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S ix weeks into my internship at Sterling's Pride, everything feels like muscle memory.

Mornings at the front desk, greeting clients, checking IDs, pretending like I don't know exactly what they're here for. Afternoons elbow-deep in inventory lists and cleaning rotations, pretending like the padded mounts and gleaming accessories aren't permanent fixtures in my imagination now.

I know the clients now. Their names. Their quirks.

Mr. Taurus, Room Four, sports channels blaring, an unnecessary stack of towels. Dr. Bennett, classical music and the specialized warming lubricant, always the same brand. The Rivas brothers, arriving separately but always tossing competitive glares like knives as they pass in the hall.

But the person I know best— The one I've learned almost too well—Is Sterling.

Sterling, who arrives at exactly 7:30 every morning. Who makes his rounds at 10 a.m. and 2 p.m. sharp. Who disappears into his office to tackle mountains of paperwork with terrifying focus. And who, without fail, every evening after closing, steps into Room 8.

Tonight, I'm going to see him. Really see him. The plan has been festering in my brain for days, the seed of it taking root and spreading until it's the only thing I can think about.

I know Helena's leaving early for a doctor's appointment. I know the cleaning crew won't arrive until 7 p.m. I know Sterling's routine—so predictable it feels like he's offering it up to me like a challenge.

All I need is an excuse to stay late.

At 5:45, I'm in Room Six, mechanically restocking towels, checking my watch every two minutes like a man waiting for an execution—or a miracle. The last client cleared out fifteen minutes ago. Marina's shutting down the front desk. I need something airtight. Something plausible.

The supply closet saves me—a box of specialty lubricant that hasn't been logged yet. Inventory. Boring, tedious, absolutely legitimate inventory. I snag the clipboard, grab the box, and head for the tiny back office where we track stock.

"Heading out, Hank?" Marina calls as she breezes past, purse slung over her shoulder.

"Just finishing an inventory count," I say, praying my voice sounds normal. "Helena said we might be low on the warming formula."

Marina shrugs, uninterested. "Don't stay too late," she says. "Sterling gets grumpy if anyone messes with his closing routine."

She disappears into the night without another word.

The building settles into silence. Heavy. Echoing.

The digital clock blinks 6:08 PM.

I freeze when I hear it— The soft click of Sterling's office door. Heavy footsteps moving down the corridor. Measured. Deliberate.

I set the clipboard down, heart hammering so violently it rattles my ribs, and slip out into the hall. I creep toward the collection wing, every step painfully slow, my breath locked tight in my throat. At the corner where the hallway bends toward Rooms 7 through 10, I press myself flat against the wall, listening.

Sterling's footsteps fade into the distance.

Room 8. He's in Room 8.

I wait—thirty seconds, maybe a minute—long enough that my nerves stretch so thin I can feel every inch of my skin buzzing. Then I inch forward. Room 8's door is ajar. Three inches, maybe. A narrow, dangerous crack. An invitation—or a trap.

I stand there for one terrible, trembling heartbeat, mind screaming at me to turn around, go back, save myself. I move closer anyway. The sounds reach me first. The low whir of equipment. The soft thump of something heavy shifting against padded material. A rough grunt, deep and broken.

The sound rips through me like a live wire. I press closer, angling myself toward the gap, pulse pounding so loudly I'm afraid he might hear it. And through the sliver of open space—I see him. And the sight hits me like a goddamn wrecking ball.

Sterling stands facing away from the door, his massive frame bent slightly over the mount, the soft lighting casting his body in a sheen of gold and shadow. He's completely naked. And somehow, even after all the fantasies, the stolen glances, the daydreams that kept me awake at night—I still wasn't ready.

Dark fur clings damply to the thick ropes of muscle along his back, his shoulders flexing with every slow, deliberate drive of his hips. The powerful swell of his ass clenches rhythmically, each thrust a study in pure, restrained force.

I can't see his face. I can't see the front of him.

But I don't need to. The way his entire body moves—controlled, devastating, holding back strength that could break the mount in half if he let it—is more intimate than anything I've ever seen in my life. One massive hand grips the padded handle, fingers digging into the material with white-knuckled restraint. The other slips down between his legs—adjusting, guiding—his fingers quick and sure like he knows exactly what he needs.

My mouth goes dry. My heart slams against my ribs so hard it hurts.

I should turn around. I should walk away, save whatever shred of self-respect I have left.

But I don't.

I can't.

I stand there, rooted to the spot, watching as his pace shifts—his hips snapping harder, faster, the mount groaning under his weight. His breathing roughens into ragged, desperate gasps.

And then it happens— A low groan rips out of him, deep and raw, nothing like the composed, reserved man I know. It vibrates through the floor, through the air, through me, leaving a tremor in its wake that settles deep in my gut.

And that's when I see it.

Just visible as he adjusts again—between the thick spread of his legs—a bulge swelling at the base of his shaft. Growing larger with every thrust.

A knot. I'd read about it in the endless, guilty hours I'd spent combing through minotaur anatomy articles, pretending it was research, pretending it wasn't about him. Seeing it—real, right there, attached to Sterling Johnson—hits me harder than any academic article ever could.

It's huge, thick and obscene, straining his body even as he drives himself harder into the mount.

My hand moves without conscious thought, pressing against the throbbing ache in the front of my pants, trying to ease the overwhelming pressure building there.

It doesn't help.

Nothing could.

Sterling's hips jackknife forward, the mount creaking under the brutal force of his release. He arches, every muscle in his massive frame locking tight—his thighs trembling, his broad back flexing under the strain. A sound tears free from him—low, wrecked, broken—and it's the hottest fucking thing I've ever heard.

For a long moment, he stays there—pressed deep against the mount, massive body heaving with every harsh breath. Sweat glistens along the ridges of his spine, trickling down in slow, sinful rivulets. I watch, dazed and desperate, as he shifts, the muscles of his thighs flexing, his hand steadying himself on the mount like even he needs a moment to recover.

And standing there, half-hard, half-horrified at myself, I realize—I am never going to be the same again.

* * *

I need to leave. Now. Before he turns around. Before he sees me standing here, wide-eyed and trembling, a witness to something I was never meant to see.

I force my body to move, slipping back the way I came, every step measured and silent. My heart slams against my ribs, too loud, too frantic, and every second feels like I'm dragging a spotlight with me. I'm halfway to safety when it happens—my elbow clips the wall with a soft thud.

In the silence of the hallway, it sounds deafening.

Sterling's head jerks up. His ears twitch, sharp and alert, and his voice slices through the quiet: "Hello? Is someone there?"

Panic freezes me in place. For a split second, I can't breathe, can't move, and then adrenaline shoves me forward. I hurry, trying to be quiet but fast enough to disappear, the sound of shifting weight and the creak of the mount chasing me down the hallway. I barrel into the supply office, nearly dropping the clipboard I left behind, and plant myself at the desk like I've been here all along, carefully counting inventory.

My hands shake so badly the pen jerks across the page. My breathing is ragged, and worse—so much worse—my arousal is still painfully, unmistakably present, straining against the front of pants. I fight to breathe normally, to steady my hands, to look like I belong here.

Heavy footsteps approach. Getting closer.

Sterling fills the doorway a moment later, half-dressed, his shirt tugged on carelessly and misaligned, the belt at his waist hanging undone. His fur is still damp with sweat, darkened in places where it clings to the dense muscles underneath. His amber eyes narrow slightly as he surveys the room—and me.

"Mr. Honeyworth," he says, his voice low, unreadable. "I thought everyone had left."

I glance up, praying my face shows nothing but innocent surprise. "Mr. Johnson. Sorry, I'm just finishing an inventory count. Helena mentioned we might be running low on some supplies."

Sterling's nostrils flare slightly. I remember too late what I've read about minotaur senses, and my stomach twists hard. Can he smell it—the sharp edge of fear, the thick scent of my arousal?

"I see," he says after a beat, the words even but edged with something I can't quite name. "It's nearly 6:30. This couldn't wait until tomorrow?"

"I—I just wanted to be thorough," I stammer, heat rising up the back of my neck. "I can finish quickly and get out of your way."

He says nothing for a long moment, just studies me in that way that makes my skin burn. His silence stretches tight between us, and the air feels thick enough to choke on.

"In the future," Sterling says finally, his voice dropping even lower, "inform me if you'll be staying after hours. I don't appreciate unexpected... interruptions... to my closing routine."

The pause after the word interruptions feels deliberate, almost accusatory. I nod quickly, clutching the clipboard tighter.

"Yes, sir. I apologize."

Sterling holds my gaze, and I have to force myself not to flinch. His amber eyes are cool, unreadable, but there's something behind them—something I can't name, sharp and dark and heavy enough to leave my knees weak.

"Lock up when you leave," he says. "No later than 6:45."

"Yes, sir."

He turns to go but pauses at the door, one hand braced casually against the frame. Without looking back, he speaks, voice low and deliberate.

"And Mr. Honeyworth?"

I can barely get the words out. "Yes, sir?"

"My private use of the facilities is exactly that. Private. I trust that's understood."

My stomach plummets. Ice floods my veins.

He knows.

I choke out, "Completely understood, sir."

Sterling nods once, sharp and final, and then he's gone. I sit down hard in the chair the second he disappears from view, my legs trembling so badly they refuse to hold my weight.

My heart continues to hammer, faster and faster, pounding out a rhythm of panic, shame, and something much darker thrumming just beneath it. I should be horrified at myself, and I am—should be burning with guilt over what I did—but all I can think about is him.

The way Sterling's muscles moved under sweat-slicked fur. The sound he made when he came, deep and broken and raw. The glimpse of his swollen knot locking him to the mount, every inch of his powerful body straining for release.

The memory is seared into me, raw and vivid, impossible to shake.

I don't dare move until I hear the heavy roar of his SUV starting up outside, the rumble of the engine fading into the night. Only then do I force myself up, finishing the inventory count with trembling hands, knowing full well it's a meaningless formality at this point.

The drive home is a blur, headlights sliding across dark streets, my mind a chaotic, burning wreck of images and emotions I can't contain.

I tell myself I'm ashamed. That I should be. That this crosses every line of professionalism and decency I thought I had.

But deep down, the truth is sharper than guilt and hotter than shame.

I don't regret it. Not even close.

Once inside my apartment, I don't even make it to the bedroom. I stumble to the couch, ripping at my belt, shoving my pants down my thighs with shaking hands. I'm already leaking, already so hard it aches, every nerve in my body lit up and screaming for release.

In my mind, it isn't the collection mount he's using anymore. It's me. It's Sterling closing the distance between us, those massive hands bracketing my body, pinning me in place with effortless strength. His cock—not the sterile equipment—pressing against me, heavy and hot, his breath rough in my ear as he claimed what he wanted.

I imagine the stretch, the impossible, glorious fullness of him inside me. Imagine the thick base of his shaft swelling, knotting me to him, locking us together in a way that meant I wouldn't—couldn't—escape.

The fantasy snaps me apart embarrassingly fast. I come with a broken gasp, Sterling's name spilling from my lips as my hips jerk helplessly into my hand. Shame follows immediately, hot and suffocating, burning through the fading aftershocks of pleasure.

As my breathing slows, reality claws its way back into me.

What the fuck am I doing? This can't continue. It's reckless, dangerous. It's wrong.

I sit there, sticky and raw, guilt gnawing at my insides. I tell myself I'll get these thoughts under control. That I'll find some way to bury them before they destroy everything. But even as I clean myself up and pull my pants back on, I know I'm lying. I can't forget what I saw. Not the way Sterling's body moved. Not the thick swell of his knot as he lost control.

Not the way I felt—shaking and alive and desperate—like every cell in my body had finally woken up.

Unable to help myself, I open my laptop and start searching. Clinical sites. Academic articles. Each one feeds the obsession growing unchecked inside me. I find a detailed explanation, buried deep in a veterinary textbook—descriptions of minotaur anatomy, diagrams and warnings printed in dry, factual language that does nothing to blunt the impact.

The knot—technically the bulbus glandis—is an evolutionary adaptation designed to lock partners together during climax, ensuring successful mating. In modern minotaurs, it's less about reproduction and more a quirk of physiology, but it's still fully functional.

The articles caution about interspecies relationships, about preparation and adaptation, about the danger of trying to accommodate something so large without serious care. The warnings should scare me. They don't. If anything, they make me want it more.

I slam the laptop closed, disgusted with myself, heart pounding too fast in my chest.

Tomorrow, I tell myself, I'll be professional. I'll look Sterling in the eye. I'll pretend I never saw him, never heard those raw, broken sounds spill out of him, never wanted so badly to be the one dragging them from his throat.

But even as I lie in bed that night, sleep nowhere close to finding me, I know the truth. If the opportunity comes again—If I have even a whisper of a chance—I'll take it.

Because for those few stolen minutes, watching Sterling Johnson in his most private, most vulnerable moment, I felt more alive than I ever have before. And no amount of guilt will ever make me forget it.