What makes you think I'm playing?

Vincent

He is Miranda’s son.

That was the mantra I had been repeating to myself since the moment Olise Adeyemi walked through my front doors. He was twenty-four, a recent university graduate, and my wife’s child. He was a guest in my home, a young man finding his footing, and absolutely nothing more.

But as I stood outside his bedroom door in the quiet, shadowed hallway of my house, the mantra felt incredibly fragile.

I had been sitting in my study, nursing a glass of scotch, trying to erase the memory of the look on Olise’s face earlier that afternoon. I’d caught him staring at me from the terrace while I was in the pool. It shouldn't have affected me. I was a forty-three-year-old businessman; I was used to people looking at me. But the sheer intensity in his wide, expressive eyes had stirred something dark and restless in my chest.

When I realized the housekeeper had forgotten to place the fresh Egyptian cotton towels in the guest wing, I had picked them up myself. It was a simple task. A hospitable gesture.

But when the door swung open, the breath caught in my throat.

Olise stood there, flushed and sleep-muddled. He was wearing nothing but a pair of low-slung, grey sweatpants. The fabric hung loosely on his hips, exposing a lean, beautifully toned torso and the smooth expanse of his chest.

"Vincent?" his voice was a soft, breathless whisper that seemed to echo in the quiet corridor. "Is everything okay?"

"I..." I had to force my voice to remain steady, pulling my eyes up to lock onto his. "I realized Mrs. Gable forgot to leave these for you. I wanted to make sure you had everything you needed."

I held out the stack of towels.

Olise stepped closer to take them. As his fingers brushed against mine, a sharp, electric jolt shot straight up my arm. He didn't pull away immediately. Instead, his gaze drifted downward.

He wasn't looking at the towels.

My charcoal silk robe had loosened when I walked up the stairs, the lapels parting to reveal the bare expanse of my chest down to my stomach. Olise’s eyes traced the opening. His chest rose and fell in a shallow, uneven rhythm, his lips parting slightly. He was staring at me with a raw, unfiltered hunger that made the air in the hallway turn thick and suffocatingly hot.

My body reacted before my mind could stop it. My muscles tensed, my pulse hammering violently against my ribs. The urge to reach out, to wrap my hand around his waist and pull his warm body against mine, was so sudden and overwhelming it terrified me.

"Olise," I gritted out, my voice dropping into a gravelly, commanding register.

His eyes snapped back up to mine, wide and startled, like a deer caught in the headlights of an oncoming car. The blush that crept up his neck and over his high cheekbones was agonizingly beautiful.

"Thank you," he murmured, his voice barely audible as he clutched the towels to his chest like a shield.

"Get some sleep," I said, my tone sharper than I intended.

I didn't wait for his response. I turned on my heel and walked back to my wing of the house, my heart thudding in my ears. I shut my bedroom door and leaned heavily against it, closing my eyes.

What the hell are you doing, Vincent?

I was married. My marriage to Miranda was distant, cold, and practically dead in the water, but she was still my wife. And Olise was her son. I was a man of logic, discipline, and control. I didn't lose my head over twenty-four-year-old boys.

But as I stared out into the dark night, I knew I was lying to myself. I was in serious trouble.

The Next Morning

The morning sun streamed through the floor-to-ceiling windows of the dining room, but the bright light did nothing to ease the thick tension lingering in the air.

I sat at the head of the long mahogany table, dressed in a tailored charcoal suit, crisp white shirt, and silk tie. I had an executive board meeting in an hour, and I had hoped the familiar routine of business would ground me.

Then, Olise walked in.

He had dressed down in a oversized white t-shirt that draped off one of his smooth shoulders, paired with short black gym shorts. He looked effortlessly youthful, vibrant, and entirely out of place in my sterile, quiet house.

"Good morning," he said softly, sliding into the chair to my right.

"Morning," I replied, keeping my eyes fixed on my tablet as I sipped my black coffee. "Did you sleep well?"

"Not really," he murmured, pouring himself a glass of orange juice. "It was... pretty warm in my room."

I knew the climate control in his room was perfect. I chose not to comment.

A heavy, charged silence descended upon the table. The clinking of silverware felt deafening. I tried to focus on an email from my CFO, but I could feel Olise's eyes on me.

Suddenly, he set his glass down with a soft clack.

"I have a question, Vincent," he said, his voice carrying a sudden, daring edge.

I finally looked up from my tablet, raising an eyebrow. "Yes?"

Olise leaned his elbow on the table, resting his chin in his hand. A tiny, incredibly provocative smirk played at the corner of his lips.

"Do you always walk around the house half-dressed in the middle of the night? Or was that a special performance just for me?"

The brazenness of the question hung in the air. My grip tightened around my coffee mug. The sheer audacity of this boy—standing in my house, eating my food, and daring to cross a line that could ruin us both—sent a wave of heat straight to my groin, quickly followed by a cold flash of warning.

I set my mug down slowly, deliberately. I leaned forward, letting the full weight of my presence press down on him. The corporate facade was gone, replaced by the raw, dominant instinct of a man who did not like to be pushed.

"Olise," I said, my voice low, dangerous, and dripping with quiet authority. "I suggest you tread very carefully. Don't play games with me in my own house."

Instead of flinching, Olise’s smirk widened into a slow, breathtaking smile. He leaned in closer, his dark eyes sparkling with a thrilling, dangerous challenge.

"What makes you think I'm playing?"