Chapter 4
Olivier
The Chainsaw’s air is thick with beer, sweat, and the kind of easy camaraderie that only comes from men who swing hammers and shift heavy metal for a living.
And I Goddamn love it.
I’ve been sitting across from Danny for the better part of an hour, and every minute has been a delicious form of torture. He knows who’s in charge and hates it and loves it in equal measure.
Danny’s massive—six-five, maybe six-six, with shoulders that could block out the sun—and yet he fidgets like a schoolboy when I lean in and ask him direct questions.
His cheeks go pink every time I hold his gaze a second too long.
His voice drops to something soft and uncertain when he answers.
And when I deliberately lower my own voice, letting a hint of command slip in, his eyes widen and his Adam’s apple bobs like he’s swallowing down something far more dangerous than beer.
Little.
He’s a Little. I’d bet my Michelin star on it.
The boy is practically radiating Little vibes. The shy glances, the way he grips his glass like it’s a juice box, the nervous little laugh when the crew teases him. And God, the way he blushed when I called him “boy” earlier. My cock twitched so hard I had to shift on the stool.
The crew’s getting restless now, pitchers running dry, Mikey and Taylor already arguing over who’s buying the next round somewhere else. Xander claps his hands together like a coach calling an end to practice.
“Alright, boys. One more spot before we call it a night,” Xander says. “There’s a place a few blocks down. O’Malley’s I think Danny said. Live band tonight. Let’s move.”
Everyone starts grabbing coats and tossing cash on the bar for tips. Danny stands, towering over the table, and I rise too. I’m not nearly as tall as any of them, but I don’t need height. I’ve got presence, and I’m not afraid to use it.
I step close to Danny—so close he has to look down to meet my eyes. The noise of the bar fades a little around us.
“You heading out with them?” I ask, voice low.
He nods, swallowing. “Y-yeah. Just one more drink, probably.”
I let my gaze linger, deliberate. “Behave yourself, Danny.”
His lips part. A soft exhale. His strong chest looks fit to burst from out of his fitted t-shirt.
I lean in another inch.
“This is my town,” I say. “Word travels fast. If I hear about any bad behavior—any at all—there will be trouble. And with trouble comes consequences. Understood?”
The flush starts at Danny’s neck and climbs fast, painting his cheeks crimson. His eyes go wide, pupils blown. He shifts his weight, and I’d bet everything I own that he’s at least semi hard right now.
“Y-yes, sir,” Danny whispers.
Sir.
Fuck.
The word hits me like a shot of whiskey, warm and potent. My cock thickens behind my zipper, and I have to force myself not to reach out and cup that flushed cheek.
I let a slow smile curve my mouth. Time to test the waters further.
“Good,” I murmur. “Because good boys get rewarded.” I pause, watching every micro-expression. “Show up at the restaurant tomorrow around noon. If you’ve been a very good boy tonight, I might just have a lunch box waiting for you. Homemade sandwiches. Olivier Ramsey cookies. Fresh juice. The works.”
His breath catches audibly. The blush deepens to something almost painful. Danny’s eyes dart to the side, then back to me, wide and hopeful and terrified all at once.
“R-really?” he breathes.
I nod once. “Really. But only if you’re good.”
He nods so fast I’m surprised he doesn’t give himself whiplash. “I will be. Promise.”
Goddamn.
The boy is going to kill me.
Xander calls from the door. “Danny! You coming or what?”
Danny startles, then shoots me one last look—equal parts longing and nerves—before hurrying after the crew. I watch him go, broad back disappearing into the crowd, and I have to adjust myself discreetly.
I stay another minute, finishing the last of my drink, letting the cool glass ground me.
Then I head out into the cold night air.
The crew’s already a block ahead, their laughter echoing down the street.
Danny glances back once. I lift a hand in farewell.
He blushes again—even from this distance I can see it—and then disappears around the corner with the others.
Perfect.
I walk the few blocks back to the restaurant, hands in my pockets, mind racing. The streets are quiet now, frost already glittering on the sidewalks. My breath clouds in front of me.
Inside, the place is winding down. The last tables are finishing dessert, the kitchen nearly spotless as Antonio and the others get on with things. Lazlo’s at the host stand, tallying the night’s receipts. He looks up when I walk in.
“Chef. Thought you’d be out later than this.”
I shrug, leaning against the bar. “Go home, Lazlo. I’ll lock up.”
He raises an eyebrow but starts gathering his things. “So. How was the dive bar? And more importantly… how was the mountain of muscle you followed there?”
I snort. “His name’s Danny. And there’s… potential.”
Lazlo grins, sliding into his coat. “Potential. Right. That why you came back with that look on your face?”
I roll my eyes, but I can’t hide the smile. “He’s a Little,” I say. “I’m almost certain. Blushed like a virgin bride every time I pushed a button.”
Lazlo laughs softly. “And you pushed all of them, I assume?”
“Most,” I admit. “Told him to behave tonight or there’d be trouble. Then dangled a lunch box reward if he’s good.”
Lazlo whistles low. “You cruel sonofagun. You know he’s probably halfway to Little space right now, trying not to bounce off the walls.”
I chuckle, but the humor fades quickly. I rub the back of my neck.
“Thing is… they’re only here for their stage of the build,” I say. “Couple months, maybe less. Then they’re gone. Back to the coast.”
Lazlo’s expression softens.
He’s known me long enough to hear what I’m not saying.
“Olivier. You can’t keep waiting for the perfect situation to fall into your lap,” Lazlo sighs. “The perfect boy who lives around the corner, has a nine-to-five, and can handle your work schedule. That boy doesn’t exist.”
“I know,” I say quietly.
“Do you?” Lazlo presses. “Because you’ve been single for years, waiting for everything to line up just right. And yeah, you’ve been hurt before. We all have. But this one… he’s got you thinking like this after one night. That means something.”
I exhale, long and slow. “Long distance is impossible with my hours. You know that. I’m here until two, three in the morning most nights. Up at ten if I’m lucky. When would we even see each other?”
“You’d figure it out if he mattered enough,” Lazlo says simply. “And if he doesn’t… then you enjoy the time you have and let it be what it is. But don’t close the door before you’ve even opened it.”
I nod, but inside I’m conflicted.
The last boy I let in—years ago—bailed the moment my schedule became too much. Said he felt like a side dish, never the main course. It gutted me. I threw myself into the restaurant even harder after that. Built walls. Kept things casual.
Danny doesn’t feel casual.
He feels like the kind of boy I could fall for. Hard.
Lazlo claps me on the shoulder. “Go home, chef. Get some rest. And for God’s sake, at least fantasize about him tonight. You look like you’re about to explode.”
I laugh despite myself. “Get out of here, you old perv.”
Lazlo winks and heads out, the door chiming softly behind him. Antonio and the rest of the staff leave too, each and every one of them having put in another incredible shift.
“Great work team,” I holler, holding my hands up in praise as they all bid me goodnight. “Back for another one tomorrow. We go again!”
“Yes, Chef!” they all roar in unison as they depart.
I lock up, turn off the lights, and stand in the quiet dining room for a long moment. The tables are bare, chairs tucked in, the faint scent of thyme and garlic still lingering.
Tomorrow Danny might show up for that lunch box.
Or he might not.
Either way, Lazlo’s right about one thing—I’m going to be thinking about him all night.
I head upstairs to my penthouse apartment above the restaurant, the familiar creak of the steps under my feet. The place is small, sleek, and all mine: exposed brick, big windows overlooking the street, a king bed I rarely share and a roof terrace to die for.
I strip off my shirt, kick off my shoes, and head to the shower. The hot water hits my shoulders, and I brace one hand against the tile, letting my head hang.
“Danny…” I mutter.
And just like that, the fantasy starts.
Danny, on his knees in my kitchen after hours. Those massive shoulders bare, head bowed, waiting for instruction. His big, strong butt is on display too, tanned and perfectly round.
I slip into the fantasy with ease, walking around my kneeling Little, his cock standing to attention, thick and veiny as I eye it up like a prime cut of beef.
“Good boy,” I murmur, tipping his chin up so he has to meet my eyes. “You behaved tonight?”
“Yes, Daddy.” Soft, breathy. Needy.
I groan under my breath as my shower gel-covered hand wraps around my cock, already hard and aching from the mere thought of a naked Danny presenting himself for me, his Daddy.
I picture tormenting him slowly—touching and teasing inch after inch of thick muscle. Kissing down his chest, tasting salt and skin. Watching him tremble when I mouth over his nipples.
He’d be so responsive. Every touch would make him gasp, make him arch. I’d work him open slow, fingers slick, whispering praise the whole time.
“You’re doing so well, baby boy. Taking Daddy’s fingers like you were made for it.”
He’d whimper, push back, beg for more. I’d lube my fingers all the way to the knuckles, guide the boy firmly but with enough mischief to make him giggle nervously as he began to bounce.
And when I finally slide all the way inside him… damn.
He’d be tight, hot, overwhelming. I’d set a slow, punishing rhythm, one hand on his hip, the other tangled in his hair, pulling just enough to make him moan.
“Please, Daddy…harder—”
I stroke myself faster, water pounding down my back, breath coming in harsh pants.
I imagine flipping him over, spreading those thick thighs, watching his face as I drive into him. His eyes glassy, mouth open, completely undone.
“Come for me, boy,” I’d growl. “Come for Daddy without a hand on you.”
And he would—shaking, crying out, clenching around me so perfectly I’d follow right after, spilling deep inside him with a long, animalistic groan.
My orgasm hits hard, pleasure ripping through me as I brace against the shower wall, stroking through the aftershocks until I’m spent and shaking.
I rest my forehead against the cool tile, breathing hard.
Fuck.
If the fantasy is this good, the reality might actually kill me.
I finish showering, dry off, and fall into bed naked, sheets cool against my skin.
Tomorrow.
Tomorrow I’ll see if he shows up.
And if he does?
Well.
We’ll see how good a boy he really is…