He Says I'm His

Lucien Beaumont did not do boyfriends.

He did mergers. He did hostile takeovers. He did 6 AM board meetings and black coffee that could strip paint.

He did not do a 22-year-old photographer with freckles and a lip piercing who left camera lenses on his million-dollar marble kitchen counter.

And yet, there he was, standing in the doorway of his own penthouse at 11:47 PM, watching Milo Chen curled up on his couch in one of his dress shirts, bare legs tucked under him, editing photos on Lucien's laptop like he owned the place.

Which, to be fair, he kind of did.

"You're late," Milo said without looking up. His voice was soft. Sweet. Anyone else would think it was innocent.

Lucien knew better.

"Meeting ran over. The Singapore deal—"

"I know. You didn't answer my texts for three hours, Lucien."

That was the tone. That soft, disappointed tone that made Lucien's spine straighten like a schoolboy caught cheating.

Lucien loosened his tie. "I told you I was in a meeting."

"You told me at 5 PM. It's almost midnight." Milo finally looked up. His eyes were big and dark and glassy, like a doll's. He had cried. Lucien could tell. Milo's bottom lip was raw from biting it. "Your assistant answered your phone at 9 PM. Lena."

Lucien frowned. "Lena always answers when I'm in the boardroom."

"Lena shouldn't answer YOUR personal phone, Lucien." Milo stood up. The shirt barely covered his thighs. He walked over slowly. Every step deliberate. "I don't like her voice. I don't like how she says your name."

Lucien should have laughed. He should have said, don't be ridiculous, she's 54 and married with three kids.

Instead, his pulse picked up.

Because Milo was now right in front of him, and Milo smelled like Lucien's expensive shower gel and something sweeter, something distinctly Milo, and when he reached up to fix Lucien's tie, his fingers were cold.

"You belong to me," Milo whispered, straightening the tie with a sharp tug that choked Lucien for half a second. "Right? Say it."

In the office, Lucien Beaumont made grown men stutter.

Here, he swallowed.

"I belong to you."

Milo smiled. Finally. A real smile that lit up his whole face. He went from scary to sunshine in a second. "Good boy."

He leaned up and kissed Lucien, soft and slow and possessive, biting his lower lip hard enough to leave a mark. A mark that would be there for tomorrow's meeting.

"Did you eat?" Milo asked, suddenly all domestic again, pulling him toward the kitchen.

"No."

"I left it in the microwave. Don't use the other plates. I washed yours." Milo opened the microwave. Inside was a perfectly plated steak, still warm.

Lucien stared at it. "You waited?"

"I always wait." Milo hopped up on the kitchen counter, watching him eat. His eyes never left Lucien's face. Not for a second. "Who was in the meeting?"

"The Singapore investors. And—"

"Was that new intern there? The one with the—" Milo made a vague gesture at his chest.

Lucien almost choked. "Milo."

"What? I saw his I*******m. He posted from your office lobby. I told you I don't like pretty things near what's mine."

Lucien set his fork down. This was the part that should have scared him. The part where his 22-year-old boyfriend was tracking interns via I*******m.

But god help him, it didn't scare him. It thrilled him.

Six months ago, Lucien thought he was picking up a pretty, quiet art student from a gallery opening to keep his bed warm. He thought Milo would be easy. Soft. Grateful.

He learned on night two that Milo had thrown out every condom in the penthouse because "if you're going to fuck me, you only fuck me raw, Lucien. I don't share."

He learned on week two that Milo had changed his phone password and memorized it.

He learned on month three that Milo had told the entire building's concierge that he was Mr. Beaumont's husband, and if any "pretty girls or boys" came up asking for Lucien, they were to be turned away.

And Lucien had let him. All of it.

"Come here," Lucien said quietly.

Milo slid off the counter and went to him immediately, straddling his lap right there on the kitchen stool. He was light but he sat like he was anchoring Lucien down.

"You're obsessed with me," Lucien murmured into his neck.

Milo's fingers dug into Lucien's hair, tight. Possessive. "You made me this way. You picked me up. You said I could stay. You don't get to complain now that I don't want to leave. Ever."

"I don't want you to leave."

"Then prove it. Fire Lena."

"Milo—"

"Fire her or move her to another floor. I don't want her hearing your voice every day. Your voice is mine."

Lucien looked up at him. Milo's eyes were wet again, but his grip was steel.

This was the secret no one knew. The cold, ruthless Lucien Beaumont, who fired executives without blinking, was completely, utterly owned by a boy ten years younger who looked like an angel and acted like a jealous god.

And he loved it.

"Okay," Lucien whispered. "I'll move her."

Milo's whole body relaxed. He melted, kissing Lucien's forehead, his cheeks, his jaw. "I knew you'd be good for me. You're always so good for me, Lucien."

He reached into Lucien's suit pocket and pulled out his phone. Lucien didn't even stop him anymore. Milo unlocked it — he knew the code — and deleted the intern's contact request from LinkedIn, then blocked the account.

"There," Milo said happily. "All clean. Now you're only mine again."

Lucien carried him to the bedroom, Milo's legs locked around his waist, his pretty, possessive boyfriend whispering in his ear all the way: "Mine, mine, mine..."