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13

T he text message arrives while I'm reviewing client schedules with Marina, a casual buzz against my thigh that somehow manages to set my whole body on edge.

Surprise! In town for agriculture conference. Dinner tonight? Dad.

My stomach drops so fast I have to grip the edge of my chair to keep from visibly reacting. In all the months I've been here—living in Oregon, working at Sterling's Pride—my father has never once mentioned visiting. Our phone calls have become increasingly strained with each passing week, the silences between us stretching longer as it became clear that my internship wasn't just some temporary detour from the traditional farming path he mapped out for me before I could even walk.

"Everything okay?" Marina asks, her voice light but edged with concern as she notices my expression.

"My father's in town," I say, forcing the words out around the stone lodged in my throat. "Wants to have dinner."

"That's nice," she says brightly, clearly confused by my reaction, her smile faltering when I don't return it.

If only she knew.

My father—Charles Honeyworth, fourth-generation Midwestern farmer and self-proclaimed guardian of "real agriculture"—has barely tolerated my career choices up until now. When I announced I would be interning at a minotaur biological collection facility, he didn't speak to me for almost a month. The only reason he hadn't officially disowned me was my mother's intervention, coupled with my desperate promise that this experience would somehow make me more valuable to the family business. A lie that has grown heavier and harder to carry with every month I stay here.

I tap out a brief confirmation text, suggesting a neutral steakhouse downtown—public enough to discourage a scene, traditional enough to avoid another lecture about my "unnatural career path"—and spend the rest of the day trapped in a fog of rising panic. I drift through meetings, nodding at the right moments but absorbing none of it, my hands fumbling over routine tasks until I catch Sterling watching me across the conference table with a furrowed brow.

By the time we meet for our afternoon check-in, I'm too tightly wound to pretend anymore.

"Is something wrong?" Sterling asks, the moment we're alone in his office, his voice pitched low despite the closed door.

"My father's in town," I say, trying to sound casual and failing miserably. "Agricultural conference. Wants dinner tonight."

Sterling's expression doesn't change much—his professional mask still firmly in place—but there's a subtle shift around his eyes that tells me he understands exactly what I'm not saying.

"Ah," he says quietly. "The traditional farmer who doesn't approve of your choice of internship."

"That's putting it mildly," I mutter, sinking into the chair opposite his desk, my hands twisting in my lap. "Last time we talked, he referred to minotaurs as 'those creatures' and suggested the entire industry was 'unnatural interference with proper animal husbandry.'"

Sterling's nostrils flare slightly—the only visible sign that the words affect him—but his voice remains calm when he says, "How can I help?"

The offer startles me so much I almost laugh. "There's nothing to be done," I say, shaking my head. "I'll have an uncomfortable dinner, listen to him pressure me about coming back to Iowa, and hopefully survive the evening without a public argument."

Sterling studies me for a long moment, his amber eyes steady and thoughtful in a way that makes it hard to hold his gaze. Finally, he says, "Text me the restaurant and time. I might stop by."

I stare at him, horrified. "What? No! That would make everything worse."

"Trust me," Sterling says, and though his tone is gentle, it leaves no room for debate. "I've dealt with people like your father before."

Before I can argue further, there's a sharp knock at the door, and Helena's voice calling about a supplier issue that demands Sterling's immediate attention. He rises, already shifting back into the role of business owner, and I'm left gathering my things, the knot in my stomach tightening, my mind spinning faster with the possibility I hadn't considered until now—not just surviving a conversation with my father. But surviving if Sterling and my father meet each other face to face.

* * *

The dinner starts exactly as I expected: awkward, strained, and brimming with tension so thick I feel it scraping under my skin.

My father—a tall, weathered man with sun-reddened skin and calloused hands earned through decades of honest, backbreaking work—greets me with a stiff hug that feels more like a formality than affection. No sooner have we sat down and opened our menus than he launches straight into the same commentary I've been hearing, in one form or another, since the day I left Iowa.

"You've worked there long enough," he mutters, flipping through the steakhouse menu with clear disapproval. "Months wasted that could've been spent learning real farming."

I take a deep breath, anchoring myself against the familiar frustration rising in my chest, determined not to let this spiral into an argument five minutes into dinner.

"It's not wasted, Dad," I say, keeping my voice level. "I'm learning valuable business management skills. Skills that apply to any agricultural operation."

He snorts, low and derisive. "Nothing about what they do there applies to honest work. Collecting... materials... from those creatures." The way he says it—creatures—makes my jaw tighten.

"They're called minotaurs," I remind him, trying to keep my tone patient even as my stomach churns. "And they're sentient beings. Not livestock."

My father sets the menu down with a heavy thud, the muscles in his jaw working as he glares at me across the table. "Don't start with that liberal college nonsense," he warns, his voice sharp enough to draw a few glances from neighboring tables. "Next thing you'll be telling me they deserve the same rights as humans."

"They do have the same rights," I say, the words spilling out before I can stop them, too exhausted and too angry to pretend otherwise. "They've had them for decades."

His mouth opens, ready to launch into whatever prejudiced tirade he's been saving up for months, when a shadow falls over our table, cutting him off mid-breath.

I glance up—and there's Sterling.

Dressed in an impeccably tailored suit that softens the sheer size of him without hiding it, standing with the kind of quiet, unshakable authority that immediately shifts the gravity of the entire room.

"Mr. Honeyworth," Sterling says smoothly, extending one large, steady hand. "Sterling Johnson. I hope you don't mind the intrusion. When Hank mentioned you were in town for the Agricultural Innovation Conference, I wanted to introduce myself."

My father stiffens, visibly caught off guard, but years of business dealings kick in faster than his prejudice can catch up. He rises halfway out of his seat and shakes Sterling's hand—reluctantly, but without open hostility.

"Charles Honeyworth," he says, the words clipped.

"May I join you briefly?" Sterling asks, gesturing to the empty chair opposite me, his voice all smooth professionalism. Without waiting for a response, he sits, managing—through sheer force of presence—to fold his massive frame into the seat without looking out of place, as if this was always his table, always his meeting.

"I've been meaning to thank you personally," Sterling continues, smiling the kind of smile that belongs to boardrooms and congressional hearings and hostile takeovers. "For allowing Hank to join our team. His contributions have been exceptional."

I sit frozen, somewhere between mortified and fiercely, stupidly proud.

My father looks between us, his expression twisting as he tries to reconcile what he sees—a massive, composed, professional minotaur—against everything he believes he knows.

"You're the... owner?" he says finally, suspicion clear in every syllable.

"Sterling's Pride Agricultural Services," Sterling confirms with a nod. "I founded it six years ago. We're pioneering sustainable approaches to specialized biological collection, which is rapidly transforming both pharmaceutical applications and artificial insemination techniques for traditional farming."

The strategic mention of farming hooks my father's attention, his body leaning forward almost despite himself.

"What applications?" he asks, his voice cautious now, as if realizing that dismissing Sterling outright might not be so easy.

Sterling doesn't even blink. "We've improved bovine artificial insemination success rates by nearly twenty percent using refined collection protocols derived from minotaur biological studies. We're also working with pharmaceutical companies on the extraction of natural regenerative compounds, which are already showing promise in veterinary medicine—and will likely have human applications within the next five years."

He says it all in one smooth, unhurried breath, laying out the facts without embellishment, without apology, letting the quiet weight of progress and profit do the talking for him.

My father frowns, struggling to refute something so clinical, so concrete. For the first time since I sat down, he looks unsure.

Sterling turns slightly toward me, as if just remembering I'm there, his hand brushing my forearm under the table—light, quick, a spark that grounds me so fast I have to bite the inside of my cheek to keep from reacting.

"Hank's been instrumental in refining our client management systems," Sterling says, his tone warm but perfectly professional. "He's shown remarkable leadership potential. I expect him to take on a senior operations role within the year."

I blink at him, stunned. He's never said that out loud before. Never promised me anything. And now he's offering it—right here, in front of my father—as if it's already decided.

My father grunts, shifting uncomfortably in his seat, clearly recalibrating. Maybe for the first time in his life, he's realizing I'm not just playing house out here on the west coast. I'm building something. Something he doesn't control. Something he can't tear down with a few sharp words about tradition and proper work.

For the next twenty minutes, I sit in stunned amazement, barely touching my food, as Sterling methodically dismantles my father's prejudice—not through confrontation or outrage, but with pure, clinical business acumen.

He speaks easily about sophisticated extraction techniques, details pharmaceutical contracts with a calm authority that even my father can't dismiss, and, most impressively, outlines a newly finalized partnership with several traditional cattle operations. The hormonal compounds derived from minotaur donations, Sterling explains, have already led to a measurable increase in successful insemination rates in high-value breeding stock.

That last point hits home harder than any philosophical argument could have. My father—who has spent decades perfecting his own prize cattle lines—leans forward despite himself, drawn in by the tangible proof that what Sterling represents isn't just sustainable or ethical, but profitable. Useful.

By the time Sterling glances at his watch and excuses himself for another engagement, my father is still visibly grappling with the conversation—but the contempt he walked in carrying like a shield has been temporarily set aside, replaced by reluctant, grudging respect.

"Your boss seems... competent," he admits, gruffly, like the words cost him something.

"He's brilliant," I reply, careful to keep my tone professionally appreciative rather than personally admiring, even though the truth burns on my tongue. Brilliant doesn't even begin to cover it. "The facility is state-of-the-art," I add. "Everything is ethically managed, with full consent and compensation. Sterling's built something... important."

My father grunts noncommittally, but I can see it—the way he keeps glancing toward the door Sterling disappeared through, the way his jaw tightens not with anger now, but thought. Sterling's impact lingers like the echo of a struck bell, undeniable and impossible to ignore.

The rest of dinner passes with far less tension, though my father still finds moments to lob a few comments about me eventually "coming to my senses" and returning to "real farming." I deflect them easily enough with vague, noncommittal replies, my mind elsewhere, still caught in the aftershocks of what just happened.

When we part outside the restaurant with another awkward hug, my father promises to call after his conference ends. I watch him walk away, feeling a complicated knot of emotions—relief that the evening is finally over, pride that I stood my ground without fighting, and a deep, bone-deep awe at the way Sterling had known exactly what I needed without me even having to ask.

Standing there under the flickering streetlights, I pull out my phone and text him, fingers still shaking a little:

Thank you. That went better than expected.

The reply comes almost immediately, and when I see the words, my breath catches in my throat:

Meet me at the facility if you'd like. I imagine you could use some stress relief after that encounter.

* * *

Twenty minutes later, I pull into the empty parking lot, the familiar weight of anticipation settling low in my gut as I spot Sterling's SUV parked alone near the entrance. The rest of the lot is deserted, the facility dark and silent except for the faint glow of security lights.

I find him in Room 8, our usual space tucked away in the quieter wing of the facility. He's already there, sleeves rolled to his forearms, his suit jacket draped carefully over the back of a chair.

"Your father is exactly as you described him," Sterling says without preamble as he adjusts settings on the wall panel. "Traditionalist. Narrow-minded. But not entirely unreachable."

I step inside, letting the door click softly shut behind me, drawn to him like gravity itself. "The farming applications were a stroke of genius," I say, moving closer. "He actually seemed... impressed by the end."

"People like your father respond to practical benefits," Sterling says, still focused on the adjustments he's making, his voice calm, clinical. "Abstract concepts like equality or ethics mean little compared to increased profit margins."

The cynicism in his tone is accurate, and it stings a little, even though I know better than to argue. For all his flaws, Charles Honeyworth is still my father, still the man whose approval I spent most of my life chasing.

"Thank you," I say quietly, crossing the final few steps until I'm close enough to touch him, needing it more than I realized until this moment. "For being civil. I know his attitude toward minotaurs is... offensive."

"I've encountered worse," Sterling says, glancing over his shoulder at me, the faintest curve of a smile tugging at his mouth. "What matters is that he saw you. In a professional context. Recognized your value in this operation."

His words carry more weight than the surface meaning allows—acknowledging not just my professional growth, but the line we're so carefully maintaining between public image and private reality. The distinction matters. Helena's warning is still fresh in my mind.

But standing here, so close I can feel the heat radiating off him, all I want right now is to forget the rest of the world entirely.

"Still," I murmur, reaching out, my hand finding the crisp line of his shirt at his waist, "it was stressful."

Sterling's expression shifts immediately, something deeper darkening in his amber eyes as he turns fully toward me, his hand finding my waist and drawing me into the solid wall of his chest. The contact steals the breath from my lungs. All the tension I hadn't even realized I was carrying begins to bleed out of me, siphoned away by the sure, grounding weight of his body against mine.

"Which is why I suggested meeting here," Sterling says, his voice dropping to a low, steady rumble that slides over my skin like a touch. "I thought we both could use some... release."

His hands tighten slightly at my hips, anchoring me, and the heat rolling off his body wraps around me like a second skin, making it impossible to think of anything but him—his hands, his mouth, the things he can do to me when we're finally alone, free to touch without fear.

"What did you have in mind?" I ask, my voice already breathless, my head tipping back automatically to meet his gaze, the familiar scent of him—salt, musk, something darker and uniquely Sterling—clouding my senses.

Sterling's smile sharpens into something predatory and unmistakably possessive as he leans down, his mouth brushing against my ear in a whisper that sends a full-body shiver racing down my spine.

"Something slow," he murmurs, his breath hot against my skin. "Something thorough." His expression transforms in front of me, shedding the last layers of restraint he usually wears like armor. Something feral surges up behind his amber eyes, something hungry, something dangerous, and when he speaks, his voice is a wrecked growl that sends a shudder straight down my spine.

"Something I've been dying to try with you," he says, low and raw. "Something that'll make you forget your own fucking name."

"Yes," I breathe, without hesitation, my body answering before my mind can catch up. "Anything."

A low, almost threatening rumble vibrates from his chest, the sound of a predator finally giving himself permission to feast. "Strip," Sterling commands, stepping back to watch me with that same consuming intensity. "Now."

I scramble to obey, fingers fumbling over buttons in my haste, skin burning under the heat of his gaze as every piece of clothing falls away. His nostrils flare, the scent of my arousal hanging thick in the air, and he drinks it in like it feeds something primal inside him.

"On the mount," he orders, voice sharp with need. "Face down, ass up. The way I like you."

I don't hesitate. I can't hesitate. I clamber onto the padded mount, my cock already painfully hard, every nerve screaming for him, for this. Behind me, I hear the snap of latex gloves, the obscenely wet sound of lube being poured, and the slow, deliberate rustle of Sterling preparing to wreck me.

"Been thinking about this all fucking day," Sterling rumbles, moving closer, his voice dropping into that lethal register that makes my whole body melt. "Watching you squirm through meetings. Smelling your stress, your need. Knowing you were wound so tight worrying about your daddy coming to town." He pauses, letting the words sink in, then adds with a dark smile, "Picturing how I'd fuck all that anxiety right out of you."

His fingers find me without warning, two slick, thick digits pressing inside, sinking deep with a stretch that makes me gasp against the mount. There's no tentative testing, no slow easing in—Sterling knows exactly what I can take, knows how I've trained my body for this, how I've been aching for it.

"Look at you," he growls approvingly, working me open with steady, relentless movements. "Greedy little hole just swallowing my fingers. You've been practicing like I told you to, haven't you?"

"Yes," I gasp, pushing back against his hand without shame. "Every night. Just like you said."

"Good boy," Sterling purrs, the praise dark and velvety, right before he slides a third thick finger inside, stretching me deliciously wide. The burn is intense, but the pleasure is sharper, blinding, addictive.

"Because tonight," he continues, voice rough with restraint, "I'm done with all the careful shit. Tonight, I'm giving you what we've both been dying for."

My breath catches, my pulse thundering as the full weight of what he's saying hits me.

"You mean?—?"

"I'm going to fuck you, Hank," Sterling says bluntly, the filthy simplicity of it sending a jolt straight to my cock. "Not just fingers. Not just toys. My cock. Inside you. Not the whole thing—you're not ready for my knot yet—but enough you'll feel it every time you sit down tomorrow"

The possessive edge in his voice shatters something inside me, strips me down to the raw, shaking need I've been trying to hold back for months.

"Please," I beg, all pride gone, everything boiled down to a single, desperate want. "Please, I need it. Need you."

Sterling withdraws his fingers, the sudden emptiness making me whimper, and I hear the soft rasp of his zipper, the heavy sound of fabric falling.

"Remember what we discussed," he says, and despite the brutal edge of his need, the seriousness is still there, threading through his voice. "I won't knot you. Not tonight. But you will tell me if anything hurts. Anything at all."

"I promise," I pant, desperate, aching. "I'll tell you. Just—please?—"

The blunt head of his cock presses against me, hot and slick and so much larger than anything I've taken before. He doesn't shove. He eases forward, the pressure steady and overwhelming, a breathtaking invasion that steals the air from my lungs.

"Fuck," Sterling hisses as the head finally breaches me, forcing its way through the tight, desperate grip of my body. "You feel even better than I fucking dreamed. So goddamn tight—squeezing me like you were fucking made for it. Every night I fucked the mount, every time I came thinking about splitting you open—" he drives in deeper, "—this is what I wanted. You. Ruined on my cock. Begging for more."

I choke out a moan, fingers clutching the handles as my body adjusts around him, the fullness almost unbearable but so good, the stretch just shy of too much. Sterling pauses, letting me adjust, massive hands gripping my hips like twin brands.

"More," I whisper, desperate, pushing back against him. "I can take more."

"Greedy little slut," he growls, the filthy words making me clench around him. "So desperate for minotaur cock you can't even wait."

He inches deeper, slow and devastating, each thrust a deliberate stretch that borders perfectly between pleasure and exquisite, maddening pain. When he's about halfway inside, he stops, rumbling deep with satisfaction.

"This is as deep as we go tonight," he says, adjusting his stance slightly, bracing himself. "Any more and we risk the knot. But this—" He pulls back, almost slipping free, then drives in again with devastating precision, "—this I can work with."

I cry out, my whole body shuddering at the sheer force of him, the drag and grind of that massive cock stretching me in ways I never knew I needed. He establishes a brutal, relentless rhythm, every thrust controlled but devastating, his hips slamming into me with a force that would've terrified me months ago—now it just lights me up from the inside out, leaves me gasping, shaking, begging for more.

"Look at you taking it," he growls, voice roughened beyond recognition with pleasure and hunger. "My little human fuck toy stuffed full of minotaur cock. What would your daddy think if he could see you now?"

The forbidden thrill of his words crashes through me, hotter and sharper than anything physical, every filthy syllable sinking straight to the place where want and shame and love have all twisted together into something unstoppable.

I'm already so close it hurts.

Sterling must feel it—the frantic clench of my body, the wild, desperate sounds tearing from my throat—because one of his massive hands wraps around my cock, stroking me in counterpoint to the ruthless drive of his hips.

But when I start to come apart, when my body bucks helplessly into his hand, he squeezes just hard enough to cut me off, holding me cruelly at the edge.

"Don't you dare come yet," he commands, his voice a vicious snarl against my spine. "Not until I say. Not until I've had my fucking fill of your perfect, greedy ass."

"Sterling, please—" I sob, wrecked, trembling, hanging on the razor's edge of release. "I can't—I need?—"

"What you need," he snarls, his pace slamming harder, faster, almost frenzied, "is to be filled properly. I've been so fucking patient with you. So careful. So fucking responsible. Tonight I just want to ruin you. Want to pump you so full you taste me at the back of your throat."

I feel it then—feel the beginning of his knot swelling at the base of his cock, thickening as he struggles to hold himself back.

Sterling feels it too. He immediately adjusts his depth, careful not to slip too deep, careful not to risk locking us together before we're ready—but the way he growls tells me exactly how much he wants it.

"Soon," he promises darkly, hips grinding with brutal precision. "Soon I'll knot you properly. Hold you down and stuff that fat knot inside you until you're screaming. Lock us together while I empty load after load into you."

His voice drops lower, filthier, dragging a broken, helpless whimper from me.

"Would you like that?" he breathes. "Being stuffed so full you can't even move? Being my personal collection device?"

"Yes," I admit, shameless and shaking, the words torn from the deepest part of me. "Yes, Sterling—want it—want all of you?—"

Something in Sterling breaks.

His rhythm falters, his breathing shattering into ragged growls, and before I can even blink, he withdraws from me with a sudden, jarring emptiness.

I whimper at the loss, confused and desperate, until I feel his hands grip me, flipping me onto my back with terrifying ease. He looms over me, massive, panting, his cock glistening with lube and precum, his pupils blown wide until his amber eyes are almost black.

"I want to see your face," he growls, positioning himself between my trembling legs. "Want to watch you fall apart when I fuck you."

He pushes back into me with one smooth, devastating stroke, and the new angle—God, the new angle hits places inside me I didn't even know existed, sending my vision spinning into stars.

Sterling braces his arms on either side of my head, creating a cage of muscle and fur around me, shielding me, claiming me.

"Look at me," he commands, and when I do—when our eyes lock—something inside me surrenders completely.

"See what you do to me," he growls. "See what happens when a minotaur claims what's his."

The possessive snarl, the relentless grind of his cock against my prostate, the way his body surrounds me— It's too much.

"Sterling—" I gasp, voice cracking. "I'm—I'm going to?—"

"Do it," he orders, voice shredded with his own restraint. "Come on my cock. Now."

I shatter.

Release tears through me with cataclysmic force, my body convulsing around him, clenching tight and desperate as pleasure obliterates every thought, every fear, every piece of control I had left. I hear myself sobbing his name, feel the way my come splashes hot across my own stomach and chest, lost in the haze of pleasure so intense it feels like I might drown in it.

Through it all, Sterling is right there, roaring his own climax as he jerks out of me just in time, his massive cock pulsing, spilling hot, endless jets across my skin. He fists his swelling knot in one huge hand, milking himself, marking me with his release until I'm soaked, dripping, branded.

"Mine," he snarls, the word raw and vicious as he leans down, dragging his mouth over my neck, my jaw, my wrecked, panting lips. “You’re fucking mine."

* * *

For long moments afterward, we remain where we are, tangled together in the heavy silence, both of us breathing hard, still tethered by the lingering echoes of what just happened.

As awareness slowly returns, I watch Sterling's expression shift— the raw, feral hunger receding, the careful control slipping back into place like a cloak, though his amber eyes remain dark, heavy with satisfaction.

"Are you all right?" he asks, voice gentler now, rough at the edges, as he reaches for a stack of tissues.

"Better than all right," I manage, my laugh weak and broken with leftover pleasure, my body still tingling with the aftershocks he tore from me. "That was... unexpected."

Sterling's mouth quirks in a rare, almost boyish smile, a flash of something unguarded that makes my heart skip. "I occasionally tire of my own restraint," he says dryly, though there's a quiet warmth behind the words.

"Feel free to tire of it more often," I suggest, grinning when I catch the deeper rumble of his chuckle, the vibration shivering through his massive chest like a low, private thunder.

With a careful efficiency that never feels clinical, Sterling cleans both of us, his hands gentle as he checks me over for any signs of pain or discomfort. Finding none, he helps me sit up, his touch lingering longer than strictly necessary, a silent reassurance I didn't know I needed until it was offered.

"I'm impressed," he says quietly, adjusting his clothing with his usual impeccable precision, though there's something softer about him now. "With how well you handled that. With how much you've grown."

"I know we still have a long way to go," I say, still floating somewhere just above the surface of my body, my muscles loose and warm and sated. "But this felt like a pretty amazing start."

Sterling's expression softens further as he brushes a stray lock of hair from my forehead, his thumb lingering against my temple with a tenderness that almost undoes me more than the rough claiming ever could.

"You did well with your father tonight, too," he says, his voice dropping into something quieter, something more personal. "Standing your ground without losing your respect for him. That's not easy."

The mention of my father pulls me slightly out of the dreamlike haze, the reality of tomorrow creeping back in.

"I still have breakfast with him before his speech," I admit, not quite managing to keep the apprehension out of my voice.

"You'll manage admirably," Sterling says, smoothing my clothes into place with the same steady hands that had so recently torn me apart. "Just as you did tonight."

We move around the room together after that, cleaning up, resetting the equipment, putting everything back exactly where it belongs, the silence between us comfortable now, stitched together with something stronger than anything we started with.

As I follow him toward the door, my body pleasantly sore in all the right ways, I realize Sterling is right. Despite everything—the shock of my father's visit, the strain of facing old prejudices head-on—tonight has been a breakthrough in ways I never expected. Not just with my family. Not just with my body. But with Sterling. With us.

As Sterling arms the security system, his massive frame blocking the harsh fluorescent light, I catch myself smiling—real, aching, helpless—because tomorrow, when I sit across from my father and pretend everything is normal, every shift of my body, every sore, aching reminder, will tell a very different truth.

Sometimes, the most significant changes happen when you least expect them.

And sometimes, they come in forms far more satisfying—and far more permanent—than you ever dared to imagine.