AUSTIN AND I FUCKED on the beach, then we came back to the villa and fucked again. We ate lunch, sprawled on the couch watching some spy TV show about a woman who was a double agent for the CIA and some off-the-books outfit that was pretending to be part of the CIA—then we fucked again. We ate dinner, went for a swim, took showers in the pool house, and we fucked in there too. It was like these raw primal urges that kept coming over us. He was a neodymium magnet and I was something metallic, and whenever we orbited too close together we crashed together in a flurry of kisses and we ended up fucking.

It was like we knew Daddy was coming home soon and we wanted to get as much alone time as we could. And I’m not exactly sure when or why it became such a big secret. I mean, the staff had to know—we weren’t exactly trying to be inconspicuous about it. Like when we were watching TV, Francesca came in to dust the drapes or something and Austin was using his foot to massage my dick over my briefs and I was just moaning like it was no big deal.

I wondered if they would tell Daddy what we’d been doing. That he’d been gone less than two days and we had defiled every square inch of this villa. Or is this the kind of staff that know how to keep secrets and mind their own business. And since Austin was verse too, we took turns fucking each other. But it still felt like we were breaking some unwritten commandment.

The next day, while eating breakfast, we both look up from our plates when our phones ping simultaneously. We were sitting at the bar in the kitchen, forks halfway to our mouths, and both look at our phones, then at each other’s screens. Daddy was coming back. His ETA: 45 minutes. The notification hung on both our screens like the ticking clock from 24, and we were Jack Bauer which meant we had to act fast. Austin and I look at each other and grin mischievously, a spark of excitement and urgency passing between us.

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“We could do a lot in 45 minutes,” he says, his voice low and suggestive like he needed my permission before he would act.

“You read my mind,” I say, already pushing my chair back away from the bar.

We abandon the plates; eggs and toast half-eaten, coffee still steaming and run upstairs to Austin’s room, taking the steps two at a time. His room looks better than mine, like he actually lives in it as opposed to the aesthetic I was going for... un-lived in Airbnb. His space has personality: pictures on the walls, clothes draped over a chair, books stacked on the nightstand, the faint smell of his cologne lingering in the air. It feels real, lived-in, warm.

As soon as we get in the room, he shuts the door behind us and immediately wraps his arms around me, pulling me close. Our bodies press together, and I can already feel the heat from his body. We kiss all over each other’s bodies, hungry and desperate, knowing we don’t have all the time in the world and we’ve got to be judicious. I start at his neck, kissing and sucking at the sensitive skin there, and work my way down to his clavicle, tracing it with my tongue. Then to his pecs, firm and defined under my lips, his nipple which hardens as I lick over it slowly, like I want to savor the moment. I reach down and feel the bulge in his briefs, already growing.

Fuck. I love his cock. I love it even more when it’s inside my mouth or ass. A moan escapes his mouth and I go back to his nipple, wanting to hear more of those sounds. I suck on it harder this time and then lick over it a few times, circling it with my tongue.

“Mmhmm, fuck, fuck,” he moans, his voice thick with pleasure, his hands gripping my shoulders.

I keep massaging his cock through the fabric, feeling it pulse and grow under my palm until it’s nice and hard. The stiffness inside the fabric is undeniable, straining against the material. I can feel every ridge, every vein through the thin cotton.

“Someone’s excited,” I say.

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I WAKE UP THE NEXT MORNING to the sun shining through the sheer curtain, its rays cutting across the bed in golden stripes. The light is beautiful, I’ll give it that—all amber and warm—but the heat isn’t far behind, creeping into the room like an unwelcome guest who doesn’t understand social cues. The temperature rises steadily, turning my bedroom into an oven, and I have no choice but to get up and seek asylum in a different part of the house. I throw off the thin sheet that’s tangled around my legs and swing my feet onto the hardwood floor, which is already warm to the touch. You’d think a place with a freaking X-Men X-Jet hangar would have decent air conditioning—you know, the kind that actually works and keeps the temperature below “surface of the sun.” I could not have been more wrong. This mansion is apparently held together by duct tape, good intentions, and ceiling fans from the Reagan administration.

I wander through the house in just my boxer briefs, looking for pretty much any place that isn’t east facing and baking in the morning sun. My skin is sticky with sweat already, and I can feel beads forming at my hairline. On the second floor there’s a sitting room tucked away down a hallway I hadn’t explored yet, past a series of closed doors and what looks like a linen closet. It seems to be in the middle of the house because there are no windows, and more importantly, the ceiling fan is actually worth a damn. Someone must have upgraded this one recently because it’s spinning at a speed that suggests it means business. The air in here is noticeably cooler, almost refreshing compared to the sauna I just escaped from. I let out a long breath and feel my shoulders relax for the first time since I opened my eyes this morning.

The TV is on and some show that I’ve never seen before is playing. I look around but there isn’t anyone. Just an oversized sofa and a recliner.

“We don’t need alarms around here, we have the sun,” says a voice on the other side of the couch.

I walk over and find Austin lying down. He too is only wearing underwear, white ones this time.

“Oh, hi, I didn’t think anyone was in here,” I say.

“What the TV didn’t give it away?”

“Well Daddy doesn’t strike me as the kinda guy who’s worried about the electric bill,” I say.

I look over at the recliner then back to the sofa.

“Don’t worry, we can share, I won’t make you is in that death trap.”

“Well I don’t want to impose,” I say.

“You mean that or just being polite?”

“Obviously I’m being polite—scoot over.”

He slides over just enough that I can sit down. The thing is huge. I sit back and pull my knees into my chest and lay my head against the back.

Just then, Daddy walks in.

“So, how are my boys doing?”

“We’re good,” says Austin.

“Whenever you boys get hungry, Francesca will make you something to eat.”

He’s wearing a linen shirt and pants and has what look like an overnight bag in one hand.

“Going somewhere?” I ask.

“You could say that?” he replies. “I’ll be back day after tomorrow so you boys play nice.”

“We will Daddy,” says Austin.

Tiny walks in and Daddy hands him the overnight bag.

“Where’s Neil?” asks Daddy.

“Just got back from Pisa International to drop off Lena.”

“And he’s good for the whole trip?”

“Yessir,” says Tiny.

“Good, lets get in the air.”

They walk out of the room and I assume are headed to the X-Jet hangar. As soon as I can no longer hear their footfalls I turn back to Austin.

“So what’s there to do around here?”

“I can think of a few things,” he says.

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WITH SCHOOL BEING OUT for the summer, it means I need to work full time at The Pitt just to pay the dorm rent. Since I’m not taking classes, I can’t use financial aid to finance my lifestyle. Which is fine with me, seeing as summer school has been known to be worse than normal semesters since it’s so condensed.

I’m in the middle of drawing up a schedule for Morgan when my phone rings. I check the screen—it isn’t a number I recognize, but you know me. I answer it anyway.

“Mr. James?”

I recognize the raspy voice immediately.

“Tiny?”

“Daddy requests the privilege of meeting,” he says.

“Tiny, in my experience Daddy doesn’t really make ‘requests’,” I say.

“Okay, well come out to the car. You know how much gas costs these days.”

Daddy must have me LoJacked or something because he always seems to know where I am—like, all the time.

“Sure, I’ll be right out.”

I disconnect the call and grab a shirt from the back of the chair, then head outside.

Tiny is standing in front of a stretch hummer.

“Holy shit,” I say to myself. If someone sees me getting in that thing, they’re gonna think I’m a prostitute for sure.

I stride over, looking over my shoulder every few seconds to make sure no one’s watching. He opens the back door and I climb inside.

Daddy is already in the back, sitting further up.

“Hey Daddy?”

“Are you being a good boy?” he asks with a steely smile.

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I HAD JUST FINISHED CHEM LAB when I realized I was going to be late to work. I called Morgan and, as per usual, she said we’d deal with it when I got there, which usually meant she was saving her breath so she could yell at me in person.

Not the nicest lady, but she was fair.

And this time really was out of my control.

I mean how was I supposed to know that mixing sodium metal and water would create a fire? I’m not a chemist.

By the time I get to The Pitt, it’s in the usual organized chaos, and Morgan is on the platform with her headset and twelve computer monitors. This is last-mile delivery, not the Situation Room, but for her it’s all the same. The second I walk in she zeroes in on me.

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“Nolan!”

Every head in the warehouse turns for half a second before immediately deciding this isn’t their problem.

“We should use our inside voices,” I say.

“You should have been here an hour ago,” she says.

“I know, but there was an incident at school—”

She cuts me off even though I had this whole explanation ready to go.

“You have another delivery at the Fremont.”

“What do you mean ‘I have a delivery’?”

“It’s on the package,” she says, handing it to me.

To Be Delivered by Nolan James.

Well there it is, in black and white.

“This doesn’t seem sketch to anyone?” I ask.

But the warehouse is a chaotic mess and no one is paying attention. Which they probably learned a long time ago was the safest option around Morgan.

“And since you’re late you get the Heights.”

“Morgan—oh god, please, no!”

The Heights is where the bad part of town meets the worst part of town and throws a party. It has a myriad of nicknames—Gotham, Sketchville USA—but there are always packages to be delivered there.

And it’s bad.

I mean, my mom let curfew slide a few times growing up, but these are the kids who are allowed to do meth on the front porch.

“You know the deal, so take this to the Fremont and skedaddle on over there and hopefully Oliver Queen meets you when you get there.”

We often joke that not even vigilantes risk it down there. It’s usually half a pallet worth of packages. The people can’t afford decent housing but everyone out there somehow has an Amazon Prime account.

Oh—and they never ever tip.

The only upside is that whoever runs the Heights route gets to use the company van and, with the price of gas, that’s always a good thing.

“Well what are you waiting on?”

“Ya know Morgan, you just might be my thirteenth reason.”

She doesn’t skip a beat.

“Honey, I’m half the people’s in here’s thirteenth reason.”

Like that was something to be proud of.

I put the package in my satchel and by the time I get to the garage where we keep the van, a few guys have just finished loading the packages in the back.

“I was wondering who’d be risking their life today,” one of them says.

“Your thoughts and prayers are appreciated,” I say.

I hop in the driver’s seat, start the engine, and navigate to the Fremont.

By the time I park the van, grab my satchel, and pull the package free, the warehouse chaos has finally started wearing off.

Which is when I actually read the signature slip.

I pull it from my bag.

Well, I’ll be damned.

Michael Drum aka Daddy.

Well too bad I can’t hang around—he was a good time the last time I was here.

I cross the lobby. It’s somewhat busy, but not so much that I spend more than five minutes waiting for the receptionist.

“Can I help you?” she asks.

“Yeah, I have a delivery,” I say handing her the signature slip.

She punches a few keys, reads the screen, then looks under the keyboard where she finds a note.

“You’re Nolan?” she asks.

“I hope so, that’s what people have been calling me for the past 20 years.”

She doesn’t laugh at my joke, instead, she hands me an envelope. My name is scribbled across the front.

How does he know my full name?

I open it and pull a small card from it. It’s hand written.

Open the package when you get upstairs. Give your keys to Tiny—he’ll finish your route.

I have so many questions.

Like how does he know I have multiple deliveries? Usually we don’t take more than three deliveries at a time. Sometimes four depending on how they’re clustered on the map. And we’re technically contracted by the bigger companies, so if they get too many complaints about missed or late deliveries, it puts our contract in jeopardy.

So Morgan would rather send three people to the same geographical region than just one just in case.

“Um, who’s Tiny?”

Before she can answer, I hear a voice behind me. It’s deep and raspy.

“I’m Tiny,” he says.

I turn around and the man standing in front of me is at least 6’4” and 240 pounds and absolutely the antithesis of ‘tiny’.

“Well, that’s an ironic name,” I say.

“I’ll take the keys,” he says.

“You will?”

“You have a job to do, and so do I,” he says, his hand still outstretched.

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The only reason I hand him the keys is because Daddy has carefully orchestrated all of this and I’m not about to screw with it after the oh-so-generous tip he dropped on me the last time I was here.

In the elevator, the same bellhop turns the key to the penthouse and we’re moving. He doesn’t say anything, just watches the numbers tick up.

When the doors open, it’s dark and dimly lit.

“Have a good day, sir,” he says before pressing the button to close the doors as I step into the foyer.

As soon as the elevator closes, a light to my right turns on.

It’s a small restroom.

I open the package and check it for any other hidden notes. It’s a small box. I open it.

Inside is something I wasn’t expecting to find—a jockstrap.

At least now the restroom makes sense.

I go in, shut the door, and notice a small basket sitting on the toilet.

Just big enough to fit all my clothes.

Something tells me that when Daddy sees me, all he wants to see is me wearing this jockstrap.

And if he’s tipping like he was last week, I’d walk in there naked.

I strip down, put all my stuff in the basket, and slide the jockstrap on. It fits snug. It’s white with a thick waistband. I adjust the straps under my ass, check myself in the mirror, and step back into the foyer.

Then one of the recessed lights above turns on.

It’s a soft amber glow.

It turns off and one a few feet away lights up.

Then another.

What are we on—an airplane?

Nevertheless, I follow the lights. They round the corner and go past the room I was in last time.

The light stops a few doors down.

I turn back and notice the sequence of lights doing the same thing.

They’ve stopped at this door for a reason.

Do I knock?

I should knock.

No—I shouldn’t knock.

He would’ve said something by now.

Am I about to meet a serial killer? Because if I die in a jockstrap—I guess it wouldn’t matter, but still.

I open the door.

The room is dimly lit and the music is a little louder. It’s a large space with floor-to-ceiling windows, marble floors, and a king-size bed in the middle.

The lights turn up, but just a little, and there’s Daddy, sitting in a chair next to the bed.

“Well aren’t you a sight,” he says.

He’s wearing a silk robe that’s not closed, but his legs are crossed so I don’t really see anything.

“Are you coming over?” he asks.

For some reason I can’t bring myself to speak—at least not aloud.

As I get closer, I notice a tray on the table next to the chair.

There’s three pictures in the tray.

Each is a headshot of a guy.

They look close to my age.

And there are numbers at the bottom of each.

“What’s this?” I ask.

“Just a few guys who like to come around,” he says, sounding ominous.

“Of their free will I hope?” I ask, half serious.

“You don’t recognize them?” he asks.

I look at the pictures again.

“No—should I?”

“Well they all go to your school and they all picked you.”

“What do you mean they picked me?”

“There used to be ten, and these three picked you. I assumed because of the ten, these three went to school with you.”

I look at the pictures again.

Nothing.

It’s a big school and I tend to keep a low profile.

Well at least when I’m not trying to set the Chem lab on fire.

He leans in a little closer.

“So which one do you pick?”

“Pick for what?”

I look at the photos again.

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They’re all good looking—correction, they’re all hot.

And not just hot as in ‘wow,’ I mean ‘does this guy also work as an Aeropostale model?’ hot.

“Daddy was hoping for a little show.”

“A show?”

His smirk matches my own and I don’t even realize I’m smirking until I see my reflection in the mirror next to the bed.

I look at the photos again. They’re just headshots so I can’t tell what their bodies look like, but if they’re here somewhere and got roped into something with Daddy, then they have to be fucking studs.

I sit on the arm of the chair and put my hand on Daddy’s thigh and, in this almost innocent voice, I say, “Daddy, why don’t you choose for me?”

And the smile that forms across his face—it’s the same smile they talk about on those Dateline specials where they say the dead person had a smile that really lit up the room.

He picks up the phone and mumbles something I can’t quite make out.

A few moments later, a door on the other side of the room opens and a guy steps inside.

He’s about my age, maybe a little older, a little shorter and a little leaner than me. Strong features. Dirty blond hair. Broad shoulders without being bulky.

And even though he’s leaner, he’s still got enough muscle and a nice rack of abs to make me immediately aware of the fact that I’m standing here in nothing but a jockstrap.

He stops just inside the doorway like he’s waiting for instructions.

Or permission.

Then his eyes land on me.

And just like that, the whole room somehow feels smaller.

“Hi,” he says gently.

A beat.

“Um, hi,” I say, a little reticent.

He walks over tentatively and I get a better look at him. He’s also wearing a jockstrap and his has is filling it out just nicely.

Damn.

He’s hot.

Not in the polished, intimidating way Daddy is hot.

This is different.

Softer.

Approachable.

Like the kind of guy you accidentally develop a crush on halfway through the semester and then spend three months pretending not to stare at during lectures.

“Do you wanna sit down?” he asks, gesturing to the bed.

I don’t answer. I just get up from the arm of the chair and walk over and sit next to him.

The mattress dips beneath our weight.

“You’re cuter in person,” he says.

“Thanks, uh, so are you,” I reply.

He smiles at that.

Not cocky.

Almost relieved.

“I’m Matthew,” he says.

“Nolan.”

“Can I tell you something?”

I don’t know if he wants to tell me something or ask me something.

“Sure,” I say.

“I was really hoping you’d pick me,” he says. “I’ve seen you around campus a few times. I always wanted to say something but never really had the nerve.”

“Really?” I ask, incredulously.

“Yeah, I’m kinda shy,” he says, placing his hand on my thigh.

I look down instinctively and then back to him.

There’s a glint of something in his eye.

Nerves maybe.

Or anticipation.

He goes to move his hand, but I grab it.

“No—it’s okay,” I say.

His fingers relax beneath mine.

“Are you sure?” he asks, tentatively.

“I’m sure,” I say leaning in to kiss him, but then I remember that Daddy is watching and I pull back.

I look over my shoulder. His robe is open and his hand slowly stroking his cock.

Fuck.

Now I’m starting to stiffen up.

“Just pretend I’m not here,” he says, then he picks up a remote and dims the lights.

I’ve never kissed another guy while someone else watched like this, and somehow that makes everything feel more electric.

Not embarrassing.

Not awkward.

Heightened.

Like every sound in the room suddenly matters more.

“Where were we?” I ask, and before I can answer my own question, his lips are on mine.

The kiss is anything but gentle.

He grabs the side of my neck and pulls me into him like he’s been waiting all night to do it. His mouth moves against mine with this reckless familiarity that immediately throws me off balance.

There’s a certain kind of confidence to it.

Like we’ve done this a hundred times before.

I barely have time to catch up before his hand slides along my waist and settles against the small of my back, pulling me closer across the mattress.

The kiss deepens fast. Teeth. Breath. The soft sound of our mouths parting and reconnecting in the dim room.

He’s kissing me like we got married six months ago and I have to work to keep up.

The sounds of kissing, wet and rhythmic, are doing something to me.

“Fuck,” I say between kisses.

I reach down and grab his ass.

Jesus Christ.

It’s soft and muscular at the same time, the kind of ass that feels unfair beneath your hands. My fingers spread instinctively, pulling him tighter against me.

Wait.

I really want to bury my face in it.

I pull him farther onto the bed and roll over on top of him, kissing him deeper. He’s moaning now, soft at first, then louder when I drag my mouth across his jaw and down the side of his neck.

The sounds he’s making are making me even hornier than I already am.

“Mmhm, yeah, yeah,” he moans.

Then I hear Daddy.

A low groan escapes from the darkness.

As I kiss Matthew’s neck, I glance over and see him sitting back in the chair. He’s mostly lost in the shadows, one hand stroking himself slowly, the other draped lazily over the armrest.

He looks like he’s filming one of those anonymous interviews on 60 Minutes.

“Does Daddy like that?” I ask.

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TWO THINGS: COLLEGE IS EXPENSIVE as fuck. Not only do you have to pay for the privilege of sitting in a lecture hall with a hundred other people pretending they did the reading, but nothing is included. As if tuition didn’t already cost an arm and a leg, you also have to buy textbooks priced like they’re signed by the Pope. Then there’s the dorm room—basically a glorified holding cell at The Hague. You have to buy food, and if you don’t eat for whatever reason? Tough shit. Nobody cares.

You have to pay for parking. You have to pay random fees no one can explain. And don’t even get me started on the “technology fee.” What the fuck is a technology fee when the campus Wi‑Fi cuts out every time it rains harder than a light drizzle? Honestly, I’m surprised they don’t charge us by the breath.

And the second thing: if you want any actual spending money, don’t bother looking for a work-study job. Those things get snatched up faster than the free condoms at the campus clinic. Half the listings are already promised to somebody’s cousin before they even hit the portal.

So what do I do? I get an actual job—one that somehow works around the fifteen credit hours currently trying to kill me this semester.

The job? I’m a courier at The Pitt.

It used to be an honest-to-God courier company but once apps took over, traditional courier work basically died. So now we do what’s called last-mile delivery. Which is corporate speak for: big companies dump their shit on us because it’s cheaper. Amazon, pharmacies, law offices, flower shops, rich people who forgot to buy anniversary gifts until the last second—it all comes through us eventually.

We get paid per route, per drop, and sometimes based on turnaround time back to The Pitt. On top of that, we keep one hundred percent of our tips, which means every once in a while some guilt-ridden suburban mom hands me twenty bucks because I carried her oversized Chewy box up three flights of stairs.

It’s exhausting work. But compared to drowning in student debt with no spending money?

Yeah. I’ll take the packages.

Back at The Pitt, my boss Morgan had aspirations of becoming an air traffic controller. Unfortunately, she lost out on the gig because she has epilepsy. Which, honestly, feels like one of those rare hiring decisions that probably makes sense. I mean, how do you explain two planes colliding at thirty thousand feet because your brain decides to throw a surprise electrical storm at the worst possible moment?

Morgan took the rejection personally for about three months, according to everyone who works here, and then redirected the obsession somewhere else.

So now she runs The Pitt like it’s air traffic control.

Except instead of directing planes, she’s standing in front of three computer monitors with Google Maps open, rerouting drivers through downtown traffic like lives depend on it.

The warehouse itself is chaos in the most organized way possible. Rolling carts squeak across stained concrete. Tape guns snap shut like tiny gunshots.

Morgan thrives in it.

When I get back from my last drop, sweaty, tired, and running entirely on caffeine and spite, she hands me another package before I can even drop off the signature slip.

“What’s this?” I ask.

“What does it look like?”

“That was supposed to be my last one,” I say, already exasperated.

“Well, Nolan, you drew the short straw,” she shrugs, “besides, it’s at the Fremont.”

That changes things.

I snatch the package from her hands so fast she actually smirks.

“That’s what I thought,” she says, turning on her heel. “You can go home after. Just bring the signature slip back first thing tomorrow.”

“Deal!” I yell after her.

The Fremont is the most expensive hotel in town.

Think upscale, but worse.

The kind of place where the lobby smells faintly like fresh flowers and generational wealth.

Any delivery at the Fremont is always a guaranteed huge tip.

I tuck the package into my messenger bag and head to my car.

It’s late, and traffic finally stops acting like a blood sport. Since I’m in no hurry to get back to The Pitt, I can actually drive like a functioning member of society for once.

On the clock, though?

We drive like we’re playing Mario Kart.

The Fremont has designated parking out front for delivery drivers, which tells you exactly how often rich people order things they forgot they needed.

With my placard in place, I shut off the engine and head toward the front entrance. It’s one of those giant revolving glass doors that always makes me think of a Final Destination movie. I swear those things are just giant human blenders waiting for the right moment.

I have this irrational fear that one day I’m going to trip, get stuck, and die in front of a family from Connecticut trying to check in for a wedding.

So I take the side door instead.

The lobby is quieter this late at night, but not empty.

“Package for Michael Drum,” I say, handing the receptionist the signature slip.

She glances down at the name, fingers moving quickly across her keyboard.

“P4-47,” she says. “Fourth penthouse level. Top floor. The bellhop will let you up.”

“Thanks,” I say, taking the slip back.

The penthouse.

This is definite tip territory.

I head toward the elevator where an older bellhop in white gloves is already waiting. He pulls a small brass key from his pocket and inserts it into a panel beside the controls. Once he turns it, a hidden row of buttons lights up—P1 through P4.

Fancy.

“Will someone let me back down?” I ask.

“Nope. You only need the key to go up,” he says.

That feels mildly concerning.

When the doors finally open, it’s not a hallway waiting on the other side.

It’s a foyer.

A whole-ass foyer. This dude’s front door is a fucking elevator. Fire code be damned.

The lighting is low and warm, soft enough that it almost feels residential instead of hotel-like. Somewhere in the distance, I’m pretty sure I hear Vivaldi’s Four Seasons drifting through hidden speakers.

I step farther inside.

There’s nobody here. Just the music, the lights, and the kind of silence expensive places thrive on.

There’s a table in the middle of the foyer where I could technically leave the package, but he needs to sign for it. Plus, if I leave it unattended, there goes my tip.

Did the receptionist not call ahead?

“Uh, hello?” I ask—to no one and also everyone.

Then I hear a voice. Rough and solid at the same time.

“Back here, if you don’t mind.”

I don’t exactly know where the voice comes from, so I slowly pad across the carpet, scanning for clues like I’m in the world’s most expensive murder mystery.

I round a corner and almost stop dead.

The wall—well, there is no wall.

It’s a window.

One massive floor-to-ceiling sheet of glass stretching the entire length of the room. The city sprawls beneath it in glittering layers of light and distance, headlights threading through downtown streets like veins. This is what means to look down on the little people.

It’s incredible.

And deeply unsettling.

Somewhere farther down, I spot a partially open door with soft amber light spilling into the hallway.

I make my way toward it slowly.

I don’t know what’s behind door number one, but I know enough true crime statistics to know I shouldn’t blindly walk into rich strangers’ rooms after midnight.

“I have a package,” I say tentatively.

A beat passes.

“You can leave it in here,” he says.

What I see next would probably scar a normal person for life.

But honestly, I already got scarred for life in second grade when AJ Wright told everyone I peed my pants on the playground. I still haven’t fully recovered socially.

But back to this crime scene.

There’s a naked man lying face down on a massage table while another man—who looks exactly like Mr. Clean is giving him a massage.

Except commercial Mr. Clean wears white.

This Mr. Clean is butt-ass naked.

Like completely.

He glances up at me briefly, a lazy smile creasing his face before he goes right back to work like naked professional massages are the most normal thing in the world.

Around his waist is what looks like a little leather holster carrying bottles of massage oil, which somehow makes the nudity feel more official instead of less weird. Every few seconds he grabs one-handed squirts of oil while using the full length of his forearm to work into the muscles of the man lying beneath him.

The guy on the table lets out a low groan as Mr. Clean drags an elbow down the thick muscles bordering his spine.

Wait. I know this one. I pause for a second, mentally flipping through anatomy flashcards. Right.

Iliocostalis lumborum.

God, I hate that I know that.

The man on the table is huge.

Not bodybuilder huge. More like the kind of size that comes from expensive personal trainers, genetics, and a personal chef. He’s broad through the shoulders, thick through the chest, with a full head of dark hair streaked lightly at the temples. Everything about him looks annoyingly proportional for a man his size.

“So you got a package for Daddy?”

Did he really just say that?

I mean, I’m not mad about it, but who says that to complete strangers?

Oh right.

Rich people.

“Well, if Daddy’s name is Michael Drum,” I say.

“Ooh, he’s got some sass,” he replies.

Damn right I’ve got some sass.

“Eric.” It sounds like a question, but somehow also a command. “You mind?”

“Sure, Daddy,” says Mr. Clean, stepping back from the table.

Oh.

So that’s a thing.

Mr. Clean grabs a pile of neatly folded clothes from a nearby chair.

And listen, I’m not trying to stare. But there are only so many places your eyes can go when a naked man walks across a room.

Some people are growers. Some people are showers.

Mr. Clean?

Definitely a shower.

Drum pushes himself upright from the massage table and finally turns fully toward me.

Jesus Christ.

And unfortunately, my eyes immediately betray me.

Because his cock just hangs there.

I thought Mr. Clean was packing.

Drum puts him to shame.

He reaches for what I can only assume is the smallest towel available anywhere in the continental United States and wraps it low around his waist.

Too late.

I’m already blushing.

“Well, you’re cute,” he says casually, like this is a completely normal interaction to be having while mostly naked in a penthouse spa room, “what’’s your name?”

Do I say thanks?

I mean, I want to.

Partially because he’s hot.

Partially because maybe it leads to a bigger tip.

“Um… thanks, my name is Nolan,” I say.

“Don’t be shy, Nolan” he says, stepping closer. “Daddy likes what he sees.”

Usually I’d be annoyed by someone referring to themselves in the third person.

But for some reason, I’m significantly more turned on than annoyed.

Which feels like important information about myself that I absolutely did not need tonight.

“”I’m not entirely sure I know what that means,” I say coyly.

“What if I have a package I need taken care of?”

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