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I swing my legs nervously, the too-big chair swallowing me whole, like it knows damn well I don't belong here. My boots barely skim the floor, and the slick Sterling's Pride Essential Services brochure in my sweaty hands crinkles from the death grip I've got on it. "Innovative approach to minotaur biological needs," the bold tagline blares at me like a neon sign over a strip club. I drag my gaze away, but it keeps snapping back like a rubber band to the words I shouldn't be obsessing over.

Dad had gone purple when I told him. "Honeyworths are traditional farmers," he'd thundered, veins bulging. "We don't get mixed up with...those creatures." Yeah, well. Four generations of corn and soybeans left me starving for something more. Something raw. Something that cracked open my chest and made my heart beat faster just by thinking about it. I just hadn't realized "faster" would feel like this—like an electrical storm riding shotgun inside my body.

The receptionist, all sharp smiles and even sharper nails, had chirped a "Mr. Johnson will be right with you," and offered me something to drink. I should've said yes. Now my mouth's so dry it feels like I'm chewing sandpaper, and the third trip through the glossy brochure isn't helping.

"State-of-the-art collection apparatus."

"Privacy-focused design."

"Competitive compensation for donors."

Each clinical phrase hits me low in the gut, twisting hard enough to make my toes curl inside my boots. I squirm in my seat, swallowing down the wrong kind of anticipation. This wasn't supposed to feel sexy. And yet.

The front door swings open. I freeze.

A trio of minotaurs strides through like they own the goddamn place—easily seven feet tall, shoulders so broad they make the door frame look like a toy. Casual business attire clings to them in all the wrong, delicious places—shirts stretched tight over thick chests, slacks doing a piss-poor job of hiding thighs like tree trunks.

One of them laughs, low and rich, and the sound vibrates right through me. Another swings his gaze toward me. Our eyes catch. Boom. My whole body locks up, heart slamming so hard it feels like my ribs might crack. Heat floods my face, and I jerk my head back down, pretending to study the brochure like it's a damn holy text. Too late. The scent hits me—thick and heady, earthy and male, like the woods after a hard rain. I grip the armrests, knuckles going white, trying not to breathe too deep. Trying not to imagine what that smell would taste like on my tongue.

I never should've come here. But God help me, I don't think I can walk away.

The door to the inner office swings open, and I nearly lose my grip on the damn brochure, my fingers fumbling like a kid caught sneaking a dirty magazine. I look up—and up—and holy hell, up.

The minotaur fills the entire doorway, a living wall of muscle and dark brown fur that gleams under the sterile office lights. Seven feet of raw, devastating power, packed into a button-down shirt that's doing the Lord's work just staying buttoned. His slacks? No help at all—every stride, every subtle shift of those massive legs is a study in barely-leashed force.

His bull's head tilts slightly as he surveys me, amber eyes razor-sharp and crackling with intelligence. And maybe something else. Something that makes my skin prickle and my stomach plummet straight through the floor.

"Mr. Honeyworth?" His voice is a low, velvety rumble—felt more in my chest than heard in my ears. "I'm Sterling Johnson. Owner of Sterling's Pride. Please, come in."

I scramble to my feet, brushing down my wrinkled khakis like that'll somehow make me look like I have my shit together. Spoiler: it doesn't. My legs feel about as stable as overcooked spaghetti as I follow him into the office.

It's big and polished—massive desk, awards gleaming on the walls, family photos placed with precision. The kind of space that screams control and success. Everything in its right place.

I sink into the chair he gestures to—thankfully built for human proportions—while Sterling eases into his custom-made seat, the frame giving a loud, protesting creak under his impossible weight. Even sitting, he dominates the room.

"Your application was... unexpected," he says, getting right to the point. His voice still has that low, rolling edge, like distant thunder you know is about to break wide open. "Agriculture business majors don't typically seek internships at facilities like mine."

I latch onto my prepared line like it's a life raft. "I'm interested in non-traditional agricultural models," I say, trying to keep my voice steady. "Your facility represents an innovative approach to?—"

"Hank," he cuts in, nostrils flaring slightly, his tone brooking no argument.

Oh god, why does my name sound so good coming out of his mouth?

"Hank. Let's be direct. Do you understand what we do here?"

Heat climbs up my neck like a goddamn fire alarm, but I nod, soldiering through it. "Yes, sir. You provide a safe, private environment for minotaurs to address biological needs and compensate them for their...contributions... which are used in agricultural applications."

There. Clinical. Safe.

Sterling leans forward slightly, and the sheer mass of him is enough to make me fight the primal urge to either bolt or drop to my knees. (And not necessarily in terror.)

"And you're comfortable with that?"

"Yes, sir," I blurt, too fast, too eager. Like a rookie offering himself up for slaughter.

"Why?"

The word slices through the air. Sharp. Demanding.

"I..." I swallow, forcing the words past the lump in my throat. "I believe the services you provide are essential and dignified. And I want to learn about every aspect of agricultural business, not just the ones humans dominate."

For a long, suspended moment, he just... watches me. His gaze is so heavy it pins me in place, a tangible pressure crawling over my skin.

Then Sterling leans back, his enormous horns catching the light like a crown, his face unreadable.

"This position requires discretion," he says slowly. "Professionalism. The ability to handle delicate situations. Our clients come here because they trust us."

"I understand," I say, my voice barely above a whisper.

His eyes narrow, a slow, assessing rake from the top of my messy hair down to my still-trembling hands. "Do you?" he murmurs. There's no judgment in his tone—just a low, unsettling curiosity, like he's trying to peel me open and see what's really inside.

"A lot of people find our business... distasteful," he says, and there's a faint, bitter twist to his mouth. "Despite the fact that what we do is perfectly natural. Necessary."

"I grew up on a farm, Mr. Johnson. I've seen animals breeding my entire life," I manage to say, clutching onto the only thing that feels solid in my spinning head. "This isn't so different."

He snorts softly—a sound that rumbles somewhere deep in his chest—and shakes his head. "Except we're not talking about livestock, Hank. We're talking about sentient beings. With dignity. Privacy."

"I didn't mean?—"

He lifts a massive hand, cutting me off with an ease that should piss me off but somehow makes me want to lean into it instead. "I know what you meant," he says. "But you need to understand what you're stepping into."

The words aren't just a warning. They're a promise.

Sterling rises in one fluid, terrifying, gorgeous motion. The room seems to shrink around him.

"Come," he says, his voice darker now. Rougher. "I'll show you the facility. Then we'll see if you still want the position."

I trail after Sterling through the hidden door behind his desk, the heavy scent of leather and something darker—something him —curling in my lungs as we step into a pristine hallway.

* * *

The tour is efficient. Clinical. Reception area. Staff room. Laboratory where collections are processed. Sterling explains everything with that smooth, practiced precision, and I nod along, pretending like I'm absorbing every word when, really, it's getting harder to breathe. Harder to think about anything except the way his voice vibrates straight through my bones.

And then we reach them.

The collection rooms.

Sterling pauses in front of one door, punching a code into the keypad. "This is where our clients' needs are addressed," he says, his voice steady enough to pass for casual—but there's a deeper hum underneath it, something almost... primal.

The door swings open, and for a second, I just stand there blinking.

The room is nothing like I expected. Soft lighting. Thick, plush carpet. A massive screen on one wall, a neatly arranged rack of magazines nearby. It feels more like a high-end hotel suite than a clinical facility.

Except for the centerpiece.

Right in the middle of the room, there's a padded apparatus—sleek and ergonomically curved, adjustable in ways that scream comfort and intimacy at the same time. Not crude. Not mechanical. Something designed for pleasure.

"The mount," Sterling says, following my gaze. His voice drops a fraction lower, and I feel it in my blood, hot and thick. "Fully adjustable for comfort. The internal systems collect and process the biological specimens."

I have to clear my throat twice before I manage, "It seems... very sophisticated."

Sterling crosses the room, one massive hand trailing lightly over the mount's padded surface. And I swear to god, watching that simple touch—the way his fingers move, slow and confident—sends a bolt of heat shooting straight between my legs.

"It is," he murmurs. "Designed for maximum comfort and efficiency. Clients can position themselves naturally while the system does the rest."

I can't stop it—the image slams into my brain like a freight train. Sterling. Shoving his big body down onto that mount, muscles straining, head thrown back in rough, wild pleasure. A choked sound sticks in my throat. I shift, trying to discreetly adjust the sudden, painful tightness in my pants. God help me if he notices.

He keeps talking, like he hasn't just set me on fire from ten feet away.

"The rooms are completely private," Sterling says, motioning to the walls. "Soundproofed. Clients can use the entertainment systems or bring their own materials."

The big screen. The magazines. The things left unsaid hang thick between us, heavy enough to choke on.

I nod, my tongue thick and useless.

Sterling squats down next to the mount, showing how the various parts adjust—raising, lowering, angling just so—and it's so easy, too easy, to imagine standing there with him, his giant hands on my hips, positioning me just right...

Stop. Stop.

"The internal mechanism is self-lubricating," he says, flipping open a hidden compartment like he's discussing nothing more risqué than a toaster. "Temperature-regulated to simulate natural conditions."

I make a soft, helpless noise in the back of my throat and immediately pretend it's a cough. Sterling's mouth quirks at the corner. He heard it. He knows.

"Clients receive immediate feedback on quantity and quality," he adds, pressing another button so a sleek readout flashes across the screen, "and payment is automatically deposited."

I nod again because if I open my mouth right now, the only thing coming out will be a whimper.

He rises to his full, towering height, the mount between us like some charged line neither of us is acknowledging out loud. Not yet. He taps another button, revealing a discreet drawer lined with... accessories. He closes it quickly, but not before my brain catalogs everything.

"Clients have different preferences," he says, his gaze steady on mine. "We accommodate all reasonable needs."

Something in the way he says reasonable makes my stomach flip.

Then he faces me fully, crossing the space in two strides until he's standing just a little too close. Not close enough to touch. Close enough that my body aches for it anyway.

"Any questions?" he asks, voice low. Dangerous.

I open my mouth. Close it. Shake my head.

So many questions. Most of them involving me, him, and very little clothing.

Sterling studies me for another long beat, the silence so charged it crackles. "Then let's go back to my office," he says, voice barely above a growl. "Discuss the position." He lets that last word hang, heavy with layered meaning. "Unless..." He cocks his head slightly, amber eyes glinting. "You've decided this isn't for you."

"No!" I say, too fast, too loud. I flush. "I mean—yes. I'm still interested."

For the first time, a slow smile tugs at his mouth. It's not kind. It's not safe. It's the kind of smile that promises ruin—and somehow makes you thank it for the privilege.

Something flashes in Sterling's eyes—approval, amusement, maybe something darker—and he turns, striding back toward the hall. Leaving me there, heart hammering, hands shaking, want thrumming through my blood like a second pulse.

* * *

Back in his office, I sink into the chair like my knees might betray me otherwise, clutching the folder Sterling slides across the desk between two fingers—careful not to let our skin touch. Not because I don't want it. Because if it happened, I might actually combust.

Sterling leans back, massive arms folded behind his head, posture the perfect balance of lazy and lethal.

"You'll start with basic responsibilities," he says, voice like warm velvet dragged over a razor's edge. "Inventory management. Scheduling. Basic accounting. Assisting the cleaning team between clients."

All perfectly normal tasks. All requiring me to pretend I wasn't actively thinking about exactly what I'd be cleaning up after.

"You'll report to Helena Vasquez," he adds, nodding toward the folder. "She runs our cleaning staff."

I nod, throat dry, flipping open the folder to distract myself. NDAs. Health certifications. Emergency protocols. All neat. Buttoned-up. Professional. Not even a hint of the raw, aching reality that still lingers behind my ribs like a fresh bruise.

"The pay," Sterling continues, like he's not watching me squirm behind a paper shield, "is competitive. Reflective of the unique nature of our work."

He names a figure. I blink. Holy shit.

"That's... extremely generous," I manage, my voice scraping against the sudden dryness in my mouth.

"We value discretion and professionalism," he says simply. "Both command a premium."

I try to focus on the legalese in front of me—paragraphs blurring together into meaningless squiggles as my mind drifts back to padded mounts, to the low scrape of Sterling's voice explaining lubrication mechanisms like he wasn't slowly dismantling my sanity one word at a time.

"Our hours are eight to six, Monday through Saturday," Sterling adds. "You'll be working primarily weekdays. Some Saturdays, depending on client demand."

Another nod from me. Another lie. Because demand has a whole different meaning in my head right now.

Sterling's gaze sharpens, pinning me to the spot like a butterfly to a board.

"One last thing, Hank." He leans forward, massive forearms braced on the desk, the short, velvety fur gleaming under the harsh overhead lights. I swear the air between us shimmers—charged, electric.

"I personally use one of the collection rooms at the end of each day."

I freeze. Every muscle in my body locks up.

Sterling's voice doesn't waver. Doesn't soften.

"Minotaurs must relieve certain pressures regularly," he says, as if he's discussing crop rotations, not dropping a live grenade into the middle of my self-control. "Otherwise, hormone buildup affects our temperament. Our health."

My heart slams against my ribs, a frantic bird desperate to escape.

"I'm telling you this," he continues, "because if you accept this position, you will occasionally be on-site when I attend to my needs."

Attend to his needs. God help me.

"I expect," he says, his amber eyes burning through me, "complete discretion."

The temperature in the room spikes ten degrees. My hands tremble as I clutch the folder tighter.

"Of course," I croak, my voice so hoarse it barely counts as a whisper. "Complete discretion."

Sterling doesn't look away. Doesn't blink. Just watches me with the kind of patient intensity that says he could peel me apart thought by thought if he chose to. And worse—some part of me wants him to.

For a beat, the silence between us pulses thick and heavy, my own arousal a hot, humiliating weight pressing against the front of my pants. Can minotaurs smell that? Can he?

The thought makes everything worse.

Sterling finally leans back, the leather chair groaning in protest. "The position is yours," he says. "If you want it."

"If I—" I choke, then barrel ahead like an idiot. "I want it. I accept."

His mouth twitches—the faintest flicker of a smile—before smoothing back into unreadable professionalism.

"Welcome to Sterling's Pride, Mr. Honeyworth," he says, voice low and final. "I expect impeccable professionalism from all my staff."

"Yes, sir." Sir. The word slips out soaked in things I don't dare examine too closely.

He stands, rising to his full, devastating height, and extends his hand.

I scramble up, my own hand practically dwarfed in his. His skin is hot. Rough. Alive.

The contact sends a jolt straight up my arm, straight down my spine, straight—Well. Everywhere.

"I'll see you Monday morning," Sterling says, releasing me with an unreadable look. The ghost of that heat lingers on my palm like a brand.

I barely register his next words over the roaring in my ears.

"The receptionist will show you out."

I stumble through the door, heart still pounding, the phantom feel of his hand burning into my skin.

God help me. I have no idea how I'm going to survive working here.

* * *

I drive home in a fog, one hand clenched uselessly on the steering wheel, the other still tingling with the ghost of Sterling's handshake. I personally use one of the collection rooms at the end of each day. The words loop inside my skull, low and dark and impossible to scrub clean.

By the time I park outside my apartment, my pants are doing a piss-poor job of hiding the fact that I'm half-hard and getting worse by the second. The cold night air doesn't help. Hell, it makes it worse—sharp and biting against skin that already feels too tight, too hot. I barely make it through the door before I'm tearing off my clothes, slamming the bathroom door behind me like it can hold back the images clawing through my head.

The water in the shower is ice-cold, needles against my overheated skin. Doesn't matter. Doesn't touch the fire burning underneath. I press my forehead against the tiles, breathing hard. I should stop. I should.

Instead, my hand moves without permission, fingers wrapping around myself, slick and desperate, as behind my eyes— There he is. Sterling Johnson.

The image crashes over me with the force of a breaking wave: Him loosening that tight-ass tie with slow, methodical fingers. Him popping the buttons on that poor abused shirt, dark fur revealed inch by agonizing inch. Those massive shoulders rolling back as he shrugs it off, casual and devastating.

I see him crossing the collection room, thighs thick and flexing with every slow, deliberate step. I imagine him gripping the mount—big, brutal hands curling around the handles—and sinking his hips down against it. Powerful. Fluid. His back muscles tensing, rolling, straining under the effort.

My hand jerks faster, hips stuttering into the rhythm of the fantasy.

I imagine the sounds he might make—rough, raw grunts forced from deep inside that huge chest, breaking into broken, hungry moans. I picture the sweat slicking his fur, dripping down the thick ropes of his spine, pooling in the small of his back as he works himself deeper, harder, faster. And those eyes—those molten amber eyes—fluttering half-shut, mouth parted on gasps he couldn't hold back if he tried.

The image of it—the sheer raw power of him, the complete abandonment, the overwhelming need—breaks me.

I come with a muffled groan, Sterling's name tearing itself from my lips before I can stop it. The orgasm rips through me, fierce and punishing, leaving me shuddering against the cold tile, every nerve sparking like a live wire.

For a few long, ragged seconds, I just stand there, chest heaving, the water beating down on me like judgment. Shame crashes in hard and fast, rolling through me until I feel like I might drown in it. What the hell am I doing?

This is my boss. A minotaur. Someone who's been nothing but professional. Who probably thinks of me as nothing more than a new intern—another human kid desperate for a job.

I tell myself it's just curiosity. Just attraction to something new and forbidden. It'll pass once the novelty wears off. Once I see how clinical and routine it all is. But deep down, under the self-recrimination and the cold spray of the shower, I know the truth.

This isn't novelty. This isn't curiosity.

It's something primal. A magnetic pull I can't explain—and sure as hell can't control.

I'm so screwed.

Or rather... I'm not. And God, I have never wanted something more in my life.