Fantasy-Theo moans, his back arching impossibly further.
I pull back until just the head remains inside, watching his hole cling desperately to my shaft, before slamming forward again. The sound that tears from his throat is raw, broken, fucking beautiful.
“More,” Fantasy-Theo begs, pushing back against me. “Harder.”
Each thrust stretches him wider, his body accepting me like it was made for this purpose. For me. The tight ring of muscle grips my cock like a vise, sending shockwaves of pleasure up my spine.
“So fucking tight,” I hiss, my real hand working furiously now. My cock feels like steel. “So fucking perfect.”
The obscenity of it—this small, elegant man taking my massive cock—pushes me to the edge. I imagine how he would look beneath me, completely overwhelmed by my size, my strength, my desire. How his hole would be stretched to its limit, pink and puffy around my girth.
It’s too much.
“Fuck,” I grunt, barely managing to aim at the toilet as my orgasm crashes through me. Thick ropes of cum shoot from my cock, splashing against porcelain, some hitting water with soft plops. It keeps coming, more than usual, painting the bowl white as I stroke myself through each pulse.
My breathing comes heavy as the last pulses of my orgasm fade. I stare at the mess I’ve made. Evidence of what I just did. Of the fantasy that I just jerked off to.
Reality crashes back. The cold bathroom stall. The hard floor beneath my feet. The sticky wetness on my hand.
What the fuck?
I grab toilet paper and clean myself up, wiping away the traces, but the memory won’t disappear so easily. My hands shake as I tuck myself back into my pants, fumbling with the zipper.
“Christ,” I whisper, disgust rising in my throat.
I’ve never—not once in my life—jerked off thinking about a man. Let alone someone like Theo.
I flush the toilet, watching the evidence swirl away, wishing my thoughts could follow just as easily. The lock on the stall feels heavier than it should as I slide it open, each movement mechanical.
At the sink, I can barely look at my reflection. Same face. Same eyes. But I don’t recognize the man staring back at me.
I wash my hands thoroughly, scrubbing until my skin turns pink. The cold water helps clear my head, bit by bit. This wasn’t me. It was the alcohol. The atmosphere in Purgatory. Theo is getting in my head with his mind games.
“Never again,” I promise myself, voice low but firm. “This never happened.”
I splash more water on my face, willing my complexion to return to normal. The flush of shame gradually recedes. I straighten my shoulders, crack my neck.
Victor Kaine doesn’t question himself. I’ve built my reputation on being unshakeable, unmovable.
One weird fucking moment in a bathroom stall isn’t going to change that.
I dry my hands, fix my clothing, and take one last steadying breath. The face in the mirror hardens into something I recognize—the man I’ve always been. The only man I’ll ever be.
I pull the door open and step back into the hallway, ready to rejoin the party and put this moment behind me forever.
3
THEO
Every thrust sends waves of pleasure crashing through my body. I’m on my hands and knees, positioned in front of two forces—Elliot behind me, Julian behind him. My hair falls around my face like a curtain, occasionally parting to give me glimpses of the chamber beyond our entangled bodies.
I feel rather than see Julian’s control of the situation. His rhythm dictates everything—when Elliot drives into me, how deep, how hard. It’s Julian’s hands on Elliot’s hips that orchestrate our movements, creating a symphony of flesh and desire. Each time Julian thrusts forward, Elliot is forced deeper inside me, making me gasp at the delicious pressure.
“Fuck,” Elliot moans above me, his voice strained between pleasure and surrender.
But my attention isn’t fully on the men using my body. My gaze keeps drifting across the chamber to where Victor stands, a mountain of muscle and ink beside a marble column. His massive arms are crossed over his chest, jaw clenched tight, eyes burning with an intensity that makes my skin heat beyond the friction of our bodies.
I deliberately turn my head to maintain eye contact with him as Elliot slams particularly deep, forcing a groan from my throat. Victor’s fists clench at his sides, the tendons in his forearms standing out in sharp relief.