Chapter 3 - Elliot
ELLIOT
Islam the door to my apartment, yanking off my tie like it’s strangling me. Goddamn Julian Frost. His words echo in my head, explicit and invasive, refusing to leave me in peace.
The shower doesn’t help. Neither does the whiskey—two fingers, then four. I pace my living room, hard and aching in my boxers, furious at my cock’s betrayal.
“Fuck this,” I mutter, grabbing my phone.
I’ve always been careful. Disciplined. Theo Winters is the only exception I’ve allowed myself—a fantasy contained because I never act on it.
He’s beautiful in that untamed, artistic way.
His proclivities unabashed, openly gay and living his truth regardless of anyone’s opinion. Safe to admire from a distance.
But Julian? Julian Frost. His name carries weight in Ravenwood—the king of finance, they call him.
Old money wrapped in newer ventures. Investment banking by day, the Blackwood empire's financial architect by night. That cold, calculating bastard with his perfectly tailored suits and knowing smirk? Never gave him a second thought until tonight, until he pinned me with those ice-blue eyes and described in excruciating detail exactly what he’d do to me.
My thumb hovers over Instagram before I redirect to the Purgatory website. Their members’ section has photos from previous events. My password grants access to a world I visit but never fully immerse myself in.
Julian appears in the third gallery. He’s leaning against the bar, dark hair swept back, expression coolly amused as he surveys the room. Another shows him in conversation with Xavier Blackwood, head tilted in that way he has—attentive but slightly condescending.
I scroll further, breath catching at a candid shot. Julian, with his jacket off and sleeves rolled up, revealed forearms corded with lean muscle. His shirt pulls across his chest as he reaches for something.
My hand slides down my stomach, slipping beneath my boxers. I’m already leaking, desperate for relief. I settle onto my couch, letting my mind wander through every intimate detail of what my body craves.
“This doesn’t mean anything,” I tell the empty room.
But as I stroke, it’s not Theo I picture. It’s Julian’s mouth forming those filthy words. Julian’s hands replace mine, his weight pinning me down, taking control, forcing me to admit who I really am.
I grip myself harder, surrendering to the fantasy now consuming me. I imagine Julian pushing me against a wall, his breath hot on my neck. “You know you want this,” he’d whisper, voice confident.
In my mind, his hands are everywhere—sliding down my back, gripping my ass, spreading me open. I imagine him forcing me to bend over, my hands braced against the wall, completely at his mercy.
“Fuck,” I groan, stroking faster.
The Julian in my head drops to his knees behind me. I can almost feel his hands gripping my thighs, his fingertips digging into my flesh. Then his tongue—God, his tongue—pressing against me, circling that sensitive flesh before pushing inside.
My hips buck involuntarily.
Julian’s tongue delves deeper, his hands reaching around to stroke me while he tastes me. In my fantasy, I’m moaning shamelessly, begging for more, all pretense abandoned.
I picture him rising, pressing his clothed body against my naked back. “Tell me what you want, Elliot,” fantasy Julian demands, his cock hard against me.
“Inside me,” I whisper to my empty apartment. “I want you inside me.”
The imaginary Julian laughs, that infuriating, knowing laugh. He takes his time, making me wait, making me beg. Then, finally, pressing into me, stretching me open, claiming me completely.
Sweat slicks my skin as the fantasy builds. Julian’s hands are in my hair, yanking my head back. Julian’s teeth on my shoulder. Julian’s voice in my ear, telling me how good I feel, how he knew all along what I really wanted.
In my fantasy, his pace quickens, his thrusts becoming more demanding. He grips my hips with bruising force, controlling every movement. I’m completely at his mercy, and the thought makes me harder than I’ve ever been.
“You’re taking me so well,” he would purr. “I knew you would.”
My hand strokes frantically now, pre-cum slicking my palm. I’m so close, teetering on the edge, but something’s holding me back. I need—
Then Julian’s voice changes in my head, becoming softer but somehow more commanding. “Look at you,” he would whisper. “Such a good boy for me.”
The words hit me like an electric shock. Good boy. Something inside me shatters.
“Fuck! Oh God, fuck!” I cry out, my back arching off the couch as pleasure rips through me. My entire body tenses, wave after wave of intense release washing over me. I’m vaguely aware I’m making a complete mess, but I can’t stop, can’t control it.
Those two simple words—good boy—echo in my mind as I pump myself through the most powerful orgasm I’ve ever experienced. It’s like Julian found a key to something locked deep inside me, something I never knew existed.
“Jesus Christ,” I pant, collapsing back. My chest heaves as I struggle to catch my breath, my body trembling with aftershocks. My boxers are soaked, sticking to my skin.
I throw an arm over my eyes, reality crashing back. What the fuck just happened? I’ve never come that hard in my life, and all because I imagined Julian Frost—arrogant, infuriating Julian Frost—calling me a good boy.
As the waves of pleasure subside, they’re replaced by an icy wave of shame. My breathing slows, but my heartbeat quickens with panic.
What the fuck is wrong with me?
I yank my soiled boxers off and ball them up in my fist, disgusted with myself, with the evidence of what I just did. What I just imagined. Who I just imagined.
“Fucking pathetic,” I mutter, and the voice in my head isn’t mine—it’s my mother’s. Sharp and clear as if she’s standing right beside me.
“No son of mine is going to be some disgusting faggot. You hear me, Elliot? Men who do that are broken. Diseased.”
I can almost smell her cigarette smoke; see the way her lip would curl when we’d pass two men holding hands on the street. The memory makes me nauseous.
I stumble to the bathroom, tossing my boxers in the hamper before scrubbing my hands with scalding water, as if I could wash away the thoughts along with the physical evidence.
My reflection in the mirror looks haunted—flushed cheeks, wild eyes.
I splash cold water on my face, trying to shock myself back to reality.
This isn’t me. Can’t be me.
Back in my bedroom, I grab my laptop with still-damp hands. My fingers type the URL automatically—a premium porn site I keep a subscription to exactly for moments like this. I click on the first video that appears: some blonde with massive tits riding a muscular guy.
“This is normal,” I whisper, turning up the volume to drown out my thoughts. “This is what I want.”
I force myself to watch as the woman moans dramatically, bouncing up and down. I try to focus on her curves, her breasts, the way she throws her head back in exaggerated pleasure. I need this to work. Need to feel something.
But Julian’s voice still echoes in my head.
“Good boy.”
I slam the laptop shut, my chest tight with panic. It’s getting harder to lie to myself. Harder to deny what my body knows is true.
My phone buzzes on the nightstand, pulling me from my spiral of self-loathing. It’s Mike.
Out with Derek at the Rooftop. Come join? Ladies are looking fine tonight.
I stare at the screen. The thought of putting on my social mask feels impossible right now. I’d have to smile, laugh at their jokes, pretend I’m checking out women while fighting to keep my eyes from drifting toward the bartender or some guy at the next table.
Can’t tonight. Got work to finish for tomorrow’s client meeting.
Mike responds almost immediately.
All work no play, man. Your loss.
I toss my phone aside and collapse back onto my bed. The Hunt is in three days. Just thinking about it makes my stomach clench with a sickening mixture of dread and anticipation.
Julian’s words replay in my head.
“When they’re all claimed by others... men find alternative outlets.”
Fuck. What if neither of us catches one of the women? What if Julian follows through on his threat? The worst part isn’t the fear—it’s the treacherous heat that floods my body at the thought of his hands on me, forcing me to acknowledge what I’ve spent a lifetime denying.
I press the heels of my hands against my eyes until I see stars. I can’t let that happen. Can’t risk being exposed to others or to myself. The humiliation would destroy everything I’ve built.
I need to catch one of the girls. Need to prove to Julian—to myself—that I’m normal. That I’m not what my mother always feared I’d become.
My jaw tightens with resolve. I’ll prepare better than I ever have for the Hunt. Study the targets. I’ll be strategic.
I’ll catch a girl, and Julian will have to find someone else to torment. Someone else whose walls he can tear down with those knowing eyes and that cruel, perfect mouth.