Chapter 4
Theo
Tai takes his duty as shot supplier seriously, delivering a steady stream of rounds to the table with the focus of a man on a mission.
After a few, Dmitri and Eric wave him off and switch to soda.
Neither of them is a heavy drinker, and Dmitri especially has a history of blacking out and losing track of himself in ways none of us want to repeat.
Their untouched shots get handed off to me and Tai.
Our tiny asses are now full of happy juice, and I can confidently say I’m feeling pretty great. I’m loose-limbed and warm all over, and the edges of the world have softened.
“Dante!” I shout, much louder than I intend considering how close he is. He jumps in surprise, turning to me with enormous eyes that make me dissolve into giggles. “Sorry,” I manage, dropping my forehead to his shoulder as his fingers begin to dance lightly along my spine.
After a few blissful seconds of melting into the slide of his hand against my back, he gives me a gentle jiggle. “Yes?”
I lift my face, rubbing my cheek against the fabric of his shirt as I glance up at him. “Yes, what?”
“You said my name,” he reminds me gently. “Shouted it, even.”
I give him a dopey, lopsided smile before everything clicks into place. “Oh, right,” I mumble, digging through the pleasant slosh in my brain to find whatever thought had sparked the outburst. When nothing surfaces, I shrug. “Want to dance?”
“Theo, you know I can’t dance.”
“No, no. Nope. Negatory. I do not know that you can’t dance. That is a lie.” I sit up straighter, almost toppling sideways as I overshoot the motion and have to catch myself on his arm. “What I do know is that you refuse to try. You have the ability.”
“That’s debatable,” he mutters under his breath.
I shake my head vigorously, undeterred. “You can dance! I’ll give you my best white-boy moves.
The sprinkler. The shopping cart. The Dougie!
” I launch into quick demonstrations right there in the booth, but for some strange reason, none of it seems to impress him.
He just stares blankly as I cycle into another round of shopping-cart enthusiasm, accidentally smacking him square in the eye with my elbow.
“Oops,” I say, reaching over to pat his face. “My bad, big guy.”
He blinks at me several times, clearly just needing a moment to process my list of brilliant ideas and not, absolutely not, because I nearly blinded him. “I don’t think the Dougie is a white-boy dance,” he finally says.
“Anything can be a white-boy dance if you do it awkwardly enough,” I point out with perfect, tipsy logic.
He huffs a quiet laugh and says nothing more, because there’s obviously no counterargument to be made against such airtight reasoning.
I tilt my head, push out my bottom lip in an exaggerated pout, and widen my eyes. “But Dante,” I drawl, “it’s my birthday.”
“Damn it,” he mutters.
I latch on to his hesitation. “All I want for my present is for my sweet, grumpy man…”
“I’m not grumpy,” he grumbles very grumpily.
“…for my sweet, stoic man to get out on the dance floor and do the Macarena with me.”
“It’s the Macarena now?”
With an enthusiastic nod, I wrap my arms around his neck and slide smoothly into his lap. “Do you need a demonstration?”
He sucks in a sharp inhale, chest rising against mine, but he doesn’t make a single move to shift me off. “And get punched in both eyes?”
“I’ll be more careful.”
Dante chuckles, letting his hand rest against my waist. “Theo, I’m pretty sure everyone in existence knows the Macarena.”
“Well, that’s not true,” I argue. “My nephew is seven, and I bet he doesn’t.”
“Ah, but are you sure?” he asks, cocking one eyebrow as a slight grin tugs at the corner of his mouth.
“Well, I suppose I can’t be certain,” I mutter. “Damn. You’re a pain in my ass, Dante.”
“Am I now?”
The alcohol has stripped away my inhibition, and I’m as drunk on it as I am the heat of his body pressed against mine. I nod, leaning in until my lips brush the shell of his ear. “Want me to share a secret?”
“Honestly, I’m not sure,” he deadpans, but there’s a tiny hitch in his voice, the sarcasm thinner than usual.
I huff another laugh against his skin. “I’ll tell you, but I want you to beg for it.”
He exhales sharply through his nose, the sound almost a laugh but rougher. His hand on my back tightens by just a fraction, then he speaks with no inflection. “Oh, please, Theo. Please tell me your secret. I’m absolutely dying to find out.”
I narrow my eyes and pull back just far enough to make sure he doesn’t miss the sass pouring from my expression. “We need to work on your begging.”
He smiles again, but it’s slower this time, a little unsteady at the edges, and his gaze drops to my mouth for half a second before flicking back up. I close the distance once more, pressing my lips to his ear so the whisper is barely audible over the club’s throb.
“I have a buttplug named after you.”
He goes completely still beneath me. His hand on my back freezes mid-stroke, palm flattening hard against my spine like he needs the contact to ground himself.
For a long beat he doesn’t move, just lets the words sink in while our faces stay inches apart.
When he finally turns his head to meet my gaze, his dark eyes are wide and pupils blown, surprise warring with something hotter.
His jaw flexes once, twice, before he says, “You have… a buttplug… named after me?”
The question hangs there, half disbelief, half something that makes my own pulse spike. He doesn’t pull away. If anything, his arm around me tightens, drawing me a fraction closer, like the confession has short-circuited whatever careful distance he usually keeps.
“Yes.” I nod for emphasis, emphatic and completely unapologetic.
“Okay…” he drawls, pursing his lips as he nods. “Intuition tells me I’m going to regret this question, but why exactly is this…” He trails off, cheeks already darkening.
“Buttplug,” I supply helpfully.
“Right… why is this… buttplug named after me?” His embarrassment is fucking adorable—cheeks flushed deep, eyes darting away like he can escape the words if he doesn’t look at me.
“I thought you’d never ask! The reason it’s named after you is…
” I pause, glancing over my shoulder. “Sticks!” I shout, making Dmitri startle and shoot me a wild, what-the-hell glance.
“Give me another drum roll, my man.” He rolls his eyes but obliges, drumming a quick, sarcastic rhythm on the table before quirking a brow at the way I’m perched in Dante’s lap.
Ignoring him completely, I turn back around.
“Three reasons. It’s black, and super round instead of tapered.
” I grin at his exhausted stare as I rub my hands over his smooth head.
This late in the day, the tiniest hint of resistance meets my palms from the stubble trying to grow in.
“But mostly because it’s big enough to be a major pain in my ass. ”
He barks a surprised laugh before he can catch it, and I fold myself into his chest, giggling along with him. His arms lands around my back as he hugs me close, and the alcohol swimming in my veins makes me reckless in the best way.
I tilt my face up, licking my lips slowly. “I have it in right now.”
His laughter dies as his eyes snap to mine, pupils blown wide. My hips give a slow, deliberate roll over his lap, grinding just enough to feel him harden beneath me. I draw my lower lip between my teeth, savoring the way his breath stutters. “Whenever I move, it hits that perfect spot inside me.”
“Theo,” he groans, unmistakable tension threading through every syllable.
His cock twitches against me, growing harder with each subtle shift of my hips.
His hands slide down to grip my waist, and his fingers dig in—not pushing me away but holding me there, like he’s fighting every instinct to pull me closer.
“Fuck, I really want to kiss you,” I whisper, rocking slower this time to let him feel exactly how much I mean it. “All the time, but right now the only thing I can think about is your lips on mine. It’s all I want. We would be so good.”
His hands trace slow paths over my spine, and his jaw ticks hard. “We can’t.”
“Dante, please.” I lean in so close there’s barely more than a few molecules separating our lips, my breath mingling with his. “Don’t you want me?”
He closes his eyes and turns his face away. “Of course I do.”
“If you want me, then have me. Take me,” I murmur.
He twists back, his lips brushing mine so lightly I can’t even be sure they touch.
The ghost of contact hits like a spark anyway.
His eyes lock on mine, so close I can only focus on one at a time, dark and stormy and full of everything he won’t let himself say.
He draws a deep, unsteady breath before his hands clamp onto my hips.
For one foolish, heart-stopping second I think he’s finally giving in.
His fingers tighten before he exhales sharply and slides me off his lap. “We’ve been through this, Theo.”
The brat in me surges forward before I can stop it. “Go ahead, remind me one more time. It seems to be your favorite pastime.” I cross my arms over my chest and look away, refusing to let him see how much it stings.
He twists toward me, one hand coming up to grip my chin and forcing me to meet his gaze. “You are too important to me to lose. Everyone knows I’m shit at relationships, and I’d only end up ruining it. The last thing I want is to push you away or hurt you, so I’m not willing to take that risk.”
“You keep saying that you’re no good at relationships.
Over and over, you’ve given me that same fucking excuse, but guess what, Dante?
I don’t know that. I couldn’t possibly know that.
And do you have any idea why?” I jab at his chest with one finger, hard enough to make him feel it.
“Because you…” Jab. “Won’t.” Jab. “Tell me.” Jab. “Why.”
“You are perfect. Anyone would be lucky to have you, and I’m… I’m nothing next to you.” He says it quietly, but the words land like a shout in the space between us.
“You aren’t nothing… you could never be nothing,” I insist. “There isn’t a single thing on this planet that’s more important to me than you. Why can’t you believe that? Have I ever lied to you?”
He swallows roughly and pulls me closer, holding me against his chest. “I can’t be what you need me to be.” The words come out so gently they dissolve the anger I’ve been clinging to, melting it into something sadder.
But no, goddamn it. I want to be mad at him.
“Why can’t I be the judge of that?” I ask, voice cracking just a little. “Why do you get to make those decisions for us both?”
“Because,” he says, pressing a soft kiss to my forehead. “Sometimes you just have to trust that your elders know best.”
And that’s it—my window for this discussion slams shut.
Whenever the conversation edges too close to the bone, he retreats behind humor, lightening the weight until it feels safe again. As much as I want to push, to demand the truth he keeps locked away, I refuse to force his hand. I won’t make him give me something he’s not ready to share.
“Fuck, you are old, aren’t you?” I mutter, smashing my face into his shoulder to hide the sting in my eyes. “I thought I smelled Bengay and mothballs when I sat down.”
That’s a complete lie—he always smells incredible, something spicy and modest, quiet enough that I have to get close to catch it.
“Probably some bland oatmeal in my dentures, too,” he deadpans. “Be careful not to press my Life Alert.”
“Stop saying things that make it harder for me to stay mad at you,” I grumble against his shirt.
“I’m sorry.”
“About what part?”
“All of it,” he whispers, leaning his cheek against the top of my head.
For a full minute we sit like this, wrapped in each other while the booming music of the club pulses around us like a distant heartbeat.
We’re silent in our little bubble, with his arms steady around me and my face tucked against his neck, until it’s burst by an unknown voice cutting through the noise.
“Hey, birthday boy!” My head whips up as the blond from the valet station beams at me and strides over to our table.
“Told you I’d come looking for you.” He nods toward Dante, who has me curled under his arm.
“I’m assuming this is the first of the suitors I have to fight off for a chance to dance with you? ”
Dante stares at the newcomer with absolute blankness, face carefully neutral, but the thick vein pulsing along the side of his neck gives him away. His eyes flicker to mine for the briefest second.
I pour everything I have into that look, trying to communicate that if he’d just claim me right now, I’d never even glance in another man’s direction again. I’d be his, completely, without hesitation.
As it turns out, my telepathy skills are sorely lacking, because he does the exact opposite. Eyes sliding past mine to the blond, Dante says, “Theo and I are only friends. No fighting necessary.”
For a long, frozen moment I stay locked on him, trying to ignore the slow, heavy sink in my chest and the sharp ache blooming behind my ribs from the casual rejection. He never looks back at me. I pry myself free from his side, feeling every inch of separation.
My attention shifts to the valet with forced brightness. “I never caught your name.”
“Jesse. And unless you want me to keep calling you Birthday Boy…”
“Theo,” I say, forcing a grin that feels too tight across my face. He returns it easily, like he’s never known anything but confidence.
I take his outstretched hand and slide out of the booth to stand beside him.
He towers over me, an inch or two taller than Dante and much leaner, with a frame that’s long and relaxed.
His hair is a shade of blond that looks like a sunlit field of wheat, and is pulled into a loose bun.
A few strands slip free to frame his face in that perfect mix of carefree and controlled chaos.
Despite the wary stares from my bandmates, Jesse remains completely unfazed, keeping his attention on me as our fingers lace. “Well, what do you say, Theo? Care to dance?”
The way he says my name is pure sin—smooth, low, and dangerous in the best way.
I squeeze his hand once, offer him a smile that’s almost convincing, and nod. “I’d love to dance, Jesse.” And with that, I let him lead me onto the floor, eyes fixed straight ahead and absolutely refusing to look behind me.