Page 9

9

S aturday hits like a punch straight to the chest. Anticipation, nerves, excitement—all tangled into one messy, vibrating knot in my stomach.

Our first real date. Away from the fluorescent lights and sterile hallways of Sterling's Pride. Away from the smell of disinfectant and professionalism and denial.

I change clothes three times. First outfit—too formal, like I'm interviewing for CEO of "Please Fuck Me, Sir Industries." Second—too casual, like I'm meeting a friend to watch football and definitely not fantasizing about being split open by my boss's knot. Finally, I land on dark jeans and the forest green button-down Helena once said made my eyes look "less like a kicked puppy."

I check the clock for the fifth time. Still forty minutes to go. I'm going to combust. Full self-immolation. Headlines tomorrow: "Local Intern Dies of Horny Anticipation."

Work this week has been... brutal. Sterling's been a damn wall—professional, composed, distant like I hadn't had his massive fingers stretching me open two days ago. No lingering looks. No accidental brushes of his hand against mine. No fucking mercy.

But I catch him slipping. The way his nostrils flare when I walk by too close. The tiny, sharp inhalations when I hand him documents. The way his entire body subtly tenses like he's trying not to pin me against the nearest flat surface and make a goddamn example out of me.

And I know. Tonight isn't going to be professional. It's going to be inevitable.

When I pull into his driveway, my stomach does an Olympic-level somersault. Sterling's house is nothing like I expected. Tucked back behind thick trees, modest, built sturdy like everything else about him. The door swings open before I can knock a second time. Sterling fills the frame like some dark, terrible promise—deep blue shirt clinging to his chest, sleeves rolled just enough to expose strong forearms I can't stop staring at.

"Hank," he says, voice low, measured. "Right on time."

"Your directions were perfect," I manage, stepping inside, already half-drunk on the smell of him. Cedar, leather, something wilder underneath. The scent that ruins me.

The door clicks shut behind me, sealing me in with a seven-foot-tall walking fantasy and a growing list of extremely bad decisions.

There's this weird hesitation between us—do we shake hands? Hug? Dry-hump against the wall? Sterling solves it by keeping an almost painful amount of distance, leading me to the living room where he gestures at a human-sized chair like he's seating a guest at a diplomatic summit instead of his intern turned not-so-secret fantasy.

"Would you like a drink before dinner?" Formal. Controlled. Like he didn't practically knot me two nights ago.

I blink at him. "Sterling," I say, not sitting, not moving, heart pounding hard enough to echo in my ears, "are we seriously going to pretend this isn't monumentally fucking weird?"

His amber eyes widen a fraction. And then—then—a slow, reluctant smile curves his mouth. Real. Honest. Devastating.

"Thank you," he rumbles, voice dipping into that low register that fries my brain. "I was attempting... normalcy. Clearly, I need practice."

"You think?" I grin, the tension cracking open between us. And God, when he laughs, it's low and rough and almost shy. Like it surprises him too.

"Okay," I say, stepping closer, fueled by adrenaline and a healthy dose of 'fuck it.' "Let's start over."

I stick out my hand, deadpan. "Hi. I'm Hank. I work for you. You sucked me off while you fucked a piece of medical-grade sex furniture. And now we're on a date."

Sterling stares at me for one beat. Two. Then full-body laughter shakes him—deep, rumbling, fucking beautiful. He runs a hand over his mouth like he's trying to hide it, but it's no use.

"Hello, Hank," he says when he recovers, voice warm enough to melt steel. "I'm Sterling. I'm your boss. I caught you spying on me like a goddamn pervert. And instead of firing you, I made you come so hard you forgot your own name. I'm surprisingly well, thank you for asking."

I burst out laughing—the tension shattering between us like a cracked window finally giving way. The air feels lighter. Charged, still—but lighter.

Sterling crosses the room, hands me a glass of wine, and—on purpose this time—lets his fingers brush mine. A slow, deliberate touch that sends a lightning strike of heat straight through my body.

Sterling's voice is low and sure as he says, "I've prepared dinner." He leads the way into a dining room that, like the rest of the house, seems built to contain him—and somehow still feel warm instead of intimidating. The table is already set, one end with place settings designed for his size, the other fitted perfectly for someone human. For me.

"Nothing fancy," he adds, a little stiff, like he's not used to hosting guests he's also desperate to fuck, "but I find cooking therapeutic."

I blink at him. "You cook?"

He throws me a dry look over his shoulder. "What, did you imagine I graze in fields?"

Heat scorches up my neck so fast it feels like someone dumped boiling water down my collar. "No! I just... you seem so busy. I figured you'd have a private chef or... you know, some fancy meal subscription that sends grass-fed everything to your door."

Sterling's mouth twitches—just barely—but it feels like a private victory. "I enjoy the process," he says, matter-of-fact, placing plates in front of us. "The control. The transformation. Taking something raw and making it into something better."

The words thud low in my chest, way too close to what I've been fantasizing about since the first second I met him.

The meal is... fucking incredible. Perfectly seared chicken, roasted vegetables drizzled with what I can only describe as sex in oil form, and bread so crusty and warm I want to cry. The conversation flows easier than it has all week. Maybe it's the wine. Maybe it's the privacy. Maybe it's the fact that he's not pretending not to look at my mouth anymore.

I find out he double-majored in Agricultural Science and Kinetics (minotaur rugby team captain, because of course he was), that he almost bought a vineyard before deciding on opening Sterling's Pride. He finds out I grew up on a traditional farm in Iowa, perpetually disappointing every male relative I have by preferring books to beer and poetry to tractors.

"Is that why you applied for the internship?" Sterling asks, setting down two heavy mugs of coffee and sliding a plate of poached pears toward me. "To get away from all that?"

"Partly," I say, twirling my spoon, aware of his eyes following every move. "I wanted something different. But I'm not here just to escape. I care about the work. About building something that's... sustainable. Ethical. Connected to the land, but not tied down by it the way my family always was."

His gaze softens, something raw and real flashing in his amber eyes. "Most applicants," he says quietly, "are either... titillated by the nature of our work or detached enough to pretend it doesn't affect them. Your honesty is..." He trails off, and for the first time, Sterling Johnson—the most controlled man I've ever met—seems almost shy. "It's refreshing," he finishes, voice rougher than before.

By the time we finish dinner, the air between us is thick enough to bite through. Every accidental brush of fingers feels like a fucking live wire. Every glance lasts a second too long. When Sterling stands, pushing back his massive chair, the tension finally snaps.

"Would you like to see the rest of the house?" he asks, voice pitched low, like he's offering me something way dirtier than a tour.

"Yeah," I say, the word catching rough in my throat.

He leads me through a wide hallway lined with photos—family, friends, a few landscapes—but I barely register any of it because he's there in front of me, broad back stretching the seams of his shirt, the clean line of his neck begging to be kissed. And then he opens a door at the end of the hall, revealing the bedroom. Huge bed. Heavy wood frame. Crisp dark sheets that look criminally inviting.

My mouth goes dry. The bed is built for someone his size—and suddenly, all I can imagine is what it would look like with me in it. Small. Caged in. Taken apart.

Sterling catches the look on my face, and for a second—just a second—his jaw tightens, his hands flexing at his sides like he's fighting some violent instinct. "Not tonight," he says roughly. "When I said we would take this slow, I meant it."

Relief and disappointment hit me like twin punches. I nod, swallowing thickly. "Then why show me the bedroom?" I ask, voice embarrassingly wrecked.

He steps closer, so close I can feel the heat radiating off his skin, and says, in a voice that curls around my spine like smoke: "Context."

I blink. "Context?"

Sterling leans down, breath whispering against the shell of my ear.

"I want you to understand what you're working toward. What preparation will eventually make possible."

Jesus fucking Christ. I'm about to melt into a puddle right here on the floor.

"And tonight?" I rasp, barely able to get the words out. "What happens tonight?"

Sterling straightens slowly, towering over me, smug and in absolute fucking control. He glances at his watch like we're not standing six inches apart with enough sexual tension to power the East Coast.

"Tonight," he says, voice pure sin, "we go back to the facility."

"What?" I blink, thrown totally off balance. "Why?"

"Because," Sterling says, stepping back toward the door, giving me just enough space to chase him, "there's something very specific I want to do to you."

He pauses—gives me a look that is nothing short of feral—and adds, "And I need equipment you're already... familiar with."

* * *

The warm suction wraps around my cock, pulling and stroking with maddening slowness, just enough stimulation to keep me panting without giving me even a whisper of relief. Behind me, Sterling's gloved fingers spread my ass wider, deliberate, inspecting, teasing.

"Perfect," he murmurs, almost like he's talking to himself. His bare palm settles low on my spine, heavy, claiming.

And then he presses in.

One slick finger first, slow and unrelenting, breaching me with steady pressure that has me gasping into the padded mount. It's not enough to hurt—just enough to make my entire body clench around him, desperate for more, desperate for anything.

"You're so damn tight," Sterling growls, his voice vibrating down my spine. "I'm going to have to take my time breaking you open."

Another finger joins the first, the stretch sharper now. My cock jerks helplessly against the suction, leaking, aching for permission to let go that doesn't come.

"You like this," he says, twisting his fingers inside me. "Being stretched slow, used slow. You want to come so bad you can't think straight."

I make a broken, pleading sound in the back of my throat, hips twitching despite myself.

Sterling presses harder on my lower back, pinning me down. "Don't you dare," he bites out. "Not until I say."

I whimper, squeezing my eyes shut, every muscle straining to obey even as the pleasure threatens to wreck me.

Sterling's fingers pump slow and deep, scissoring inside me, rubbing over a spot that makes me see white behind my eyelids.

"This is just the start," he mutters, voice wrecked and filthy. "You think this is hard, Hank? Wait until I've got you open enough for more. Wait until you're begging me for it."

The warm suction on my cock increases just slightly, enough to make my whole body light up, desperate and frantic.

"Please," I gasp, not even sure what I'm begging for anymore. Relief? Permission? More?

Sterling answers by withdrawing his fingers slowly, leaving me gasping at the sudden emptiness—and then replacing them with something thicker, cooler, pressing against my entrance.

A vibrator. Bigger than his fingers. Smaller than him. Slick and ruthless. He pushes it in inch by inch, stretching me wider, making my toes curl against the mount.

"Good," he growls, easing it deeper. "Taking it like you're meant for this."

I can't help the desperate moan that rips from me. The vibration, the unbearable pleasure of being filled and restrained all at once—it's overwhelming. I can feel the suction trying to milk my cock, my orgasm crouching just out of reach, poised to explode if I so much as think about it too hard.

Sterling leans over me, his breath hot against my ear. "You don't come until I decide you've earned it," he rasps. "You want to come? You earn it with obedience. With patience. With this sweet little hole stretched open for me."

I nod frantically, the toy nudging deeper, the suction building.

He growls low and dark. "Good boy."

My whole body shudders at the praise, at the weight of his control pressing down on me. His lubricated finger teases around my rim, where I'm stretched around the vibrator, circling slow, patient, maddening. Not breaching. Not giving. Just hovering there, keeping me strung so tight I feel like I'm vibrating apart.

And then, just when I'm about to sob from the tension, he pushes inside.

It's not rough—not yet—but it's relentless, the slow invasion making my entire body tense and clench around him. The familiar burn of being stretched blooms low and deep, sharp enough to make my vision blur for a second.

Sterling works me methodically, the way a craftsman molds clay—careful, unhurried, devastating. All while the mount's gentle suction strokes my cock, coaxing, teasing, denying—the perfect cruel rhythm that keeps me trembling at the edge without ever tipping over.

Every time I get close—so close I can taste it—he pulls back. Withdraws completely, leaving me hollow and desperate, leaking onto the padded surface, chest heaving.

"Sterling, please," I choke out eventually, my voice hoarse, body wrecked with need. "I can't—please?—"

"What you need," he says, voice so low it scrapes across my skin, "and what you want... are not the same fucking thing."

I swear I can feel him smirking behind me. The scent of his arousal floods the room—heavy, musky, sweet—and it punches straight into my bloodstream, making me even dizzier, even harder. From the cabinet, he retrieves something slick and dark—a plug, wide at the base, brutally tapered. The sight alone nearly makes me lose control.

"Relax for me," Sterling murmurs, slicking it with lube before pressing the blunt tip against my entrance. His other hand strokes a slow line down my back, steadying, claiming.

The pressure builds, steady and merciless, until I feel my body start to give. There's a burning stretch, a gasp I can't hold back—and then the widest part slips inside, making me cry out, hips bucking helplessly against the mount.

I clamp down around the narrower neck instinctively, locking the plug deep inside. The fullness is obscene, overwhelming, almost too much—and then he adjusts the angle, and the damn thing grinds against my prostate.

White-hot pleasure explodes through me, a full-body shudder I can't control.

"Good boy," Sterling rumbles, his voice pure fucking sin. "That's it. Breathe through it."

"F-full," I stammer, lost.

He chuckles, dark and low. "That plug's less than half the size of my knot. Just imagine how much more you'll have to stretch."

The thought makes me whimper—half terror, half desperate, aching need.

Sterling steps back, and the mount shuts down with a soft hiss. I whimper at the loss, twisting to look at him.

And freeze.

He's undressing slowly, peeling the fabric away from his body one deliberate motion at a time, like he has all the time in the world to wreck me. His chest, broad and powerful, furred and heaving. His arms, thick and veined. His cock—already flushed dark, hanging heavy between his massive thighs.

Every inch of him says danger. Every inch of me wants to be wrecked by it.

He crosses the room in three strides and lifts me clean off the mount like I'm weightless. The plug shifts deep inside me with the movement, and I moan, clutching at his forearms instinctively.

"On your back," he orders, voice gravel-rough. He sets me back onto the mount, adjusting it with quick, efficient movements until I'm spread open, bare, completely at his mercy.

"Legs wide, Hank," he murmurs, gripping my thighs in his massive hands and pushing them open even further. "Let me see all of you."

I obey, helpless under his gaze.

He positions himself at the opening, his cock feeding into the collection mechanism—but his eyes stay locked on me, hot and hungry.

And then, without warning, Sterling lowers his head between my legs.

The first swipe of his tongue over my aching cock tears a sound from me that doesn't even sound human—raw, broken, desperate.

I never expected this. Never imagined he'd taste me while pleasuring himself. That he'd use the mount for his own relief while wrecking me with nothing but his mouth.

The suction starts up again, low and persistent, just as Sterling seals his lips around the head of my cock and sucks. My entire body bows off the mount with a shout, the plug pressing even deeper inside me.

"Holy—Sterling—" I gasp, barely coherent, the sensations crashing over me too fast, too hard.

He hums around my cock, the vibration making me shake, gripping my thighs tighter as if to say, Stay open. Stay mine. And somewhere in the fog of heat and want, I realize he's not just stretching my body tonight. He's breaking me apart to remake me as his. Piece by desperate, trembling piece.

The dual assault of his mouth and the relentless stretch inside me short-circuits my brain. Sterling sets a brutal rhythm—thrusting deep into the mount, hips rocking steadily—while his mouth works me over with obscene skill, tongue flicking, teasing, sucking me so deep my eyes roll back.

Every thrust jostles the plug, grinding it against my prostate like a live wire buried deep inside me, sending jolts of raw, electric pleasure through my entire body. It's too much. It's not enough. I'm trapped somewhere between heaven and hell, writhing, panting, held wide open by his massive hands like he owns me.

And he does. God, he does.

I manage to lift my head enough to see him between my legs—Sterling's broad, muscled body working like a machine, his hips snapping forward, the thick column of his cock swelling visibly, the base thickening, knot forming right before my eyes.

"Sterling," I gasp, fingers scrabbling at the mount's surface like I might fly apart without something to hold onto. "I can't—I'm gonna?—"

He pulls back just enough to growl against the flushed, leaking head of my cock, voice low and ruined, "Not yet." The words vibrate through me, making my entire body tighten, clench, ache.

He takes me deeper again, mouth sealing tight around me, and that's it—that's it. I'm gone, losing the fragile grip I have left.

"I—I can't—Sterling—please?—!"

His mouth lifts barely an inch, breath hot against my cock. "Now," he orders, rough and final.

The command detonates something inside me. I come with a shout, my entire body locking up as pleasure tears through me—raw, overwhelming, like it's been bottled up for weeks and finally, finally, shatters free.

Sterling doesn't stop. He swallows me, every thick pulse, one hand keeping my thighs spread, the other squeezing my balls with every shuddering aftershock.

I'm still reeling when he groans—low and deep and primal—and drives into the mount one last time. His whole massive body goes rigid, the knot at the base of his cock swelling impossibly larger, locking him into the machine as he comes with brutal force.

The sight of it—of him—wrecked because of me—burns itself into my memory, searing and permanent.

For long, breathless moments, we don't move. The only sounds are our harsh breathing, the soft whir of the cooling system, the faint suction of the mount easing off as the mechanisms begin to shut down.

Sterling is the first to move. He gently, carefully, eases the plug from my body with a low, approving sound when I whimper at the loss.

"You took it better than I expected," he murmurs, voice rough with afterglow.

Before I can answer, he scoops me up—strong arms cradling me against his chest like I'm something precious instead of something he just absolutely wrecked—and carries me across the room to a cushioned bench.

Still cradling me with one hand, he pulls a warm towel from a cabinet and begins to clean me with slow, deliberate care. Every pass of the towel is gentle, reverent, like he's memorizing every inch of me he touches.

It guts me, somehow, the tenderness that follows the brutality.

"You did good," Sterling murmurs against my temple, his lips brushing over my sweat-soaked hair in a kiss so soft I almost miss it.

"This... this was just the beginning, wasn't it?" I manage, my voice wrecked, my body boneless against him.

Sterling pulls back just enough to look down at me, his amber eyes molten and steady. "Yeah," he says, voice thick with something that sounds dangerously close to promise. "Just the beginning."