CHAPTER 19: SNEAKY TOUCHES AT THE COUNTER

POV: Callum Miller

My knees were still faintly weak as I descended the stairs to the ground floor, my core thrumming with the lingering intensity of my submission upstairs in the attic suite.

The low, rhythmic sizzle of charcoal echoed from the back patio. Outside the large bay window over the kitchen sink, my father stood by the stainless-steel grill in his polo shirt, tongs in hand, squinting into the rising smoke as he flipped steaks. Harlan was entirely focused on dinner, bathed in the orange glow of the setting sun, completely unaware of the shadow looming directly inside his house.

I stood at the polished granite island, trying desperately to focus on the task in front of me. A wooden bowl sat on the counter, surrounded by chopped romaine, heirloom tomatoes, and sliced cucumbers. My hands trembled as I used the wooden tongs to toss the salad, my heart knocking violently against my ribs every time I heard heavy footsteps behind me.

Gideon moved around the kitchen with a terrifying, predator-like calmness.

He wore a dark fitted shirt that hugged his broad shoulders, looking every bit the relaxed, formidable contractor staying as my father's honored guest. He stepped over to the refrigerator, pulled out a bottle of vinaigrette, and walked over to stand right beside me at the granite counter.

"Let me help you finish up, Callum," Gideon said, his voice entirely smooth and casual, loud enough to carry through the partially open glass door if Harlan glanced inside.

"T-thanks, Captain," I stammered, my head bowed as I kept my eyes fixed on the green leaves in the bowl.

Gideon stepped closer...far closer than any casual guest had any right to be. His towering frame completely blocked the light from the overhead fixture, casting a long shadow over the counter. He reached across me to set the dressing bottle down, his broad shoulder brushing against mine with deliberate, lingering weight.

Then, under the pretense of leaning over to check the bowl, Gideon discreetly slid his heavy right hand down my side.

His hand slipped beneath the hem of my apron, his broad, calloused palm coming to rest flat over my right hip, directly through the thick denim of my jeans.

I froze instantly, a violent, helpless shudder ripping through my entire body. My fingers locked around the wooden tongs, my breath catching so hard it made my ribs ache.

Outside, Harlan paused, turning his head toward the kitchen window to glance inside as he tapped the tongs against the grill grate.

Right as my father's eyes flicked toward the glass, Gideon’s grip on my hip tightened significantly. His heavy fingers dug possessively into the flesh above my pelvic bone, squeezing hard enough to leave an unmistakable, searing pressure that sent a sharp shock wave of pure, liquid heat shooting straight down into my groin.

I gasped, biting down brutally hard on my lower lip to keep from letting out a loud, pathetic whimper right in front of the open window. A single drop of moisture welled in the corner of my eye from the intense sensory overload, my hips instinctively twitching as I fought to stand still under his crushing grip.

Gideon didn't look at me. He remained standing right behind my right shoulder, looking out through the glass directly at my father, his face a completely blank, polite mask.

"Your father seems satisfied with the fire," Gideon remarked smoothly into the quiet kitchen, his tone completely flat and natural, even as his heavy palm flexed again over my denim-clad hip, his thumb rubbing a slow, punishing circle into my bone. "The steaks should be done in a few minutes."

"Y-yes, sir," I squeaked out, my voice nearly cracking. I clamped my mouth shut, tears pricking my lashes as I chewed on my lower lip until I tasted the faint copper tang of blood. My entire body was burning up, my wet, needy core throbbing so hard under my pants that I could barely keep my feet planted on the tile floor.

Every time Harlan glanced toward the window while turning the meat, Gideon’s hand reacted. He squeezed tighter, pinning me against the edge of the granite counter with subtle, unyielding force, using my father's proximity as a weapon to force my absolute, silent submission. The risk was sickening, thrilling, and completely overwhelming. Harlan was less than fifteen feet away, separated only by a sheet of glass, while his guest claimed his son's body right at the kitchen island.

"Keep tossing, sweet boy," Gideon murmured, lowering his head just enough so his gravelly baritone vibrated directly against my ear, completely hidden from the outside view. "Don't stop moving those tongs. Show me how well you can obey when your father is looking right at you."

Trembling violently, my knuckles white, I forced my shaking hands to keep tossing the salad in the bowl. Every movement made the fabric of my jeans rub against the firm pressure of his hand, bringing me dangerously close to the edge of an embarrassing, whimpering breakdown.

Gideon kept his heavy hand anchored on my hip until Harlan finally closed the grill lid and turned around to grab a platter, his back finally turned to the window.

Only then did Gideon slowly release his grip, his fingers dragging possessively off my denim before he stepped back, picking up two salad plates from the cupboard as if nothing had happened.

"Looks good, Callum," Gideon said aloud, his tone distant and cool once more as he walked toward the dining table. "I'll set these out."

I slumped forward against the edge of the granite counter, my chest heaving as I dragged long, shuddering gasps of air into my lungs, my core aching with an unbearable, burning need that I knew would follow me all the way into the dead of night.