alcohol?

Veronica: yes, lol also drag queens

Me: I’m in

23

Kristoff Is Told Family Secrets

Idon’t trust myself to drive so I hire a driver. By the time I make it down the elevator and onto the street, a sleek, black Lincoln is waiting for me. I slide into the backseat then endure the drive to see Nonna.

I’m not happy about her choice of venue but that’s where I tell the driver to take me. The place I longed for when I was still young and then later where I promised myself I’d never return. I wouldn’t break that vow for Peter, and I don’t want to break it now, but that feeling is a tiny match next to the forest fire of deception that’s tearing through me.

I thought my grandparents were the only ones I could trust, and they even betrayed me. That my father lied to me my entire life isn’t surprising at all. But my grandparents? I wasn’t prepared for that, and I still don’t know how to process it.

Eventually the car pulls up to a large red brick house surrounded by mature trees that have mostly lost their leaves. It looks less imposing in sunlight. A sense of unreality permeates me. This should’ve been my home but instead I’m a stranger ringing the doorbell.

The door is opened by a thin woman who has to be Peter’s mother. They have the same hair and freckles, but her eyes are a shade of blue so faded it might as well be no color at all. There’s a white streak in her short hair that she hasn’t bothered trying to disguise.

The woman holds her hand out and it’s so frail I’m worried I’ll crush it. “I’m Eileen,” she says. “I’m sure you don’t remember me, but we met when you were very young, before…” she visibly falters then composes herself. “Back when I worked for your father. I was his secretary.”

I think I knew that. My stepmother isn’t someone I’ve ever thought too much about. She was just an imposter taking my mother’s place, not a real person. I don’t remember having met this woman, but I can’t say I’m surprised she used to work for my father.

I take her frail hand and hold it carefully. Did Peter tell me she was ill? I can’t remember. It’s obvious, looking at her. A stiff wind might blow her away.

“Please come in. Your grandmother is in the kitchen, cooking enough food for an army. I’ve tried to tell her I don’t have much appetite, and the only other person living here at the moment hasn’t come home the last two nights.” Eileen gives me a speculative look but doesn’t press the issue. Instead, she smiles and adds, “I know Peter’s fine. He checks in with me every day.”

No, I think. He checks on you every day. It’s impossible for me to hate this woman. She’s not anything at all like the wicked stepmother I used to paint her as in my head. Despite looking sickly, the aura she projects is all wholesome goodness.

“You’ll never get Nonna to stop cooking so don’t bother. Peter can help you eat the leftovers. And my father, when he returns from Italy.”

Eileen gives me a wary smile and says nothing, silently leading me to the kitchen, even though I’d be able to smell my way there with my eyes closed.

Nonna has three pots going on the stove, bread dough rising in a bowl on the counter, and there’s a loaf currently baking in the oven. On the island she’s putting together an antipasto plate, although tray would be more accurate. There are various olives, roasted peppers, cubes of cheese, tiny balls of mozzarella, salami, prosciutto, artichoke hearts, and white bean salad. That alone would be enough to feed six people with plenty of leftovers for sandwiches later, but Nonna is Nonna so of course she’s putting a ricotta filling on flat circles of pasta dough then shaping them into mezzeluna.

Nonna looks up and gives me a stern look. “You’re another one that’s too thin.” She puts down a basket of grilled bread slices next to the antipasto then reaches into a cupboard and gives me a plate. “The forks are in the drawer by the sink. Sit down and eat.”

It's an order, not a request, but I completely skipped breakfast and I’m starving. Belatedly, I remember I forgot to feed the cats this morning. Not that they’ll die if they skip a meal. Falstaff could skip a week of meals and still be a fuzzy orange barrel on legs. Still, I know they’ll give me hell when I get home.

As if on cue, my phone vibrates with a message from Peter telling me that he’s meeting up with a friend of his for a drag queen brunch. Also, he fed the cats.

It's so beyond stupid, but that’s what makes me start to cry. Not hysterically or anything. There was just a big fat tear that rolled down my face then fell with a splat onto my phone screen.

“I’ll talk while you eat,” Nonna says.

She’s hoping that eating will keep me from talking back. Surreptitiously I swipe at my eyes then take a seat at the island. Eileen joins me, and Nonna hands her a plate, but all Eileen does is place her mug of tea on top of it.

“Before I start, I want you to know that we did what we thought was best, and the right thing to do for the family, but we didn’t do as good a job as we should have. We tried though, Topolino. That I swear to you on the family Bible.”

“I’ll try to remember that,” I promise. What gets me is the nickname. I was so small and quiet as a child that I was always Nonna’s little mouse. She hasn’t called me that since I went to college, and it brings a lump to my throat.

“Before she married your father, your mother dated your uncle.”

“Was he the one who went off to the family in Italy?”

Nonna shakes her head at me then goes back to her mezzeluna. “No, that’s your Tio Andrew. This was your Tio Julian.”

Hearing the name is like being doused in ice water. My uncle Julian died in a car accident. I actually remember that, but not as an event. More as a family anecdote. “He died in a car accident, didn’t he?”

My grandmother nods her head sadly. “He was taken far too young.”

“Like my mother was killed in a car accident, right? And I got hurt, too, though I can’t remember it.”

“The neurologist warned us you might have no memory of the event. With head trauma, that’s common.”

“You’d think I’d remember my mother’s funeral.”

“Caro, there was no funeral. Your father had her cremated then spread a story in which she left him, but not with his brother and their child.”

The way she worded that makes me pause. “Wait. ‘Their child.’ You don’t mean her and Father, do you?”

Nonna accidentally squishes the mezzeluna she was trying to seal with fluting. She goes to wash her hands and when she comes back, her calm expression has returned. “It’s complicated. Your mother met and dated Julian, but they broke up because she was ready to get married and settle down and he wasn’t. Baldwin started taking her out and then asked her to marry him.”

I can’t help but make a face. “He put the moves on his brother’s ex? That’s very… him.”

“Yes, well, your parents seemed happy at first, but your mother couldn’t get pregnant. They tried and tried. Nothing worked. Then one day she finally got a positive result on a pregnancy test. She was over the moon and so was your father. You were their little miracle. But then you were born, and your father insisted on a paternity test.”

“Why? I mean I look just like Grandfather, except for…” I shut my mouth before I swear in front of my Nonna. But internally I’m screaming, Fuck! over and over.

Nonna fills in the blank. “Your mother had light colored hair. Even lighter than your grandfather or Baldwin. But you had dark hair, just like me—and your Tio Julian.”

My entire body feels numb. This is all so crazy, but it makes sense, and worse than that, it explains way too much. “That’s why Father hates me. That’s why he sent me away. But why didn’t you come get me? Like, for all the time and not just when I wasn’t at one of those sh—” I catch myself just in time. “Stupid boarding schools.”

“Baldwin was your legal guardian. Your mother ran away with Julian and took you with her. Had she made it across state lines, it would’ve been a felony. We tried and tried to convince Baldwin that we would take over your guardianship, but he wouldn’t let you go.”

My stomach turns over. “You mean he wouldn’t let me escape.”

Nonna pauses, then nods. “Your grandfather made sure you never went without anything you needed at school. He set up a trust fund for you and until you were twenty-one, he was the only one who could touch the money. The money to pay for your boarding school came from your trust fund. Your grandfather and your—your Tio Baldwin fought over what school you were at. Baldwin chose ones that were substandard, and your grandfather would have you transferred somewhere better. They went back and forth several times until we found a school you didn’t seem to hate, and your grandfather said that if Baldwin moved you again he wouldn’t inherit a penny.”

“But he did move me again. Twice.”

“That’s why you and I got everything. It would have been split between me, you, and your Tio Andrew, but he told your grandfather years ago that he didn’t want to be an heir. He has the trust fund he’s had since he was little, but he doesn’t really need or use it. He makes more than enough working for the family in Italy.”

Eileen clears her throat. “What do you mean about Kristoff’s school tuition and fees? We paid for that. All of it.”

Nonna looks at her sadly. “No, you didn’t.”

“But all that money…” Eileen’s voice sounds ragged. “All the things we couldn’t afford because…”

Peter’s cheap clothing makes sense now. It also explained why he was still living at home, although that might be so he can keep an eye on his mother. I don’t know what’s wrong with her, but she needs to see a doctor. Or maybe a different doctor.

“He said we couldn’t afford my medication,” Eileen says, sounding utterly defeated.

I turn away from Nonna and look at Eileen. “The healthcare plan at Minola is one of the best in the industry. I’ve been there when we negotiated the yearly contract at least five times. Fa—Baldwin and all the executives at Minola automatically get the top tier plan. Everything is covered. Everything.”

“This one isn’t, and it costs thirty thousand dollars a month. We can’t afford that.”

My stomach sinks. “That doesn’t make any sense. Fa—Baldwin, as CEO, gets a yearly salary of two million dollars. Even if you had to pay for the medication all by yourself, that would still leave you with…” I do the math in my head. “About one hundred thousand dollars a month after taxes. That should be plenty of money. I mean, within reason.”

Eileen doesn’t reply, but her face has gone dead white.

“I’ll pay for it,” I volunteer. I have more money than I could ever spend, and that’s after I’ve funded several charitable endowments. It sounds crass, so I don’t say it out loud, but I could spend thirty thousand a day and it wouldn’t put a dent in my finances, thanks to my trust fund and the inheritance from Grandfather.

Her eyes open wide. “No, no. You can’t. That’s too much. I can’t accept it. It’s—”

“Yes, you can,” Nonna tells her. “Let this one take care of you. The only one he has to fuss over is me and all those demon cats he has. You can take your share and not leave all that burden on me.”

“And all three of my demon cats?” I ask sarcastically. Both Nonna and Eileen ignore me.

“But…” Eileen bites her lip. “Is this offer because of Peter, Kristoff?”

I shake my head. “He never mentioned you were sick.”

I wonder if Peter pursued me because of my money. Now that I have more information, his motivation has always been his sick mother and the medicine she obviously needs. If he acknowledged to himself that I wasn’t going to quit, it’s not a stretch to see him backing the horse most likely to win the race.

Not that I’m any better. I deliberately set out to ensnare Peter so I could manipulate him against Baldwin. We both succeeded in seducing the other.

I never thought I would have Peter to keep. Is knowing that he’ll stay with me longer for the benefit of his mother any different? Yes, he’ll leave me when he no longer needs my money, but that was already a foregone conclusion. It’s better if we have all our cards on the table. I prefer things spelled out. There is a part of me that became convinced that Peter liked me for my own sake. It hurts knowing that was a foolish idea, but it’s a pain I can live with because I’ve survived it before. My therapist tells me that there’s no such thing as life without pain. It’s how we process the ache of loss or disappointment that reveals our truest selves.

I’ve read so many romance novels, trying to understand both romance and love. The situation I find myself in is possibly one of literature’s most ubiquitous tropes. I know I’m supposed to feel betrayed, and I do, a little. I’m supposed to be furious that I’ve been used. I am angry, but with myself, not Peter. And I’m supposed to go off in a huff because it turns out our relationship had a not-so pristine origin. There should be at least two or three chapters of pining and sulking. Something fragile should be thrown with force against a wall. And then I’ll come around after some grand gesture convinces me that I am truly treasured and was all along. The end. Then an epilogue featuring babies.

I’m not sure why it’s almost always babies. I think getting a few cats is a much better idea. This is because I am not a romance heroine. I’m not even one of the heroes in a gay romance. I’m just me: practical, logical, and sensible. I’m not someone that gets chased after. And I’m also not one to cut off my nose to spite my face.

If Peter is with me because he wants to help his mother then I will help his mother. I will be as good to him as I’m capable. And I’ll love him, of course, because I’m afraid I already do. He might break my heart, but it won’t be today, and it probably won’t be tomorrow, either.

This isn’t ideal, but not much in life is.

That, and I think there’s more. I certainly hope there’s more. There was that look on Peter’s face yesterday at the Field Museum. If I had to put a word on that look, it would be smitten. There’s the way he treats my cats, including remembering to feed them when I forgot. It was making condom use my choice and not his. It’s him making secret fantasies I’ve held inside myself forever come true.

He hears me. He sees me. He can read me like a book. That will have to be enough.

“I don’t want you spending your money on me because you feel obligated to,” Eileen says.

“I never do anything because of obligation. Baldwin cured me of that young.”

Eileen smiles at me ruefully. “I’ve been a fool, haven’t I?”

Nonna snorts. It’s obvious what her opinion is.

“I think that it’s natural to be foolish when we love. It’s one of the reasons it’s so scary,” I say.

Eileen gives me a real smile. “Peter’s talked about you to me. At first it was how much he hated and resented you, then how annoyed he was that you took every single thing he threw at you. The he talked about how good you were at your job and that he hated how pretty you were.” She smiles at me. “For weeks now it’s been nothing but Kit this and Kit that. I think he has a crush on you.”

That’s fine. I know I have a crush on him. Even when I still thought he was one hundred percent Baldwin’s lackey. Which reminds me…

“Nonna, if you and grandfather knew Baldwin wasn’t my father then you could have challenged him in court for custody.”

“Your grandfather didn’t want our family secrets aired out for the entire world to see. Had Julian lived, it would’ve been different. He loved your mother and said he wanted to be with his family. He meant you, of course. Then the accident happened, and the DNA test came back inconclusive. Without a sample from Julian, it would’ve been difficult to prove that Julian, rather than Baldwin, was your father. Your grandfather kept saying he’d get Baldwin to give you up without involving a court, but it never worked out.”

I look at Nonna but don’t say anything.

She looks guilty as hell. “We should’ve done more. I should have done more. I knew Baldwin was every bit as stubborn as your grandfather. And then later, when you became an adult, we should have told you the truth about everything. Your grandfather was against it, saying it would serve no purpose and only cause you pain. And after he passed, well, it was something I’d stopped actively thinking about. I’m sorry, Caro. I can see that not telling you was another mistake. We never meant to hurt you and did anyway. I’m afraid I haven’t been a very good grandmother to you.”

I stand up and give her a hug. “You’ve been the best grandmother,” I tell her, meaning it. She and Grandfather made some choices that turned out to be wrong, but they loved me. I’m positive that if nothing else, they always loved me.

Nonna hugs me back and I let her hold me. “Are you going to hit me with a spoon if I end up dating my stepbrother? I know Baldwin will hate it, but I don’t need to care about his opinion. Even when I thought he was my dad I didn’t listen to him very much.”

“Do you love him?” Nonna asks, pulling back to look at me.

I give her an honest answer. “I don’t know.”

Eileen lets out a short burst of laughter and seems surprised by the sound.

Nonna nods her approval. “It’s a good start.”

“When is Baldwin coming back to Chicago, anyway?” I ask, pulling away from Nonna and sitting back down. “I don’t understand why he’s been away from Minola for long.”

“Your Tio Andrew is keeping him busy.” Nonna tries to look innocent and fails miserably.

“Doing what?”

Nonna smiles angelically. “This and that. It’s enough to keep him busy for a long time. It’s more than enough to last until your birthday. And if he doesn’t behave while he’s there, Andrew will get him back into line.”

“Get him back in line how?”

“Don’t worry about it,” Nonna insists.

“I’m not worried. I’m curious. Just what does Tio Andrew do? No one’s ever told me that, either.”

Eileen doesn’t say anything, but her eyes have gotten big, and she’s gone dead white.

Nonna bites her lip. “Andrew and I promised your grandfather we’d never tell you about that. But as eldest son, Andrew was the one to inherit it from my father. I certainly couldn’t have. That was another disappointment for Baldwin. He resented being second born and getting second prize.”

“In what universe is getting to control Minola Corp. considered second place?” I am at a complete loss. My brain has taken in so much and now it’s ground to a halt like one of those kids sleeping on the museum’s marble floor. I can’t come up with anything that makes sense.

“It’s… you can’t compare it to Minola Corp. They’re two vastly different things.”

“Just tell me, Nonna. How bad could it be?”

As it turns out, pretty fucking bad.

24

Peter Has Brunch With Veronica and Drag Queens

At La Luna we both get the chilaquiles—red for me and green for her—and a sort of “make your own mimosas” set-up with an entire bottle of champagne and a carafe of orange juice.

There are indeed drag queens, and they run the gamut from completely outrageous to exquisitely beautiful. Veronica does selfies with me and several of the queens. Our favorite is named Bang Me Soon, or something like that. She’s so gorgeous I’d swear she was AI, except this is real life and she also has the correct number of fingers. I counted, just in case.

Over starters of elote and guac, I fill Veronica in with the most recent developments between me and Kit. 

She shakes her head and shoves a loaded-down tortilla chip into her mouth. When she’s done chewing, she takes a large gulp of mimosa then says, “Typical you. Thinking with your dick.”

“No. It’s not like that. Well, okay, it kinda was at first, when he got down on his knees, but—”

Veronica makes a move like she’s drawing a zipper across her mouth. “Zip it. Save the gross details. On a scale of one to ten, how’s the sex?”

“Eleven.”

She nods. “That sounds pretty decent. Not your record, though.”

“My record is held by a psychopath. I had to get a restraining order before she finally went away.”

“I told you not to stick your dick in crazy. Not that you ever listen. See also the situation you’re in now. Your stepfather is going to lose his shit when he finds out you’re fucking his son.”

“Let him,” I grumble.

Veronica’s eyes get comically wide and she leans away from me like I’ve caught something nasty that catching. “Who are you and what have you done with my best friend?”

“Fuck you. I don’t go along with everything Dad tells me to do.”

She puts the back of her hand against my forehead, searching for fever, I guess. “Yes, you do. When was the last time you defied him?”

I close my eyes and think about it. I don’t want to admit she’s right but I can’t think of anything. “It’ll come to me later,” I say sulkily.

Veronica rolls her eyes but has the grace not to gloat at me. “So why now?”

“He always said, over and over, how Kit hated him and us, how he’d made violent threats about my mother and me, and how he had Dad buy every single thing a boy could want, including a horse and a Masersti.”

“Who buys a Masersti for their teenager?”

I shrug. “I don’t know, but it wasn’t my stepfather. Kit never received a horse or a Masersti. His first car was a Mercedes sedan—”

“Poor rich boy. My heart bleeds.”

“Oh, stop it. For your sixteenth your parents employed a driver so you wouldn’t have to do it.”

“Getting me a driver was sensible.” Veronica stabs her fork viciously into her eggs. “If your dad got Kristoff a Mercedes instead of a Masers then that was just smart.”

“No, that’s the thing. Kit bought himself that car with his own money. Dad didn’t give him a dime. And that was year we couldn’t go to Disney because Dad had spent it all on Kristoff. I remember him telling me that we could pay the mortgage or for the trip, but not both, and did I want to see Mickey or did I want my nice bedroom and all the toys in it? He made me choose and I was just a little kid for shit’s sake.”

“You’re sure Kristoff’s not lying about the car and horse?”

I drained my Mimosa flute then made myself another. “He looked too shocked, so I don’t think he was lying. That Dad had bought him a horse or sports car was news to him.”

“Hmm. So now you’re wondering what else your dad was lying about?”

“Sorta, but not really. I think it’s safe to say he lied about everything, or most of it.”

“I always thought Baldwin was a big asshole, so this is not really a surprise to me,” Veronica says, taking a delicate bite of rice mixed with beans. “But I never thought you would believe anything bad about Baldwin in a million years. That is some grade-A dick right there.”

Kit does have a grade-A dick but I won’t wax on poetically or anything about it. Veronica hates when I do that, but beyond that, I feel both protective and possessive of Kit. He’s mine, and that means that among other things, his well-being is my responsibility. He’d hate me describing anything that personal about him to another person every bit as much as Veronica would hate hearing it.

Instead I say, “Kit’s special. He’s more than—I mean, he’s… It’s hard to put into words. But like bigger—”

“Bigger?” Veronica says, her nose wrinkled. “That’s way more than I—”

“Not that kind of bigger, for fuck’s sake. I mean like important. Like I said, he’s special. He’s important like you, or my mom. He’s… necessary.”

Veronica stares at me, her mouth slightly agape.

“What?” I ask.

She collects herself. “Nothing. Tell me about him.”

“He’s brilliant, for one thing. And he can do four things at once without fucking up any of them. I always thought I was so smart and capable, but next to him, I’m maybe average. He’s funny, too. In that way that people with fucked up childhoods can be, you know? He feels things so deeply and he’s this big bag of neuroses and past trauma, but he’s also got these cats that he named after Shakespeare characters that he adores and his living room is like the library from Beauty And the Beast. I think he’s read all those books, too. Or most of them. And he’s lonely. Definitely an introvert, all self-contained and shit, but lonely. And lost. Which doesn’t make sense, really, because I swear he knows… everything. At least at work, anyway. Throw any problem at him and he’s got three solutions already thought out. He’s never at a loss. I mean he can come off as cranky, or short and impatient sometimes. It puts people off, but I think he could get better at that. Maybe. I think it’s hard for him to always know he’s the smartest person in the room. Half the time he’s frustrated people can’t keep up and the other half he feels like he’s apart from everyone, which he kinda is. And for some reason he’s decided that I’m the person he can trust. It should be nuts, and I guess he is a little self-destructive, but he’s mine now and no one gets to mess with him—except me.”

Veronica blinks at me. “That’s a lot to process.”

I run my fork through the egg yolk and salsa on my plate. “Tell me about it.”

“Do you love him?” she asks.

“I don’t know. Maybe I’m just obsessed with him.”

“And you’re not worried about what your stepfather will do when he sees you’ve switched sides and are literally sleeping with the enemy?”

The answer is yes and no. “Kinda. But I’ll do whatever I have to in order to keep Kit safe and away from my stepfather. No, fuck that. I’m just calling him Baldwin. He raised me, doing his best to brainwash me into being a good little soldier. He’s been lying to me my entire life. I’m not his stepson—I’m just a chess piece he can move around however he wants.

“You know what happens when chess pieces are used for sacrifice, right?” Veronica asks.

“I don’t care. If Kit wants me, I’m his. Friend, lover, soldier—you name it.”

“And if he doesn’t?” she asks with her brows raised.

A feeling like sharp but icy pain pierced me. I want to say that I’d take my mother and we’d both leave Baldwin and Minola. I have a good business degree and MBA. I’ll find a way to support us. I’ll find a way to get insurance coverage for my mom. We’ll be okay. But… “I won’t let Kit go without a fight. I don’t think anyone has ever fought for him and but I will. I’ll be his Percival.”

“Who?”

“One of the knights loyal to King Arthur.”

“Oh.” Veronica gives that some thought. “Was he the one who had the affair with Arthur’s wife?”

“Guinevere? No, I’m pretty sure that was Lancelot. Percival wouldn’t have betrayed his king like that.”

“Hmm. Did Percival screw around with Arthur?”

That makes me laugh. “Probably not, but who knows. Maybe. Or Arthur was fucking Merlin. Or maybe his sister.”

“That’s messed up. I glad I never had to read that one.”

“It was less interesting than it sounds. Enough about me and my fucked up life. How are you?”

Veronica gives me a disgusted look. “One: nice subject change. Two: I’m fine and my life is dull. Three: are you in love with Kristoff? Because if you are, good for you, but I’m going to miss you escorting me to parties. You’re my favorite person to be catty with.”

“Maybe you’ll get two escorts,” I say. “Kit’s way cattier than me. When properly motivated he can make grown men cry with a few cutting remarks. I’m more likely to just punch someone I don’t know in the face.”

“Fair,” Veronica says, nodding seriously. “Okay, I want to meet this guy so I can see for myself that he’s good enough for my best friend.”

“Great,” I say sarcastically. “I can’t wait to introduce the two of you. Remind me to take earplugs with me.”

In the middle of her laugh, my phone rings and I see it’s Baldwin. I’m tempted to ignore it, but I’ll need to have a conversation with him sooner or later.

“Hello?”

“Your mother wants a divorce. Did you put her up to this?”

“What? No. She never said anything to me about it.” I wonder if this is true. I’ll have to find out from her what’s really going on. “But it’s none of my business. She’s the one married to you, not me.”

“Watch your tone, boy. I will cut you off without one red cent.”

Like I haven’t heard that a million times. “I can find a job on my own. I can take of mom, too.” And find her the best divorce lawyer in the area, I think.

“Then you can pay me back for all the money your school cost. I won’t tolerate this kind of behavior.”

For fuck’s sake. I realize how happy I’ll be no longer having Baldwin in my life. When Kit is CEO of Minola, I know his first order of business will be to toss Baldwin out the window, unfortunately with his golden parachute of a severance package.

“It doesn’t matter what you’ll tolerate or you won’t.” A flash of evil humor hits me and I add, “You’re not my real dad.”

Across from me, Veronica silently claps her hands in glee.

“Are you high?” Baldwin asks. “Have you and your mother gone insane?”

I think it’s the opposite, actually. We’re finally thinking clearly. “No. Not high, not crazy. Just done.”

Baldwin swears in a combination of English and Italian. It’s always been strange to me how he can switch from sounding like an ordinary guy with no particular accent to someone who sounds like they’ve lived their entire life in Italy.

“If that’s all you have to say, I’m going to go. Goodbye, Baldwin.”

“Wait!” he shouts. “Don’t hang up. Listen, boy, I need your help and I can make it worth your while. I need to speak to your assistant. He has my number blocked, the ungrateful child.”

I can barely believe what I’m hearing. “You mean Kit? Fuck no. No way. Absolutely not.”

“I’ll pay for that medicine of your mother’s,” Baldwin says in a rush. “But only if you get him to call me.” His voice changes to a greasy, insinuating tone that makes me feel disgusting just listening it. “When did you give Kristoff a pet name? Just how close have you two gotten? Did that little pervert seduce you? He’s done it before. When he was in school he nearly ruined the good name of a very important family because he couldn’t keep it in his pants. Has he gotten that far with you? Have you let him fuck you? You’re just as disgusting as he is.”

I want to both laugh at the sheer absurdity and also vomit. “Does it really matter?”

“Of course it does,” Baldwin bellows. I have to hold the phone away from my ear it’s so loud. “Don’t be stupid. Run away and go back to that girl you’re seeing. Don’t let that…person… ruin your life. Is he really that good a lay? His mother was like that.”

Even though he can’t see me I shake my head. This conversation is insane. “Just why do you hate him so much, anyway? What did he ever do to you?”

“He was born,” Baldwin says with utter loathing.

I’m debating just hanging up on Baldwin when my phone notifies me that another call is coming through. I don’t recognize the number but a telemarketing scam would be an improvement over this conversation.

“I have another call to take. Have a good life, Baldwin. I home you die alone.” I click over to the other call, cutting Baldwin off mid-swear. “Hello?”

“Peter? It’s Mom. I had to borrow someone’s phone to call you because I forgot mine at home. There was an… incident.”

My blood turns to ice in my veins. “What kind of incident? Are you okay? Where are you?”

“I’m fine, hon. Just a little shaken up.”

Relief washes through me. “Thank god. What happened?”

“That’s… Angelica says I shouldn’t say anything over the phone. We’re at Lake Forest Hospital and we’ll meet you in the main lobby.”

The ice is back. “I thought you said you were okay.” And who’s Angelica? But I can figure that out later.

“I’m fine, sweetheart, but Kristoff was admitted. We came with him in the ambulance.”

“Kristoff? But why? How? What happened?” I can’t lose Kristoff. I just got him. The universe wouldn’t dare to be that colossally unfair. “How’s Kit?”

“The nurse said he’s in stable condition. They might be able to release him tomorrow.”

Oh thank fuck. I feel poised on the edge of breaking down into sobs. It’s the craziest thing.

“What happened, Mom?”

“Not over the phone. Get here and we can tell you everything.” I can indistinctly hear someone speaking in the background. “Tell you almost everything,” Mom amends. “Can you come?”

“I’m on my way.”

“I’ll drive,” Veronica says, standing up. I see she’s thrown cash on the table. Probably far too much, but she’s like Kit when it comes to money. It’s just a tool to get what she needs, and it’s a tool that works in nearly every situation.

“You don’t drive, remember? Because I do.”

She flaps her hand at me. “It was one measly accident.”

It was the first and last time I ever let her drive me anywhere. She’d gotten a concussion and I broke my arm in the crash. “I need to get to the hospital, not die in the attempt.”

Veronica sighs and takes my hand, leading me out of the restaurant. Idling at the curb is a silver Bentley. A uniformed driver hustles out and opens the door for us.

Once we’re buckled into the back seat, he asks, “Do you have the address for me, Miss Veronica?”

"Lake Forest Hospital. It's on 41."

“Yes, Miss. We’ll be there in approximately thirty-five minutes,” he says.

“That’s great, thanks.” Veronica then turn to me. “Okay, talk.”

I tell her what little I know and she frowns. "That seems super mysterious and if we were talking about anyone besides your Mom, shady as hell. Good thing you brought me along.

"I just need Kit to be okay."

"He will be. You just need to have faith."

"Veronica, you're an atheist for fuck's sake."

She gives me big, serious eyes. "I may not have faith in a higher power, but I do have faith in modern medicine."

I lean against hers. "I don't know what I'd do without you."

"I have no idea, either."

25

Kristoff

When Peter bursts into my hospital room, followed closely by Nonna and Eileen, I feel like I can finally breathe. He's here. He came for me. And he brought a girl with him. I'm less pleased about that but I try to not to show it.

"Are you okay, baby?" he asks me.

"Okay, I'm drawing the line. I never asked for Kit, and Kitten is terrible. Baby is absolutely unacceptable."

Peter laughs and it sounds watery.

"Have you been crying?" I ask.

"Of course not."

"He's totally lying," the mystery girl says.

"Who's she?"

"Veronica," Peter says, like it should be self-explanatory.

"I'm his beard," she supplies and I decide that I like her after all.

"What happened? There was a break-in? During the day? How did you get hurt?"

"Here's the condensed version," I say. "When I went to go talk to Nonna, she told me to go to your house. There I met your mom, who is lovely and we need to see about getter her some better treatment for her condition, but we can worry about that when I've got actual clothes on and not a backless nightgown."

"A backless nightgown sounds kinda sexy," Peter says.

Nonna clears her throat meaningfully.

"Anyway. I like your mom. Nonna made us way too much food and then told me who my real parents were."

Peter boggles at me. "Real?"

"We're not stepbrothers!" I tell him happily. "We're stepcousins, and I don't think that's even a thing. Baldwin wasn't my dad. I guess all he can shoot are blanks. And then my mom had an affair with Tio Julian, who is actually my father and not Baldwin. Mom ran away that night with me and my real dad. And then got into an accident. Only it wasn't really an accident. Baldwin arranged to have all of us killed. Only I survived."

Peter's face goes slack with astonishment. "What the fuck?"

"Oh, it gets better. Or worse. More insane, definitely. So Baldwin somehow got wind of Mom running off so he went to one of the Chicago mafia kingpin guys, which apparently still exist, and hired someone through them to off all three of us in one go. Only like I said, I lived. And for years Baldwin has been paying hush money to the mob to keep his secret from the media, and more importantly, the police."

"That makes a stupid amount of sense," Peter says.

"I know, right? Only he started getting kinda irregular on his payments, so he skipped town to hang out with Nonna's side of the family in Sicily. He's been more or less laying low, and the Chicago mobsters started getting antsy, so they chose today to pay a call on your mom to see if they could shake something out of her. They weren't expecting her to have company, though. That threw them off. Then we wouldn't cooperate. They threatened to shoot your mom if she didn't tell them where Baldwin was. I stepped in front of her and I got shot. But it just grazed me," I add at Peter's horrified expression. "I'm here so they could clean it up and give me stitches and antibiotics."

"I feel like the story is missing details," Peter says with a frown. "What happened after you were shot?"

I look at Nonna and she inclines her head slightly. "Nonna shot that guy between the eyes."

Peter's gaze flies to Nonna. "You what?"

"I have a perfectly legal carry conceal license," she says. "I abhor violence, but sometimes it comes around whether you want it there or not."

"I'm not sure I should be hearing this," Veronica says.

"You don't have to stay," Peter tells her. "We'll be okay."

"Are you kidding? The only way I'm leaving is if Kristoff's Nonna pulls her gun on me. Then I'll get the hell out of Dodge like a sensible person. But no guns are pointing my way yet, so go on."

"After Nonna shoots the first guy she has Eileen call 911. Then, at gunpoint she gets the blackmail story out of mobster number two. So Eileen is on the phone with the police dispatcher and meanwhile she's got a bunch of paper towels pressed into my arm where I got shot so I don't bleed out. And the alive mobster at first doesn't want to speak and then she tells the guy that she's Angelica Minola, but before that, she was Angelica Cousino, but most people just knew her as The Angel and her son Andrew is The Saint."

"You're making this up." Peter looks over to his mother, then at Nonna. "He's making this up, right? It's a joke."

Nonna sniffs and looks slightly offended. "I was young once and a very good shot. Very famous. Infamous, really. My father worried about me so he found me an American husband and then got me out of the country. He said I couldn't shoot every single person who got in my way." She sniffs again. "It would have been different had I been born a boy. Bah. But I'm still a very good shot, if no longer the best. And my eldest son, Andrew, is now head of the family in Italy."

It doesn't seem possible but Peter's hazel eyes get even bigger in his surprise. "Is she saying what I think she's saying?"

Part of me wants to laugh but the subject isn't a laughing matter. "Keep two words in your head, Peter: plausible deniability. If no one actually says something, you were never told."

"I like you," Veronica says. "Just so you know, I've been shipping you since the beginning."

"So her son, your uncle, is the head of a five letter organization out of Sicily? Shut the fuck up."

"Language," Eileen says.

"Um… more or less? It's more complicated than that. You're getting the super simplified version. But Nonna has disavowed Baldwin as her son. He gets no money, aid, or protection from being her son and Tio Andrew's brother. He's all on his own."

"I should probably feel bad for Baldwin," Peter says. "But I really, really don't.

I get to go home from the hospital the next day. Peter's there to drive me home.

After he gets me buckled in, he says, "Mom is going to live with your grandmother. There's a mortgage on the house and she doesn't have access to a bank account with enough money in it to keep paying it. Besides, it's too big for her to take care of. At your Nonna's place she won't have to do anything but rest and eat and try to get better."

Nonna had already told me this but I let Peter gush happily about how he knew things were going to be so much better for his mother from now on.

"Where will you live?" I ask him.

Peter keeps his eyes fixed on the road. "I'll look for something. Rent prices in Chicago are high, so I think I'll look for a roommate situation. Sharing rent would be a lot less expensive."

"I know someone who needs a roommate," I say. "He's got an extra bedroom and is willing to share the rest of the apartment. He'll split the cost of utilities with you."

"Is this friend you, Kit?"

"Maybe," I say. "My place is very large. Company would be nice. You'd have your own space, too."

Peter glances at me while we're stopped at a red light. "I don't think I can afford half of your rent, Kit. Especially not while I'm out of work and looking for a job."

"As to that. You still have a job. There's no one to fire you with Baldwin absent. I, as your assistant, certainly don't have the power to fire you. The board of directors may hire an interim CEO, but everybody knows I'll be in charge once I'm thirty-five and get my shares."

"Will you fire me then?" Peter asks.

"Only if you really piss me off. You don't suck at your job. You've still got a lot of things to learn, but with some help, I think you'll make a fine COO. It helps that you have an amazing assistant who can work miracles."

Peter puts his hand on my thigh and squeezes it. "Truth."

"So what do you think?"

"About what?" Peter asks, but I can hear the humor in his voice.

"About being my roommate! And staying on at Minola as COO. What else would I be asking?"

"I don't know," Peter says, the light tone vanished from his tone.

"I like you," I say. "I like almost everything about you, except for your terrible taste in ties and nicknames."

"I like you, too," Peter says, his voice low and soft.

"I've never liked anyone as much as I like you," I venture.

"Ditto."

I take a deep breath then say in a rush, "And I think that I'd like to spend as much time with you as I can. For as long as I can. I like you a whole lot. More than I can say."

Peter sniffs. "Fuck you," he says.

"Are you crying again?" I ask him.

"No. I never cry. And I like you a whole lot, too. More than anyone else. More even than Veronica, and I didn't think that was possible. You're perfect."

I snort. "Hardly."

"Perfect for me, then. Who else am I going to find who will like me as much as you do?"

That makes me laugh. "Excellent question, but I think the answer is that you couldn't."

Peter pulls into my building's garage and puts the car in park. He gets out, throws the keys at the valet, and then opens my door and helps me out of the car. It hurts to put any kind of pressure on my arm and probably will for several weeks.

In quiet companionship, we walk to the elevator and have it carry us up to the top floor. When I open the door to my home, I block any potential kitty cat escape artists then say, "Lights," to brighten the place up.

"Nobody would have bet on us," I say. "Not in a million years."

"Bet on what?" Peter asks. He hangs up his jacket then helps me take off mine. Then we both toe off our shoes.

"On us. As an us. That we would like each other so much. It was a million to one shot."

Peter bends down to pick up Falstaff while I pet first Polonius and then Laertes. "Veronica voted for us from the beginning," Peter reminds me. "But I like the sentiment."

The most strenuous thing Peter lets me do after we go to bed together is have me lie on my back while he sucks me to the edge of completion enough times that I lose count and threaten to sic my Nonna on him for causing me cruel and unusual distress.

"That's not a thing, Kitten," he says, then edges me twice more before finally allowing me to come.

Afterward I'm as limp as a noodle and drunk on pleasure and endorphins. "I'm pretty sure I love you," I say.

"I know," Peter says.

"That's it? That's all I get?"

"You already know I really, really like you, kitten. I like like you, even." Peter kisses my temple sweetly.

That's not so bad, I think. There are worse things than being liked intensely by another person. "I know," I echo softly.

"But if you give me a kiss, I might love you back."

"Really?" I ask. And no, I am not crying. Not even a little.

"Kiss me, Kit, and find out."

So I do.

26

Epilogue

Kristoff warned me that there would be no babies and I have to say I agree with him. Cats are just fine. I like them a lot.

And when Falstaff died at the ripe old age of nineteen, I absolutely did not cry for a week.

No cat will ever replace Falstaff, but Kit got me a tiny white kitten with blue eyes and a pink nose. We named her Ophelia and she is a holy terror. Polonius and Laertes have completely caved under her alpha behavior. She runs the house and she knows it.

Veronica got her post-graduate degree and teaches law at Northwestern. She still doesn't date and we still meet up for coffee and dessert, only now we have Kit there will us too. I always order a slice of sacher-torte because I know it's his favorite. Kit is slowly working his way through the dessert menu to see if he can find something he likes even better than sacher-torte. When he gets something he doesn't like, I hand over his favorite and eat whatever he ordered. We also have a standing appointment to go to the drag queen brunch at La Luna twice a month. Kit finds the queens captivating and I love seeing him so excited.

Nonna and Mom rattle around the world together now that Mom's cancer is in remission. They're currently in the Maldives. I'm not exactly sure where the Maldives are, but from the pictures, it looks nice.

No one has seen or heard from Baldwin. I haven't said so to Kit, but I'm about ninety-nine percent sure that Nonna had him offed. She's never come out and said as much, but Julian was her favorite and it tore her apart when he died. She still feels regret over Kit's upbringing, and probably always will, but whenever I get a chance I remind her that Kit loves her and he loves very few people.

He also loves me. He's sickeningly stupid in love with me. It would be embarrassing if I didn't feel exactly the same way. I'm still no romantic and never will be. Kit doesn't seem to mind as long as he has my touch and attention and control. As for Kit, loving him is the easiest thing I've ever done. I don't know what I'd do without him, and hopefully I'll never have to find out.

He's my everything and I'm never letting him go.

Other Works By Lynn Van Dorn

North Shore Stories
Be My Mistake

Damage Control

Daddy Issues

Out Of Control

Misconduct

*

The Oleander Chronicles

Reunion

Rebound

Misconduct

*

Novels

Wild By Nature

Now You See Me

Royally Screwed

Straight To the Heart

*

Shorts

Rule 47

Meet Me At Midnight

Writing As Virginia Kelly

Forbidden Desires (with Piper Scott)

Clutch

Bond

Mate

*

Forbidden Desires Spin-off Series (with Piper Scott)

Swallow

Magpie

Finch

Peregrine

Raven

*

Stand Alone

In the Pink

Frost Bite

About the Author

Virginia Kelly, aka Lynn Van Dorn, was born in Ohio and left it for the wilds of Chicago in her reckless youth. She wanted to become a fairy princess when she grew up, but since there are few openings for that position, she makes do with being a writer.

In her spare time, she drinks entirely too much tea, snugs her cats, fills her house with flamingos, loves her husband and son, reads voraciously, and avoids housework. She loves to watch anime, travel, knit, bake cookies, and conjure up happily-ever-afters for handsome men who have trouble getting there on their own.

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