Chapter 19
Nineteen
Policy of Truth
Spencer
Stepping out of the rideshare and onto the polished curb, the evening air hits my face as the car pulls away behind me. The hotel is sleek, modern, and expensive. At least it's high-class debauchery. I roll my shoulders once, then head inside.
A quick nod to the front desk clerk. Another to the concierge.
Nothing to see here. I'm definitely not going to a random stranger's room for illicit sex.
I move straight to the bank of elevators, catching one just as a small group steps off.
I slip inside, turn, and press the third-floor button more times than necessary.
The doors finally slide shut, and I exhale through my nose, jaw tensed as the elevator hums upward.
This is fine. Simple. In. Out. Done.
Then why do I feel like I’m doing something bad?
The doors open to the third floor with a soft chime, and I step out, glancing at the directional sign before heading left.
Room numbers tick by. 308. 309. 310. I stop in front of 311, take a breath, and tap lightly.
But the door shifts under my knuckles. It's already ajar with the latch flipped to keep it from fully closing.
Pushing the door open, I take two steps inside. And then-I stop. Everything in me goes still.
Because Jesus Christ. The sight in front of me…
A man on the bed. On all fours. That same jockstrap. That same perfect, full ass I saw in the photo. Even better in person. Framed perfectly. There's a plug-pink, glittering, catching the light with every subtle shift of his body.
My mouth is suddenly dry and heat floods low in my gut, immediate and sharp. But beneath the immediate lust, there's something else. Something that's been there since I first read the profile. Familiarity. It claws up the back of my neck, raising the hairs there as I stare.
The guy shifts. Wiggles his hips slightly. That ass is really something. But those lower back dimples…
My breath catches.
No. No fucking way.
My eyes snap away, scanning the room, looking for proof I'm wrong. They land on the couch. On a bag. A gym bag I've seen dozens of times.
My stomach drops. “Ryan Michael Buterbaugh.”
The name rips out of me, sharp and disbelieving.
Chaos explodes. The suspect on the bed jerks, scrambling, completely disoriented.
He stumbles off the mattress, hands flailing blindly as he tries to get his bearings.
He hits a chair and curses, and stumbles again—straight into the curtains.
There's a tangle of limbs and fabric, a muffled sound of frustration, and then he goes down.
Hard. Somewhere in the mess, the plug dislodges, hitting the floor with a thud as he ends up sitting there, slumped and defeated.
I just stare. My brain is processing and trying to catch up.
A knock sounds behind me and I turn sharply. The door swings open further, and another guy steps in. He's all lean muscle, tattoos, undeniably attractive.
My mouth suddenly remembers how to function. “No.” I straighten, stepping into his path, my voice cutting through the room. “Leave.”
My tone leaves no room for interpretation. He pauses, reading the tone, then lifts his hands slightly and backs out without argument. The door shuts. I step forward, flip the latch properly this time, and lock it. A heavy silence settles. I turn back.
Ryan is still on the floor. Still wearing that ridiculous ski mask.
I cross the room in a few strides and grab it, yanking it off.
And there's my confirmation. It's definitely him.
Green eyes staring up at me—wide, bright, full of too many things at once.
Fear. Defiance. Confusion. But also, something unsettling: shame.
My chest squeezes. No. That doesn't sit right. I can work with everything else in that look. But not that. He should never feel shame.
When I don't say anything right away, his gaze drops, falling to the floor. I exhale slowly, then crouch slightly, gripping his chin between my thumb and forefinger, lifting his face back up. “Hey.” My voice is quieter now. “What are you doing here, Ryan?”
He throws his arms out with dramatic flair. “I'm here for knitting club. What does it look like?”
A short breath escapes me—half laugh, half disbelief-as I release his chin. “Why?” I ask, more pointed this time. “Why are you here?”
Ryan shifts, annoyance creeping into his expression. “Again,” he says, “pretty obvious, Spence.”
I wet my lip, shaking my head slightly. “That's not what I mean. I'm asking how you go from straight boy to… this?”
He scoffs, still on his knees in front of me. “For a smart lawyer, you're kinda slow, huh?”
I tilt my head, watching him, until he huffs out a breath, then says it plainly. “I'm not straight.” The words land heavy between us. “I never have been,” he continues. “Not even a little. I'm not bi either, Spence. I'm one hundred percent a lover of the dick.”
I see that flicker of shame in his expression again. “The version everyone else sees?” he adds more quietly. “That's fake.” My chest twists and my head swims. This isn't some experiment. This isn't curiosity. He wasn't baiting me.
He's still on his knees and I drag a hand through his hair without thinking. He inhales sharply at the contact. “Why didn't you tell me?” I ask, softer now.
His eyes lift to mine again, glassy. “I couldn't,” he says. “No one knows. I can't risk it.”
I glance around the room, taking in the setup again. “And this is the solution?”
He chews on his lip. “Yes. And no. I abstain from getting dicked as long as I can. But when I can't take it any longer” he shrugs, “I keep it anonymous. Usually just one person.”
Ryan's gaze flickers. “Tonight's just…” He trails off. “It's my birthday,” he finishes quietly. He gives a small, helpless shrug. “And I've never had more than one dick at a time. Also, I'm so wound up I feel like I'm going to lose it.”
Warmth flares low in my gut. Unwelcome and dangerous. Ryan sighs, “There's also someone I've been throwing myself at for months. But he doesn't want me, so—”
“Why didn't you tell me it was your birthday?” I interrupt him because I can't deal with the thought that he's genuinely wanted me all this time.
His gaze drops again. “What would've been the point?” he mutters. “I wanted to get fucked and you made it pretty clear you weren't interested.”
That lands. I step closer without thinking, my hand combing through his hair again-this time gripping firm enough to tilt his head back so he has to look at me.
“Ryan,” I say, my voice lower now. “Interest was never the issue.” His throat works as his eyes darken.
And that's all it takes. Because whatever restraint I've been holding onto cracks clean through.
I release his hair, taking a step back, dragging a hand over my mouth as I try to regain some control.
“Get up,” I demand.
He hesitates for half a second, then pushes himself up from the floor, steadying himself. He moves close. Too close.
“This?” I gesture vaguely around the room. “This isn't happening.”
Over my dead fucking body.
His lips twitch slightly, but he doesn't argue.
“Listen,” I continue, forcing my voice back into something resembling calm. “I don't do complicated. I don't do messy.”
His gaze lingers on mine, waiting.
“So, if we do this,” I add, “it's simple. It stays simple. I have three rules, Ryan. No kissing. No sleepovers. And absolutely, positively no catching feelings.”
A beat passes.
“Understood?” I ask.
Ryan studies me for a second longer, then nods.
And even as he does-even as I tell myself this is controlled, contained, nothing more than a release-something in my gut tells me I'm already in deeper than I should be.
“Also, from here on out, we tell each other the truth. I understand why you need to be guarded, but you can trust me, okay? This is a private arrangement, Ryan. We both get what we need. No complications.”
His eyelashes flutter and he nods again.
I shrug out of my suit jacket first, letting it slide off my shoulders before laying it carefully on the bed beside us.
The normalcy of the motion feels almost absurd in contrast to everything else happening in this room.
I loosen my tie next, pulling it free and setting it neatly on top of the jacket, then undo the top two buttons of my shirt, letting it open just enough to breathe.
And when I glance down, Ryan is staring.
Not at my face. His eyes are fixed on my bulge, tongue dragging slowly across his bottom lip.
I don't think he even realizes he's doing it.
Fuck. How did I not notice his genuine hunger for me?
Something low and dangerous curls in my gut. I manage a quiet, disbelieving laugh.
“Well,” I murmur, “what are you waiting for?”
His hands move, swift and eager, going for my belt, loosening the leather in the metal square of the buckle. I catch his wrist, and he freezes, looking up at me, startled.
“Not like that,” I tell him.
Confusion flickers in his eyes.
“With your teeth. Hands behind your back,” I clarify.
His expression shifts—a little relief, a little excitement—and he draws in a quick breath before placing his hands behind his back, exactly as instructed. Obedient.
Ryan shuffles closer on his knees, leaning in, and takes hold of the loosened bit of belt with his mouth. The movement is slow and deliberate, but there's hunger in his eyes.
My grip tightens at my side.
This is a bad idea. A really bad idea.
He works the belt free, the metal sliding loose.
The buckle dangles free and Ryan sucks it into his mouth seductively.
He takes it in his mouth past the metal and bites down on the leather.
Then he slowly slides the belt from all the loops on my suit pants and lets it fall away.
The sound of it hitting the floor feels like some kind of finality.
This is happening. Everything feels louder. Sharper. More intense. And now that I have Ryan Buterbaugh on his knees… you couldn't stop me if you tried.
Ryan moves closer, his mouth intent on getting ahold of my pant button, but I stop him again-my hand finding his hair, holding him just shy of the next step. “Not the Prada,” I warn. “You can use your hands for that.”
His eyes flick up to mine. They're darker now, more focused. There's something in that look I didn't expect. Didn't notice before. It hits me that I may have completely misread him.
Ryan leisurely unzips my pants and gawks at the bulge in my black trunks. He licks his lips again as he slides the suit pants over my ass. I step out of them, and Ryan grabs the band of my trunks but I stop him once more, lifting my leg and placing my foot on his shoulder to hold him in place.
I gesture to my pants on the floor and command, “Fold them and place them nicely on the bed first. Then you can have my cock.”
A soft groan escapes Ryan's full lips. I take that as obedience and remove my foot from his shoulder.
I watch as he neatly folds and sets my pants on the bed.
Then he turns around and grips the band of my trunks.
He slowly tortures me, dragging my trunks down at a glacial pace to reveal my already half-hard dick.
Finally, Ryan yanks the last bit of fabric down and my cock flops out and bobs, heavy and growing. His eyes widen, almost comically, and he looks up at me with the biggest grin and says, “Happy girthday to me.”
I shake my head, exhaling through my nose, trying to keep my composure. “Think you can handle it?” I ask, raising a brow.
He doesn't answer. Not with words. He just leans in, closing the distance, his focus absolute. And without warning, he swallows my dick whole. No teasing the head. No tentative licks or half sucks. Just straight to the back of his throat on the first go.
I suck in a sharp breath, my hands instinctively dropping to his shoulders to steady myself. I glance down. That’s a mistake. He's looking up at me, eyes bright. A little unguarded. A little unhinged.
“Jesus,” I groan under my breath.
I swallow, my grip tightening slightly before I force myself to loosen it, to pull back just enough to think. To breathe.
Because those pretty eyes… they're going to be my undoing if I'm not careful.