Chapter 18
Eighteen
Missing
Spencer
One thought loops in my head as I stalk from one end of my office to the other…
Why don’t you just ask him?
I know I can be arrogant, but this really takes the cake.
Sure, I know who Ryan Buterbaugh is, but I never once stopped to consider what that means.
That maybe he’s been serious this whole time.
That he was trying to tell me something.
Hinting. Prodding. Opening the door for me to walk through, tell him it’s okay, and that he can trust me enough to say the words.
Because he can’t be the first. It’s too risky.
I hadn’t thought about how much he would lose. But that’s the entire problem, isn’t it? He stands to lose considerably more than Travis Hale, and if history is any indicator of the choices prominent men make when it comes to me… we already know how that plays out.
That is why I don’t simply ask him. I’m afraid of the answer. But now, thanks to my damn mouth, he’s thrown me for a loop. It’s been a few weeks since Ryan walked out of my apartment, and I’ve been a fucking mess.
Me. Spencer Stark. A mess.
The irony almost makes me laugh. Almost. I stop pacing.
My gaze snags on the wardrobe cabinet in the corner and I scoff, knowing damn well what’s inside.
My gym bag—sitting there like some pathetic little hope chest. Just in case.
Just in case Ryan stops by. Sure, I’ve seen him since that day. We’ve worked out three times.
Three.
And every single one of them was… off. Awkward in a way that grates under my skin.
No more slutty little shorts. No more tight tanks.
Now he wears baggy sweats and an even baggier hoodie.
Like he’s trying to disappear. I huff out a gust of frustration.
He’s still hot as fuck. But he’s hiding. From me.
Seems Ryan has given up on me—and why wouldn’t he? I’m not someone people keep long term. This is why I don’t get attached. This is why I don’t do entanglements. I know better. But I let him toe the door open just a crack and look what happened. Still…
I miss him.
The realization lands heavy, unwelcome and sharp. Laying eyes on him three times in as many weeks is not nearly enough. Shoving my hands back into my pockets, my fingers curl into the fabric as I resume pacing as my irritation grows.
Not only have our workout sessions dwindled, but he barely texts me anymore either. I used to be annoyed by it. The constant messages. The relentless energy. Now? He only texts about setting a time to work out.
The worst part? I find myself crawling the walls of my condo with restlessness.
Before the hottest ass I’ve ever seen in a pair of shorts strutted into my life, I had a routine.
Normally, I would be doing work right up until Fucker and I went to bed.
Now I find myself seeking out human interaction.
Can you believe this shit? I started showing up at the diner to eat with Tyler.
I’m pretty sure he’s sick of me already.
I did ask if he’d like to work at THRIVE.
He’s excited and we’ve mapped out some great programs he can run. At least something good came out of it.
Sadly, it has not scratched the itch. I claw at my thighs from inside my pockets, a restless energy buzzing under my skin. It doesn’t help that I’m horny as hell. I didn’t even realize it until Ryan backed off, but I haven’t hooked up with anyone since I first met him seven months ago.
Seven months?
No wonder I’m a mess.
Apparently, his attention—and my hand—have been enough. I kick lightly at the leg of one of my office chairs, irritation bubbling up. That’s the thing about Ryan Buterbaugh, I’m realizing. When his attention is on you, it’s like the sun—warm, consuming, impossible to ignore. But when it’s gone…
I shake my head sharply, cutting the thought off before it can settle. It’s no matter. I’m too young for sunspots anyway. I just need to get laid.
As soon as fucking possible.
An abrupt knock sounds at my door, and before I can respond, it swings open—without invitation because it’s Parker. Parker Campbell is the living definition of things I don’t need to see in the horned-up state I find myself in.
My gaze drags over the impossibly tight tan pants hugging his strong legs and a cornfed ass that should be banned in a professional setting.
A white button-down oxford stretches so tight across his chest, his nipples are popping up for a ‘hello’.
He’s got the two top buttons undone like an invitation to make bad decisions.
And the sucker.
Always with the fucking sucker.
The stick protrudes from the corner of his mouth; his lips wrapped around it in a way that is borderline lewd. Everything about him is flirtatiously intentional. I close my eyes briefly. Okay, I really need to do something about this. Because I’m looking at my intern like he’s a steak dinner.
My intern, for fuck’s sake.
And I’m one oxford button away from risking my entire career. All because an annoying, walking, talking blast of sunshine decided to pull back and leave me… like this. I don’t even know what this is. I had zero intention of ever sleeping with Ryan, so what am I worked up about?
Exhaling, I force my gaze up to my intern’s face. “I thought we talked about you starting to wear undershirts.”
Parker glances down at himself, then back up at me, slow and deliberate. He pulls the sucker out of his mouth, lips parting slightly as he speaks with his barely there Texas drawl. “Well now that would be a waste of workouts, wouldn’t it, Mr. Stark?”
My jaw actually clicks when he pops the sucker back in, then uses his hands to push his chest together, shameless.
“I mean,” he continues, voice teasing, “these are at least a C-cup, right? Why would I rob all the fine folks in this building of the view?” He gestures vaguely toward the office behind him.
I glance past him, and, of course, Dita is turned fully around in her chair, smirking, undoubtedly enjoying the show.
Fantastic.
Fucking. Fantastic.
I round my desk quickly, putting distance between us, because proximity is a problem right now. A serious one. “And I thought we talked about the damn sucker, too, Parker,” I scold, dropping into my chair. He shrugs, completely unbothered, then leans forward, bracing his hands on my desk.
Too close.
Way too close.
His voice drops—low and suggestive. “You’re welcome to replace it with something bigger at any time, Mr. Stark.”
I snap. “That's enough, Parker.” My voice comes out sharper than intended. “What did you come in here for?” He pauses, blinking like he’s genuinely considering it.
Then he smirks, pulls the sucker out, and looks at it.
Then, with deliberate slowness, he runs it along his tongue before closing his lips around it again.
Jesus Christ.
“I forgot,” he says lightly. “Got… distracted.” His grin widens. “I’ll come back ‘round when I remember.”
“No, you won’t. Not today,” I warn, and point to the door.
Parker shrugs, turning toward the door like it’s nothing. He takes a step, stops, shifts his weight, and pops his hip out to emphasize the curve of his ass. He glances back over his shoulder, dragging a hand slowly over his ass and squeezes like he’s checking a melon at the market.
“Out, Parker. Now.”
He gives me one last amused look before slipping out the door and closing it behind him.
Silence crashes back into the room. I sink further into my chair, dragging both hands over my face, pressing into my eyes.
That’s it. I can’t take anymore. I need to do something about this—this restless, sharp, consuming edge under my skin—it’s going to get me in trouble.
Jen and I are not going to be at this firm much longer, but I can’t afford to be cavalier with an intern.
And even though he’s throwing himself at me, I would never feel right about the power dynamic.
Plus, to my great annoyance, Parker is actually a really good intern.
When he’s not actively trying to get in my pants.
I want him to come with us to Anthony’s firm, and that means he stays off limits.
Non-negotiable. I drop my hands and stare up at the ceiling.
I just need to get dick inside a firm, plump ass.
Once. Maybe twice. Enough to take the edge off.
Enough to clear my head. Enough to remind myself I don’t need Ryan Buterbaugh’s attention to function like a normal human being.
Yes, that’s all this is. Just a problem that needs solving.
Nothing more.
I lean forward in my chair, elbows braced on the desk, and reach for my phone.
Just after five. Plenty of time to line something up.
Quick. Easy. Transactional. Exactly what I need.
I swipe it open, tap into a folder labeled Entertainment, and find the DICK’D app.
Profiles flick past as I scroll—torsos, angles, strategically cropped shots.
The usual mix of confidence, horniness, and filtered perfection.
After about a minute, I sigh. Nothing. There’s nothing.
Don’t get me wrong, Phoenix is rich with options.
It’s practically a top’s playground. No shortage of willing bodies, eager energy, and guys who know exactly what they want.
But none of them pique my interest. Not a single one.
Sure, a lot of them are hot. Objectively.
If one of them were standing right in front of me, looking up at me the way Parker just did—yeah, I’d fold. I’m a man in my twenties. I’m not dead.
The problem? None of them make me want to put in effort.
To leave my office. To engage. I’m about to close the app when something catches my eye.
I pause and scroll back. It’s a photo, cropped just above the shoulders.
No face. Anonymous. Not unusual. But the rest of it?
My grip tightens slightly around my phone.
The guy’s lying on a bed, wearing a white jockstrap.
The framing is… intentional. Confident. The kind of confidence that doesn’t need a face to sell the moment.
There’s strength there, too—muscles visible even through the shirt he’s wearing.
He’s solid, athletic, and his back arch game could make the devil weep.
I glance at the headline on his profile.
Anonymous Bottom 4 Group Bang
My brow lifts sharply. Curious, I tap into the profile.
The description loads, and I read through it slowly.
By the time I reach the end, I’m nearly sweating.
“Fuck,” I murmur under my breath. “Why does that sound so hot?” Groups have never really been my thing.
I’ve been to a couple—like I said, that weekend in Palm Springs was wild.
They were okay. Nothing groundbreaking. I find them too impersonal for my taste.
I want the bottoms hopping off my dick to know they’ve just been fucked by Spencer Stark. I need control. Focus. Intensity.
But this? There’s something about the way it’s written.
The edge to it. The fucking need. Maybe something a little reckless and impersonal is exactly what I need right now.
Just something to burn this tension out of me.
I hit the message button and start typing.
The words come easier than they should—confident, deliberate, leaning into a version of myself I haven’t tapped into in weeks.
I read it once. Then again. My finger hesitates over the send button. Then I think about Ryan. About the distance. About the silence. About how much it’s gotten under my skin. I hit send. Hard. Locking my phone, I drop it back onto the desk, and lean back in my chair.
Fifteen seconds.
That’s all it takes before my phone buzzes. Chuckling, I reach for it again, unlocking the screen and opening the notification. Mr. perfect back arch has already replied. I read the message, a slow smile pulling at my mouth. The message is short, eager, and includes an address and a room number.
I type back, asking a couple of questions—more out of habit than hesitation.
The responses come just as fast. Confident and unbothered.
There’s something almost… disarming about it.
“Yeah,” I mutter under my breath. “He’ll do.
” I switch over to my photos, select an ab shot.
Nothing too revealing, just enough to confirm if I match his type.
And send it. Another response almost instantly.
Hot, bro. Eight o’clock. Hyatt. Room 311.
I stare at the screen for a beat, then type back my confirmation.
When the conversation ends, I close the app and lean back in my chair again, staring up at the ceiling.
“Fuck it,” I murmur. The hotel’s close. Practically around the corner.
If I’m not feeling it, I leave. Simple as that.
Hell, maybe a proxy jock bottom is the right medicine for Ryanitis.
Pushing up from my chair, I already feel a shift in my body. Less restless, more directed. A plan. I like plans.
I look down. My dick likes plans too, apparently.