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15

"Y our new contract," Sterling says, sliding the contract across his desk. The dark wood gleams under the morning light filtering through his office windows, and the air between us hums with a tension neither of us names out loud.

I scan the document—official Sterling's Pride letterhead, detailed job description, salary figures that make my eyes widen. "Administrative Director," I read aloud. "Reporting directly to the owner but with autonomous oversight of operations."

"It's a legitimate position," Sterling explains, unnecessarily formal, his voice even but too careful as Helena and Dr. Kim watch from the other side of the desk. "One the facility genuinely needs. Your qualifications are more than adequate, and your familiarity with our operations makes you uniquely suited to the role."

The restructuring was Sterling's idea. After weeks of strategizing against Blackwood's threats, we realized the simplest solution wasn't hiding or denying what we were — it was dismantling the ethical concerns at the root. No more internship. No more implied power imbalance. A professional relationship that could stand independently alongside our personal one without compromise.

"The board has approved it unanimously," Dr. Kim adds. As the only outside member of Sterling's advisory board, her endorsement carries significant weight. "Your work during the internship demonstrated capabilities beyond entry-level positions."

I look up from the contract to find Sterling watching me, his amber eyes deceptively neutral — but I can feel the tension radiating from him across the desk, the importance of this moment heavy in the air. This matters to him. Not just as a solution to the Blackwood problem — but as a statement about me, about my value here, about us.

"I'd be honored," I say, reaching for the pen.

Helena snorts softly. "About time someone besides Sterling had authority around here. My cleaning staff will appreciate having someone who actually listens to their equipment requests."

It's the closest thing to approval I'm likely to get from her. Sterling's lips twitch slightly — the barest hint of a smile only I would notice — and the knot of tension in my chest loosens a little.

"Then it's settled," he says as I sign with a flourish. "Effective immediately, Mr. Honeyworth is no longer an intern but Administrative Director of Sterling's Pride. Ms. Michaels will prepare a facility-wide announcement for Monday."

Dr. Kim and Helena offer brief congratulations before excusing themselves, leaving Sterling and me alone in the office. The moment the door closes, the professional mask Sterling wears so effortlessly slips just a little, a crack in the armor that only I get to see.

"Are you really sure?" he asks, softer now, uncertainty threading through the strength of his voice. "The position is legitimate, but I don't want you accepting out of obligation."

I round the desk without hesitation, stepping closer than I ever could with others present, the air between us shifting into something heavier, more familiar. "I'm sure," I say, meaning every word. "It's the perfect solution — I get to keep working at a facility I believe in, with people I respect, doing work that matters."

"And the other benefits?" Sterling asks, and the faintest trace of that deep, rumbling undertone I know so well creeps into his voice.

"Well," I murmur, leaning up on my toes to press a quick kiss to his mouth, "now I can do this—" His breath catches as our lips meet, but I don't pull away fast enough.

Sterling's massive hand closes around my waist, anchoring me in place, and he captures my mouth in a more thorough kiss — slower, deeper, leaving me breathless by the time he finally pulls back.

"Three more days," he murmurs against my lips, the promise in his voice dark and hot. "Your official internship paperwork concludes Friday. Then we celebrate properly."

Heat curls low in my gut at the rough edge of his voice. "What did you have in mind?" I ask, already aching for it.

"I've rented a cabin," Sterling says, reluctantly releasing me as voices pass outside the office. "Private property. No neighbors for miles. Just us. The whole weekend."

The thought of forty-eight uninterrupted hours with him—no clients, no inspectors, no careful walls between us—makes my heart slam against my ribs.

"I can't wait," I whisper, breathless.

"Neither can I," Sterling admits, his expression darkening with a hunger that sends a shiver skittering down my spine. "I've been planning it for weeks."

* * *

The next three days pass in a blur of orientation meetings, paperwork, and carefully maintained professional distance. My new position comes with an office—small, but private—and responsibilities that keep me legitimately busy. Sterling ensures our interactions remain scrupulously appropriate, his tone professional, his posture distant, his touches nonexistent. But the heat in his eyes—when no one is looking, when no one else is near—makes promises I feel burning low in my belly every time our gazes lock.

By Friday afternoon, I'm vibrating with barely-contained anticipation, the hours dragging unbearably slow. When the workday finally ends and the facility empties out, Sterling meets me in the parking lot, leaning casually against his SUV like he hasn't been wound as tightly as I have for days.

"Ready?" he asks, voice deceptively casual.

I nod, stomach flipping wildly as he opens the door of his car and buckles me in.

The cabin appears after nearly an hour's drive—not the rustic retreat I'd imagined, but a modern architectural marvel of glass and timber, perched at the edge of a secluded clearing, surrounded by nothing but towering trees and silence.

"This is... not exactly roughing it," I say as Sterling unlocks the front door with a faint huff of amusement.

He chuckles, the sound low and warm and already making me feel more intoxicated than the altitude. "I said private," he corrects, glancing back at me with a gleam in his eye. "Not primitive. I have plans that require certain amenities."

The interior is as impressive as the outside—open-concept spaces flooded with natural light, floor-to-ceiling windows framing sweeping views of the mountains, a chef's kitchen gleaming with stainless steel, and furniture clearly designed to accommodate minotaur proportions without sacrificing style.

"Bedroom's through there," Sterling says, nodding toward a hallway. His voice deepens, takes on that low, charged tone that immediately tightens something inside me. "You might want to unpack. We have dinner reservations at eight."

"Dinner?" I blink, caught off-guard. I hadn't expected to leave the cabin again once we arrived.

"At the lodge down the mountain," Sterling explains, already moving through the kitchen with easy, predatory grace. "The chef is exceptional." He pauses, then turns, and the expression on his face makes my knees weaken. "And besides," he adds, voice darkening, "I have something for you to wear."

He retrieves a small box from his bag and hands it to me with a look that leaves no room for misunderstanding. Inside, nestled in black tissue paper, is a sleek silicone plug—larger than anything we've used for preparation, but still not the size of his knot. Something meant to stretch me, to tease me, to keep me achingly aware of everything that's coming.

"During dinner?" I ask, heat rushing to my cheeks.

"Consider it an appetizer," Sterling says, voice dropping into that devastating register that makes my thighs clench helplessly. "A reminder of what awaits after we eat."

My mouth goes dry. My heart pounds so hard I'm surprised he can't hear it. I take the box with shaking hands and retreat to the bedroom to shower. The hot water eases the tension from my travel-stiff muscles, but does nothing to calm the restless, electric anticipation sparking under my skin.

When I finally emerge, towel slung low around my hips, Sterling is already waiting for me seated on the edge of the massive bed, head bowed slightly, his enormous hands resting on his thighs. Waiting. Watching. And when his eyes lift to meet mine, there's no professional mask left at all. Only hunger. Only possession. Only us.

"Let me help you," Sterling says, patting the space beside him on the bed.

The hunger in his eyes makes my mouth go dry. I drop the towel without hesitation, the cool air rushing over my exposed skin, leaving goosebumps in its wake. Beside his still fully clothed, massive form, I feel small, vulnerable—offered up.

"Lie back," Sterling rumbles, his big hands already guiding me down, spreading me out like a meal he's been starving for. "Legs up."

My face burns, but I obey, pulling my knees back, baring everything to him.

Sterling makes a low, feral noise deep in his chest—a sound more animal than man—and it vibrates straight through my bones. "Fucking beautiful," he murmurs, tracing one thick finger up the sensitive crease of my inner thigh, leaving a trail of fire behind. "I've been thinking about this all week."

He grabs a bottle of lube from the nightstand and slicks his fingers with slow, deliberate care. When the first touch brushes my entrance, I jolt, hips jerking instinctively.

"Relax," Sterling soothes, circling slow and lazy, a wicked tease.

One finger slides inside, stretching me open with steady, maddening precision. Then another joins, scissoring slightly, coaxing me wider, preparing me—but it's not enough. Not for him. Because without warning, he pulls his fingers free—and before I can even catch my breath, his mouth is on me.

"Sterling, what are you—" I try, but the words collapse into a shattered moan the second his tongue licks a broad, wet stripe across my hole.

"I need to taste you," he growls, his voice vibrating directly into the sensitive ring of muscle. The heat of it—the obscene intimacy—makes my vision blur.

His tongue is relentless. Long and thick. Slick and firm. Curling and pressing with greedy precision, plunging deep, then retreating only to swirl and flick until I'm clutching the sheets in both fists, my body wracked with desperate, helpless tremors.

It's not soft. It's not careful.

It's devastation.

Each stroke is slick, messy, filthy—his saliva mixing with the lube, his low growls vibrating through me, driving me higher, wrecking me from the inside out.

"God," I gasp, legs quaking as he works me open like he has all the time in the world, like he'll never get enough. "Sterling, please?—"

He lifts his head, chin shiny, lips wet, his amber eyes gone dark and wild. "Please what?" he rasps, voice shredded. "Please stop? Or please more?"

"More," I whimper, shameless now. "Don't stop. Please."

A slow, predatory smile spreads across his mouth—a flash of teeth and heat—and he dives back in, tongue spearing deep again, this time pushing two slick fingers alongside it.

The combination is ruinous.

He fucks me open with fingers and tongue at once, grinding against my sweetest, rawest nerves until I'm writhing helplessly under him, the lewd, wet sounds of it filling the room, obscene and perfect and so fucking good I want to scream.

By the time he finally pulls back, I'm wrecked. Trembling. Leaking across my own stomach without a single touch to my cock.

And Sterling?—

Sterling looks fucking satisfied.

"Please," I beg, "I need to come."

"Not yet," he warns, reaching for the plug like he's got all the time in the goddamn world. "I want you aching through dinner. I want you thinking about this—about me—with every goddamn bite of your meal."

He slicks the plug thoroughly, twirling it once in his hand like a goddamn weapon before pressing it against my wrecked, fluttering hole. The pressure is brutal—stretching me wide, almost too much—and my whole body arches off the mattress in instinctive, shuddering protest.

"Breathe," Sterling croons, dragging a soothing hand up my thigh, grounding me. "Push against it. Good boy. Just like that."

I bear down, and the widest part of the plug pops inside with a slippery, overwhelming stretch that knocks the air from my lungs. My body clamps down around the narrow base, my thighs twitching violently, the constant, aching fullness driving me insane.

"Perfect," Sterling purrs, rotating it just enough to brush against that devastating spot inside me, making me sob.

"Right there, is it?" he murmurs, rubbing slow circles on my thigh while the plug presses mercilessly against my prostate with every tiny shift. "Get dressed," Sterling says suddenly, rising to his full, towering height. "I packed you slacks and a green shirt. If you can make it through dinner without begging me to take you in the restaurant bathroom..." His lips curl into a smirk that makes my knees weak. "I'll be impressed."

The challenge in his voice reignites the sharp, competitive spark between us—the tension that's been there from the start, always simmering beneath everything else. I rise carefully, adjusting to the unfamiliar fullness as I cross to the closet. The dark slacks fit perfectly, tailored to my measurements, and the forest green button-down clings just right, emphasizing the shape of my body the way Sterling likes. The plug is a constant, maddening reminder with every step, every shift of my hips, every breath.

When I join him in the living room, Sterling straightens from adjusting his cufflinks—and the look he gives me would have set me on fire if I wasn't already burning.

"Beautiful," he murmurs, his amber eyes raking over me, his nostrils flaring slightly as he catches the scent of my restrained arousal.

He's dressed to kill in a dark, custom-tailored suit, the lines clean and devastating, the breadth of his chest and shoulders barely contained by the expensive fabric.

"Shall we?" Sterling asks, offering me his arm with a wicked glint that promises this dinner is only the beginning.

* * *

The restaurant is as exclusive as Sterling promised—an upscale establishment attached to a luxury hunting lodge, designed with minotaur clientele in mind. Our private dining room features a table sized for larger frames, plush chairs, dim lighting that casts everything in a low, intimate glow, and a discreet server who appears only when summoned.

"Wine?" Sterling asks, studying the extensive list with casual authority.

I nod, shifting slightly in my seat—and immediately biting my lip as the plug presses deeper against sensitive nerves. "Red, please," I manage.

Sterling orders without even glancing at the menu, clearly having arranged everything in advance. The server reappears moments later with a bottle, presenting it reverently. Sterling approves it with a nod, efficient and commanding even in this setting.

"To new beginnings," he says, lifting his glass, his amber eyes glinting darkly in the candlelight.

"New beginnings," I echo, my voice catching slightly as I raise my own glass. The wine is spectacular—deep, rich, complex—but I barely taste it. Not when Sterling's gaze is dragging over me like a physical touch, setting every nerve alight.

"How does it feel?" he asks, voice pitched low enough that only I can hear it.

I shift again—helpless against the instinct—and feel the plug press harder against that sweet, maddening spot inside me. "Distracting," I admit, heat rushing to my face. "Every time I move, it..."

"Good," Sterling purrs, the satisfaction in his voice so potent it makes my whole body clench. "I want you thinking about it. Thinking about what's coming later. About how thoroughly I'm going to break you."

The explicit promise sends a fresh rush of heat flooding through me, my skin prickling under the weight of his attention.

By the time our first course arrives, I'm already achingly hard beneath the table, the plug a constant, insistent reminder of Sterling's control. And judging by the way his nostrils flare, and the way his pupils have swallowed nearly all the amber from his eyes, he's just as affected. He makes a show of focusing on the food, cutting into his venison with practiced ease, but his gaze keeps returning to me—lingering, hungry, dangerous.

"This is delicious," I manage, trying and failing to sound normal, my voice thinner than I'd like. "You've eaten here before?"

"Once," Sterling replies, sipping his wine with infuriating calm. "I scoped it out last weekend. Wanted to make sure it met our needs."

The thought of him planning this weekend so meticulously—inspecting the restaurant, vetting the lodge, choosing the cabin, orchestrating every moment—sends a sharp pulse of need through me, tightening everything inside me until I'm dizzy with it.

This isn't casual for him. This isn't impulsive. This matters. I matter.

The main course arrives, and the tension between us has reached unbearable heights. Sterling's breathing has deepened subtly, his control beginning to crack around the edges, and I'm no better—every tiny shift in my seat sends jolts of pleasure-tinged pressure through me, my body aching, my cock straining against the confines of my slacks.

When I finally can't take it anymore, I push back my chair carefully, standing on trembling legs.

"Excuse me," I say, my voice rough with barely restrained need. "I need to use the restroom."

Sterling's eyes track my every movement, the muscles in his jaw clenching as he nods. He doesn't say anything. He doesn't need to. His eyes promise everything.

I make my way carefully to the attached bathroom—a private, luxurious space with polished fixtures, dark marble, and soft lighting—and close the door behind me, my heart hammering against my ribs. I brace my hands against the sink, breathing hard, the cool stone anchoring me for a moment. The plug shifts with every tiny movement, and it's like I can still feel Sterling's hands on me, his mouth, his voice promising ruin. I catch sight of myself in the mirror—flushed, wrecked already—and swallow hard. God help me. If he comes after me now, I won't stand a chance of making it back to dinner at all.

I'm splashing cold water on my face, trying to cool the desperate need coiling tighter and tighter in my gut, when the door creaks open behind me.

Sterling fills the doorway like a fucking avalanche—huge, hungry, unstoppable—his expression stripped bare, nothing left but pure, raw need.

"Couldn't wait," he growls, stepping inside and locking the door behind him with a sharp, decisive click that sounds like a death knell for whatever thin control we had left.

Before I can even breathe, he's on me—his mouth crashing into mine, bruising and wild, swallowing my gasp as he lifts me like I weigh nothing, setting me hard on the marble counter. My legs fall open instinctively, desperate for him, desperate for more, and the heat of him presses in, undeniable, scorching through our half-peeled clothing. His cock strains against his pants, thick and hot, grinding against my stomach like a brand.

"This was supposed to wait until after dinner," Sterling groans against the side of my throat, teeth scraping hard over the sensitive skin there, making me jolt and moan. "But watching you squirm... knowing how tight you're clenching around that plug... smelling how much you want me?—"

"I can't wait either," I gasp, fumbling desperately at his belt, my fingers clumsy with need. "Please, Sterling. Please."

We're frantic, messy, ripping at each other—buttons popping, fabric tearing, hands everywhere, greedy and shaking and fucking starving. When he finally frees us both, wrapping both massive, calloused hands around our cocks—both flushed, both leaking—the heat is devastating, nearly blinding.

The first long, slick stroke has us both groaning into each other's mouths, the sound rough and broken, vibrating through every nerve ending.

"Like this," Sterling pants against my lips, setting a brutal rhythm, dragging our lengths together, heavy and leaking and obscene. "Come with me."

Every roll of my hips grinds the plug deep inside me, sending filthy, unbearable jolts through my core. I can't stop whimpering, clutching at his thick shoulders, nails biting into muscle hard enough to bruise.

"Sterling," I choke out, wrecked and wild, "I'm gonna?—"

"Me too," he snarls, his pace brutal now, relentless, savage. "Fuck—I want to ruin you. Want to make you smell like me. Want to paint you with so much of my cum everyone will know you're mine."

The filth of it—the claim in every brutal word—shatters me. Pleasure rips through me like a lightning strike, convulsing through my whole body, pleasure so sharp and sudden I scream his name, shameless and wrecked.

Sterling follows a heartbeat later with a low, broken roar, his cock jerking against mine as he spills between us, hot and messy, smearing across our stomachs, our chests, marking me like he promised.

For long, shuddering seconds, we just exist there, bodies locked together, still grinding helplessly through the aftershocks, too strung out to move. The marble digs into the backs of my thighs, but I barely register it. The only thing I feel—the only thing I want—is him. The heat of him, the scent of us tangled together, the rightness of it down to the marrow.

Sterling recovers first—barely—grabbing a wad of paper towels with a low, rough chuckle that makes my stomach clench all over again.

"So much for waiting until after dinner," he mutters, voice wrecked with satisfaction as we wipe ourselves down, trying and failing to look even halfway decent.

"You started it," I grumble, fighting to fix the buttons he popped off my shirt.

"And I'll finish it," Sterling promises, his voice dropping to a dark, wicked rumble that makes my knees weak. "Later. When I have you naked... stretched out on my bed... plugged and leaking and begging for my cock instead of crammed up against a fucking sink."

The way he says it—possessive, inevitable, final—makes me shudder so hard my legs almost give out.

And from the look in his eyes? Yeah. Dinner's not going to save me. Nothing is.

·

We return to our table with barely concealed smiles, the server either oblivious to or professionally ignoring the flush on my cheeks and the missing button on my shirt. The tension between us has changed—no longer a razor-wire pull of restraint, but something deeper, warmer, heavier. Like fine whiskey after the first burn. Slow. Potent. Dangerous.

Sterling keeps his massive hand on mine throughout dessert, thumb tracing idle circles across my knuckles, grounding me. The plug remains a constant, sweet torment inside me—but now it feels like a promise, not a tease.

"Do you think you're ready to take my knot tonight?" Sterling asks softly as he signs the check, his amber eyes dark with affection, with hunger, with something deeper I don't dare name yet.

I nod, feeling suddenly shy despite everything we've already shared.

Sterling helps me into my jacket, his touch lingering longer than necessary. "Nervous?" he asks as we step into the cool night air, his voice pitched low for me alone.

"A little," I admit, heart hammering against my ribs. "But in a good way."

"We'll take it slow," he promises, opening the SUV door for me like it's a ritual, something sacred. "Everything at your pace."

As I slide into the seat, his hand brushes mine—brief but deliberate—and the warmth of it stays with me the whole drive back to the cabin.

Because tonight isn't about caution anymore. It's about trust. And I'm ready.

·

The drive back to the cabin passes in a soft, golden silence, the tires humming against the asphalt, the cool night air curling through the cracked window and raising goosebumps along my arms. Our hands stay linked across the center console, Sterling's thumb dragging lazy, possessive circles over my knuckles, like he can't stand to stop touching me even for a second.

Outside, the mountains loom like shadowed titans against the deepening velvet sky, stars blooming above the trees—sharp and endless and so impossibly close it feels like we could reach out and grab them. I glance sideways at him, feel the warmth of his hand around mine, the steady weight of everything we've survived to get here—and realize just how far we've come from that first awkward meeting in his office.

From boss and intern, to something riskier. Messier.

Sterling pulls the SUV to a stop outside the cabin and kills the engine, leaving us cocooned in the thick, humming quiet of the mountains. He turns toward me, the dashboard light painting the sharp lines of his face in soft relief—and for a second, all that heat, all that hunger, melts into something so raw and tender it knocks the air from my lungs.

"Welcome home," he says, his voice low and rough and steady. "For the weekend, at least."

Home. The word lodges deep in my chest, sharp and aching and terrifyingly right. For the weekend, maybe. For now. But as I follow him inside—the night air cool against my heated skin, the steady, insistent weight of the plug still stretching me open, keeping me hot and aching and his—I can't help thinking, hoping, aching—that maybe someday it won't just be the weekend. Maybe someday, it'll be forever.