Carlk strolled back toward the table, the usual faint smirk on his lips, ready with some dry remark to lighten the suffocating tension Matthew had left behind.“Well, isn’t this—”Masahiro cut him off, chair scraping as he stood abruptly. His voice was calm but edged, clipped in that no-nonsense way only he could manage.“Just got a message from the station. I need to go.”Diana blinked, leaning forward. “Masahiro, wait—”But he was already moving, one hand adjusting his jacket, the other sliding his phone into his pocket. He didn’t even spare her a glance. By the time her hand twitched as if to reach for him, he was halfway across the ballroom floor.Clark exhaled through his nose, adjusted his glasses, and sat back down smoothly, the picture of composure. “Well. That was… dramatic.”Beside him, Adam shoveled a mouthful of food, unbothered. Clark glanced his way, voice dropping.“Matthew’s fed up. It’s obvious. Masahiro’s lucky he didn’t set the table on fire to make a point.”Adam g
Matthew stabbed at his plate, chewing with a sharpness that had nothing to do with the food. The chatter of silverware around him blurred into a dull hum. He kept his eyes down, jaw tight. Eating was easier than letting the room see his face.Clark noticed. Of course he did. He always noticed when someone was pretending dignity under pressure—he lived there himself. He adjusted his glasses, his voice cutting through with a deliberate smoothness.“So,” he said brightly, “if the hotel kitchen insists on serving steak this undercooked again, I may have to launch a lawsuit. Health code violations, culinary crimes—it could be a full case.”A few chuckles flickered at nearby tables, the air loosening just slightly. It was diversion, elegance, and shield all at once. For Matthew’s sake.Masahiro, however, wasn’t distracted. His fork paused mid-air. His eyes, sharp and unreadable, flicked to Matthew. He knew the set of Matthew’s shoulders too well—the stiffness wasn’t anger, it was pain. Masa
Diana’s laughter lilted through the table, soft but deliberate. She leaned closer to Masahiro, fingers brushing her glass stem like it was part of the performance.“You must be exhausted, Detective,” she said smoothly, eyes lingering longer than courtesy required. “All that work, and yet here you are. Looking—well—far too sharp for anyone’s good.”Masahiro glanced at her, unbothered. His tone was level, almost clinical. “Just doing my job.” He adjusted his cufflinks, not catching—or not acknowledging—the current in her words. To him, it was politeness, nothing more.Matthew, though, saw it. Every tilt of her head, every sly smile. His jaw tightened as he sipped his drink, knuckles tapping restless against his thigh.At the other side of the table, Clark’s gaze flicked between them, sharp behind the glint of his glasses. He leaned toward Adam, voice lowered but crisp. “Tell me you’re seeing this.”Adam tore his eyes from the crowd, glanced once at Diana, Masahiro, then at Matthew’s bur
Matthew stood in front of the mirror, jaw tight as he wrestled with the silk tie. “You’d think after years of wearing these bloody things, I’d manage one knot.” He tugged again, too hard, the silk slipping loose. “Nope. Useless. Should’ve just worn chains and called it a statement.”From the hallway came the soft tread of polished shoes. Masahiro appeared in the reflection—immaculate in his own dark suit, hair combed neatly back, every line severe but perfect. His eyes lingered on Matthew’s clumsy knot.“Turn,” he ordered, voice even.Matthew smirked without moving. “You always this bossy, or is it just with me?”Masahiro didn’t answer—he stepped forward until Matthew felt the chill of his presence. A faint frown creased his face. “Turn.”Matthew sighed dramatically, blue eyes flashing. “Fine. Only because you look like you’re about to write me up.” He pivoted, arms falling to his sides. “Don’t strangle me.”Masahiro’s fingers worked the tie with practiced precision. “You talk too muc
Clark stood before the mirror, comb sliding through his neatly styled hair. Each pass was deliberate, exact. He was halfway through smoothing the part when his phone rang.He answered, clipped but polite. “Clark Brown speaking.”A woman’s gentle voice came through, warm and professional.“Good morning, Mr. Brown? This is Margaret from Whitmore Tailoring. I just wanted to confirm your name before proceeding.”“Yes, this is Clark Brown,” he replied, tone precise.“Wonderful. I’m pleased to let you know your suit is ready for collection. It’s been pressed and finished—perfect for the fundraiser tomorrow. You may pick it up at your convenience. And Mr. Brown—thank you again for choosing us.”Clark’s lips curved faintly. “Appreciated, Margaret. I’ll be there shortly.”“Excellent. We’ll have it waiting. Have a lovely day.”The line clicked shut. Clark set the phone down, satisfied.From the kitchen corner came the clink of ceramic. Adam drained the last of his coffee, heavy hand setting the
Two days later Adam had Clark folded in half, legs high on his shoulders, pounding into him with a rhythm that made the frame of the bed groan.Clark’s voice broke out, but even in his moans there was fussing, words spilling like objections in court.“Ahh—Adam—! You’re brutal, this is—hahh—completely unnecessary force—ahhh—”Adam’s laugh was rough, close to a growl. “Shut that pretty mouth, lawyer boy. You like it. Always whining, always talking, but your ass says otherwise.” He drove harder, pace merciless.Clark gasped, his head tipping back, but the words kept coming. “Ahhh—don’t—don’t you dare tell me what my ass says—hnnhh—you’ve got no idea the—hahhh—damage this level of aggression can cause—ahhh!”Adam leaned forward, his bulk pressing Clark into the mattress. “Damage? You begging for more ain’t damage, it’s fact. You need it rough. That’s why you keep letting me in. Don’t play smart now.”Clark’s hands clawed at the sheets, his voice spillin