Chapter 11 Theo
THEO
Four days. Long enough for anticipation to build, for curiosity to fester. Long enough for the memory of my body to become both distant and immediate in Victor’s mind.
I haven’t replied to his silence with more messages or calls.
That’s an amateur move—appearing desperate when the game requires patience.
Julian casually mentioned over drinks last night that Victor frequents Rosso on Fridays and always takes the corner booth by the window.
Creatures of habit are so beautifully predictable.
The hostess smiles as I enter, her eyes traveling appreciatively over my charcoal Tom Ford suit. The choice was calculated—understated wealth, nothing flashy. The silk shirt beneath is unbuttoned just enough to hint at the marks that haven’t quite faded from my collarbone.
“Just one today,” I tell her. “I’ll sit at the bar.”
I settle onto a stool, positioning myself with my back to the room.
Visible but not watching. Available but not seeking.
I order a neat whiskey and sip it slowly, checking my phone periodically as though waiting for important business calls rather than monitoring the door through the mirror behind the bar.
The reflection captures everything—the lunchtime crowd of Ravenwood’s professional class, the waitstaff moving efficiently between tables, and eventually, the door swinging open to reveal Victor’s broad frame.
My pulse quickens, but I don’t turn. I keep my posture relaxed, one ankle crossed over my knee, fingers loosely curled around my glass. Let him see me first. Let the recognition hit him unawares.
The bartender asks if I’d like another, and I nod, my voice deliberately pitched to carry just enough. Not obvious, but present in the room. I feel the moment Victor notices me—an almost imperceptible shift in the air, the weight of his gaze settling between my shoulder blades.
I don’t acknowledge it. I accept my fresh drink with a smile for the bartender, take a sip, and return to my phone. It’s all intentional—I’m here, but I’m not waiting for him. I’m not expecting anything. The ball is entirely in Victor’s court.
And now, we wait.
I take another sip of my whiskey, savoring the burn as it slides down my throat.
The bartender slides a menu toward me, and I idly flip it open, pretending to consider lunch options.
The mirror behind the bar gives me the perfect vantage point—Victor’s reflection shows him hesitating just inside the entrance; he’s tense with indecision.
The hostess approaches him, but he waves her off, his eyes fixed on my back. I count to ten in my head before I finally glance casually over my shoulder.
Our eyes lock.
I let a slow smile spread across my face—not the practiced smirk I use at the club, but something warmer, more genuine.
Like honey dripping from a spoon, sweet with just the right amount of thickness.
I hold his gaze for three deliberate seconds, watching my presence land in his eyes, before turning back to my menu.
I don’t need to look up again to know he’s approaching. His presence transforms the air around him—molecules rearranging themselves to accommodate his bulk. The scent of him reaches me first: clean sweat and expensive cologne, trying to mask the raw masculinity underneath.
The stool beside me remains empty, but Victor doesn’t take it. Instead, he plants himself directly at my side, one hand gripping the edge of the bar so tightly his knuckles whiten. He’s close enough that I can feel the heat radiating from his body.
“What the fuck are you doing here?” His voice is rough with something that might be anger but sounds suspiciously like desire.
I take another sip of my whiskey, turning to face Victor. “Simply enjoying a drink. Last I checked, Rosso was open to the public.” I gesture to the space around us with my glass. “Excellent whiskey selection. You have good taste in establishments.”
The muscle in Victor’s jaw twitches—a tell I’m starting to recognize. He looms over me, trying to be intimidating, but I remain relaxed on my stool.
“What a coincidence you’re here,” I continue, my voice low enough that only he can hear. “Though I suppose Ravenwood isn’t that big when you move in certain circles.”
Victor narrows his eyes, glancing around as if checking who might be watching us. “Do you have my watch?” he demands, voice gruff.
I tilt my head slightly, studying him. The watch sits in my inner jacket pocket, where I placed it this morning—just in case. I’d told myself it was merely practical preparation, but bringing it reveals more than I’d intended. I’d been expecting—hoping—to see him.
“Interesting you didn’t respond to my message,” I say instead of answering. “Yet here you are, asking about it in person.”
Victor’s shoulders tense. “I don’t have time for games.”
“No? That’s not the impression I got the other night.” I turn back to my drink, tracing a finger around the rim. “You seemed quite fond of playing then.”
His breath catches, almost imperceptibly. “The watch was my father’s,” he says after a moment. “It’s important to me.”
The vulnerability in his admission shifts something between us. I reach into my jacket and extract the watch—an elegant Rolex with a worn leather band. Nice, but not ostentatious.
I hold the watch between us, feeling its weight—both physical and emotional. I let him get close before drawing it back, just out of reach.
“I could have mailed this to you,” I say, my voice pitched for him alone despite the lunchtime clatter of silverware and conversations surrounding us. “But I thought you might want to see me again. After what happened between us.”
Victor’s eyes dart around the restaurant anxiously.
The businessmen at the nearest table are deep in conversation, waiters weave between tables balancing trays, and the bartender has moved to the other end of the bar.
No one’s paying us any attention, but Victor shifts his weight like he’s ready to flee.
“Nothing happened,” he mutters unconvincingly. “I was drunk.”
I lean in closer, close enough that I can see the flecks of amber in his dark eyes. “Were you drunk when you bent me over Julian’s armchair? When you made me come three times? When you told me what a good boy I was, taking your cock so deep?”
His breathing changes, becoming shallow and quick. The flush spreading up his neck tells me everything his words won’t.
“I haven’t thought about it,” he says, his voice rough. “It was a mistake.”
I laugh softly, the sound intimate between us. “You’re lying, Victor.” I trace my finger over the face of his watch, a casual caress that makes something shift in those dark eyes. “Your body gives you away. Always has.”
He swallows hard. “I’m not—”
“Gay? Bisexual? Interested?” I shrug. “Labels aren’t important. But don’t lie about not thinking about it. I’ve got the fingerprint bruises on my hips to prove how much you enjoyed yourself.”
Victor’s jaw clenches, the muscle flexing beneath his stubbled skin.
Something shifts in his eyes—a crack in the armor he’s desperately trying to maintain.
For a heartbeat, I see the conflict raging inside him, the battle between the man he believes himself to be and the desires he can’t seem to control.
“Fine,” he says, his voice so low I have to lean in to hear him.
“I’ve thought about it.” The admission costs him something—I can see it in the way his shoulders tighten, how his gaze drops momentarily to the floor before snapping back to mine with renewed defiance. “Every fucking night. Happy now?”
The confession sends a ripple of satisfaction through me. Not triumph—that would be too simple. This is something more complex, a recognition of the power struggle between us, and how beautiful Victor looks when he surrenders even this small piece of himself.
“But it will never happen again,” he continues, the words coming out rough-edged, as if scraped against the inside of his throat. “It was a one-time thing. A mistake.”
I don’t contradict him. I’ve learned that with men like Victor, denial is just part of the process. Instead, I watch the pulse thrumming at his throat, the way his fingers flex against the bar’s edge—all the little tells his body offers that contradict his words.
“My watch,” he says, extending his hand, palm up. “I want it now.”
I study his open palm—the calluses from years of fighting, the scrape across his knuckles from a recent bout. Hands that had explored my body so roughly. I drop the watch into his waiting hand, allowing my fingers to brush against his skin for just a moment longer than necessary.
He gasps sharply at the contact. Our fingers brush for only a moment, but electricity crackles between us—undeniable, visceral. His pupils dilate slightly, those dark eyes betraying what his words try so desperately to hide.
“Thanks,” he mutters, immediately breaking eye contact. Victor slides the watch onto his wrist, fastening it securely. “I hope we don’t see each other again.”
The declaration hangs between us, brittle and unconvincing. His voice carries none of the conviction it did when he commanded me to come for him that night, when he whispered filthy praise against my skin.
I don’t react to his statement—no raised eyebrow, no knowing smirk.
I simply watch him adjust the watch on his wrist, his thick fingers surprisingly dexterous with the delicate clasp.
Those same hands that had mapped every inch of my body, that had gripped my hips hard enough to leave marks I’m still tracing with my fingertips days later.
Victor turns abruptly, his broad shoulders tense as he begins to walk away. His steps are measured, deliberate—the careful retreat of a man fighting his own instincts.
“That’s unlikely,” I say, my voice carrying just enough to reach him.
I don’t raise my volume or rush to follow him. I simply take another sip of my whiskey and watch his reflection in the mirror behind the bar. His steps falter for just a heartbeat—nearly imperceptible unless you’re looking for it.
But I am looking. And I see everything.