Page 3 of The Boss (Straight Men #2)

Isaac Steele drove the kind of car that turned heads—a sleek, black Mercedes-Benz—because of course he did. It smelled of new leather and a faint note of his cologne, something woody and expensive, that seemed to cling to the space like an invisible signature. The seat hugged me, the smooth material cool against my naked butt, the gaping tear in the back of my pants a stark reminder that I was one ill-timed movement away from full exposure.

The man behind the wheel was nothing like I’d pictured. He was… striking. There was no other way to describe him. Early forties, maybe, with buzzed dark hair dusted with gray at the temples, a heavy stubble threaded with the occasional silver strand, and piercing blue eyes that seemed to take everything in. With his strong jawline and powerful body, Isaac Steele looked more like an action star or an NFL player than a corporate executive. And he seemed so down-to-earth—mostly—like he wasn’t a tycoon and I wasn’t some poor newbie he felt sorry for. He was imposing, for sure, but not intimidating.

Or maybe mooning him in his office was the magic icebreaker.

The silence in the car was punctuated by the low hum of the engine as we pulled from the underground garage onto the main road. The city unfolded in front of us—steel, glass, and motion—a world of noise, separate from us. As if reading my mind, Isaac turned on the music, and Queen’s Fat Bottomed Girls blared from the stereo. We looked at each other and chuckled at the same time.

“Not the best choice of song, considering the circumstances, eh?” Isaac said, still smirking.

“Oh, if Freddie Mercury wants to call me a fatass, I suppose I should take it as a compliment,” I replied.

He grunted. “The greatest voice of all time. Shame he was a queer.”

I wasn’t sure how I was supposed to react to that. I guess I could’ve stayed quiet and ignored it, but I was never good at letting homophobic comments fly. Even if the asshole saying them was my new boss. “Well, your loss is our gain.”

Isaac froze as the meaning sank, throwing a sideways glance at me. “Shit. I didn’t mean— fuck . I’m sorry. I didn’t know you were…”

“Gay?” I supplied, as it seemed he couldn’t bring himself to say it. “Well, now you know.”

For the first time since I met him, Isaac seemed the uncomfortable one, and it made me kind of happy that the roles were reversed for a change. “I meant because of the way he died,” he said, face serious, eyes on the road. “That’s all. But it came out wrong, and I apologize. I don’t want you to think I’m some judgmental jerk, when it’s really not the case. At all. Live and let live is my motto.”

The cynical part of me thought he was obliged to say that, being the CEO of a big international company, regardless of what he believed in. But he seemed sincere, so I decided to give him the benefit of the doubt and take his word for it. After all, he was being super nice to me when he didn’t have to. “It’s fine,” I said, smiling.

He didn’t press any further and we drove in silence for a while, Queen’s music filling the space between us.

“So, what made you apply to Nova Systems?” he asked after some time.

I wavered for a moment, the question catching me off guard. “Honestly? It seemed like a good opportunity. Solid company, good benefits. I heard Providence was a great place to live.” I shrugged. “And I like solving problems.”

Isaac smirked. “That’s the most practical answer I’ve heard in a while.”

A dry laugh escaped me. “You were expecting something grander?”

“Most people your age like to talk about ‘making an impact’ or ‘changing the industry,’ but you’re just here to do good work. I respect that.”

Glancing at his profile, I tried to gauge him. “What about you? Did you always want to run a company?”

He seemed to consider that for a moment. “Not exactly. I knew I wanted to build something. To be in control of my own future. But the road to getting here wasn’t a straight line.”

I regarded him, curious. “What was it like, starting out?”

Isaac let out a breathy chuckle. “Brutal. Long hours, impossible expectations, people doubting me at every turn. They’d thought a brute-force jock could never become a sharp businessman. I took it as a challenge to defy the stereotype. When I was your age, I was a junior analyst at a consulting firm, working eighty-hour weeks, barely sleeping. My boss once told me I was too green, too soft, that I didn’t have what it took to lead. So, I worked twice as hard. Learned everything I could.” He glanced at me, giving me a knowing look. “Turns out, the best way to prove someone wrong is to outlast them.”

I tipped my chin, absorbing that. “Sounds intense.”

“It was,” he admitted. “But if you want to get ahead, you have to decide what kind of man you’re going to be. Are you the guy who waits for opportunities? Or the guy who makes them?”

I mulled that over, watching the buildings blur past the window. “I want to be the second one,” I said finally.

A small smile tugged at his lips. “Good. Then start now. Pay attention. Learn fast. Speak up when it matters. And don’t be afraid to take up space.”

I nodded, feeling the knot of tension in my stomach begin to unravel. By the time we pulled up to a small boutique nestled between a jewelry store and an art gallery downtown, any lingering awkwardness between us had faded away and I’d almost forgotten about the tear in my pants.

The shop before us was the kind of place that looked expensive before you even stepped inside. The polished brass nameplate by the door gleamed in the afternoon light, the swirling letters reading Sullivan’s , and the window displays were a shrine to high-end fashion: Gucci, Louis Vuitton, Armani. Even the mannequins looked like they knew they were too good for the likes of me.

“Come on,” Isaac said, stepping out of the car with the effortless confidence of someone who belonged in places like this.

Inside, the shop was all warm wood and soft yellow lighting, with racks of pristine suits arranged like works of art. A faint scent of cedar and fabric dye lingered in the air, mixing with the polished tang of shoe leather. Two men stood behind the counter, examining the roll of fabric stretched over it: a younger, lanky man with round glasses, and a short, gray-haired man in his sixties. Both raised their heads at the sound of the bell above the door as Isaac and I entered.

“Mr. Steele!” The older man called out, coming around the counter to greet us. His tailored suit was impeccable, and his smile was a mixture of genuine warmth and the practiced charm of someone who catered to the elite.

“Edward,” Isaac said, extending a hand. “How do you do?”

“Oh, I can’t complain. But I wasn’t expecting you today—your wedding suit is still not ready.”

“I’m not here because of that.” He grabbed his jacket off my shoulders and pushed me in front of him, turning me around so that my backside faced Edward. “This is Chris. He’s new at Nova Systems, and, well, he’s had a bit of a wardrobe malfunction.”

Edward’s eyes flicked to the tear in my pants, and he let out a soft chuckle. “I see. Welcome, young man. We’ll have you sorted in no time.” He left the store in the hands of his younger associate and led us deeper into the shop, past rows of designer labels that made my wallet ache just by looking at them.

“Feel free to pick whatever catches your eye,” Isaac said, his tone casual.

“I—uh—thanks, but…” I trailed off, staring at a price tag that was easily more than a month’s rent.

“Don’t worry about the cost,” he said, brushing off my hesitation with a wave of his hand. “I’ve already said it’s my treat and I don’t like repeating myself.”

Well, the man was my boss, so I decided to shut up and do as he said. In the end, I settled on a deep navy Tom Ford suit, classic but not too formal. Edward nodded approvingly and gestured for me to follow him to a fitting area tucked away at the rear of the shop.

“Right this way, young man. Let’s see what we’re working with.”

Isaac stayed behind, texting on his phone and roaming around the store.

The fitting room was cozy and lined with mirrors that made it feel larger than it was. Edward gestured toward a small bench where I could set my things. “Strip down to whatever you’re comfortable with. The fit needs to be precise, so go with what you usually wear under the suit. This usually means your underwear, but some men prefer to go without.”

I considered his words, then figured my lucky jockstrap had already seen me through one disaster today. Why not double down?

As I undressed, Edward moved with the practiced efficiency of someone who had done this a thousand times. But his eyes never left me, his gaze sharp and focused as it swept across my almost-naked body. When I was finally standing only in my jocks and my socks, Edward’s mouth opened a little, like he was about to gasp. Instead, he told me to step onto the small dais in front of the largest mirror.

Measuring tape in one hand and a small notebook in the other, he danced around me humming softly to himself while he took notes. He measured my shoulders and my chest, my biceps and my waist, my thighs and my calves, all the while making comments—“broad chest, excellent posture, prominent backside”—bordering on personal. Years of wrestling had killed any trace of shyness in me so I felt at ease, almost like a model in an art class.

Edward’s touch lingered just a fraction too long as he measured my inseam, the back of his hand grazing my balls. It was the most action I had in a while, and despite myself, I felt my cock stirring to life.

“The secret of a perfect suit is customization,” Edward said, his tone almost confidential. “Anyone can come and buy a suit off the rack. But with the small, careful adjustments, you get a personally tailored fit that becomes a unique work of art.”

“How long will that take?” I asked, eyes on the mirror, trying not to get hard.

Edward chuckled, his hand sliding down my leg. “Rushing me already? Perfection takes time, my boy. But since Mr. Steele is one of my most valued clients, I’ll have it ready by tomorrow. Leave your home address to my assistant, and it will be delivered first thing in the morning.”

“Thank you.” I kept my eyes forward, focusing on our reflections, until the sound of footsteps made me glance toward the door. Isaac stepped inside, his expression unreadable, just as the old tailor withdrew his hand.

“How’s it going?” he asked, his tone light.

“Nearly finished, sir,” Edward said, seeming a bit flustered.

Isaac nodded, turning his attention to me. If I’d felt I might’ve gotten hard from Edward’s fondling, it was nothing compared to standing almost naked and being scrutinized by my sexy-as-hell boss. But his gaze left me too soon. “And what about my wedding suit?”

“The shirt and the tuxedo still need more work, but the pants are almost fitted. Would you like to try them on while you wait?”

“Yes, I would,” he said, and then he was gone, following Edward into the shadows.

Left alone, I adjusted my jockstrap to accommodate my growing boner. It took all my willpower not to keep touching myself, but no matter how horny I was, this wasn’t the time or the place for that. The last thing I needed was for my boss to catch me whacking off, so I looked around for my clothes and started dressing. But as I buttoned up my shirt, I realized my pants were gone. The old tailor must have taken them away to fix them. I had no choice but to venture out of the dressing room in just a shirt and jocks, hoping I wouldn’t run into any customers. But instead of going into the main area of the shop, I followed the sound of two muffled voices—what sounded like Isaac and Edward deep in conversation.

Further down the passage, I discovered another fitting room, hidden behind a thick, dark curtain. When I took a peek, I saw Isaac half-dressed, his shirt covering the top of his round ass, his muscular legs spread in an assertive stance on the small dais. His back was turned to me, but I had a perfect view of his reflection in the mirror, and my gaze slid to his crotch. There, the biggest bulge I’d ever seen jutted between the flaps of his shirt, the outline stark against the thin fabric of his white briefs. Edward was crouching beside him, stealing glances as he worked.

For a moment, I froze, the sight of my scantily clad boss stirring something that felt both thrilling and deeply inappropriate. He was built like a force of nature—tall, broad-shouldered, and packed with powerful muscle, the kind forged through raw strength rather than vanity. Every movement carried effortless control, his presence commanding without a word. Veins traced his thick forearms, hinting at the power in his grip, while his chest pulled the shirt taut, barely containing the raw masculinity he exuded. There was nothing delicate about him—just sheer, unshakable strength, the kind that made you instinctively step aside and let him take charge.

The sound of someone clearing his throat behind me made me start. When I spun around, Edward’s younger associate was standing there, my pants in his hands.

“Um, I fixed your trousers,” he muttered, offering me the torn chinos without meeting my eyes. Unlike his boss, the sight of my exposed ass seemed to make him uncomfortable.

“Thanks,” I said, examining his handiwork. The stitch ran along the seam in the middle, almost undetectable. “Nice job,” I added, but the guy was already gone.

I went back to the first dressing room and put my pants on, hoping they would hold on at least until I got back home. But as I tied my shoes, the image of Isaac in a state of undress flickered through my mind, vivid and unshakable. The way his briefs clung to his ass, the fabric almost swallowed by those round, hairy cheeks. The way his bulge stretched the material in the front, leaving little to the imagination. The way those thick thighs flexed with every shift, igniting thoughts I had no business entertaining about my boss.

I could say one thing for sure, though: this was not how I’d imagined my first day.

Not at all.