Chapter 4
LEANDER
Itoss my keys onto the counter and sink down onto the edge of the couch, my muscles aching from practice and the bar and—most of all—from trying too hard to keep everything together. I press my palms into my knees and exhale, but it doesn’t ease the coil in my chest.
The silence presses in, heavier than the noise of the bar, heavier than the laughter of my teammates. I should be relieved—I’ve been craving silence all night—but instead it makes me restless. I don’t know what to do with myself when everything slows down.
Phoenix.
His name alone tightens my throat. I can still feel him—the weight of his hand on my shoulder, the casual slide down my arm, the way his fingers lingered against my thigh under the table. Even now, hours later, the memory sparks across my nerves like live current. My skin burns where he touched me.
I hated it.
I wanted more.
Both truths sit there, locked together, pulling me apart.
God help me, I got hard sitting next to him. In the middle of everything—the laughter, the music, the stench of beer—my body betrayed me. The second his hand stayed there too long, warmth pooling under his touch, I felt myself react. And so did he.
The shame of it hits me fresh now, my stomach twisting as though the whole room had seen.
I shouldn’t want that. I shouldn’t crave the way he looked at me, like I wasn’t as invisible as I’ve worked so hard to be. And yet… some part of me is starving. Starving for something I’ve never let myself reach for.
I drag a hand over my face, trying to smother the heat creeping up my neck. I want to know what it feels like to let someone touch me without bracing for pain. To stop guarding every inch of myself. To surrender, just once, and not be punished for it.
But the second that thought roots itself, the past strikes back.
My chest tightens, breath cutting short.
I don’t even need to close my eyes to see it—my father’s shadow filling the doorway, broad shoulders, that sharp silence before his voice lashed out.
The disappointment etched deep in his face.
His hand clamping down on my arm, fingers like iron, hard enough to bruise.
Stand up straight, boy. You look weak.
The memory shatters over me, sharp and merciless. The sting of a slap across my cheek. The snap of a belt cutting through the air. The weight of his disgust, heavier than the blows.
I’m back in that house, small, trapped, my body not my own. No escape but endurance.
My hands tighten on the couch cushion until my knuckles go white.
I focus on the present—the rough fabric beneath my palms, the low hum of the refrigerator, the muted city noise beyond the window.
But it takes too long to come back. Too long to remind myself that I’m here, in my own apartment, not there. Not his.
My stomach knots with a bitter, familiar truth: I don’t know the difference anymore. I don’t know where the line is between being wanted and being controlled. Between intimacy and danger. Even Phoenix’s touch—gentle, teasing, deliberate—feels like both at once. And that terrifies me.
I lean back against the couch, staring at the ceiling, chest heaving. The room feels small, too close. Phoenix’s face flashes through my mind again—his smirk, his eyes, the heat radiating off him when he leaned too close. My body remembers before my mind can argue.
I hate that I want it.
I hate that I’m afraid of it.
The two truths grind against each other until I feel raw. On one hand, Phoenix’s touch sparks something alive in me, something I’ve buried so deep I almost forgot it was there.
On the other, the shadow of my father looms every time I let myself imagine giving in. Every time I let myself picture Phoenix’s hand sliding higher on my thigh, his lips brushing my ear.
I want to believe I’m not broken. That I can want someone, want a man, and not drown in the past. But the moment I start to, I hear that voice again. Weak. Wrong. Disgusting.
My fists clench. My throat burns. I feel fourteen again, standing in that room, humiliated, stripped down by words and violence until I thought maybe he was right.
I swallow hard, forcing myself upright. My apartment feels suffocating, but it’s mine. No one can walk in here. No one can touch me unless I let them. I repeat it like a mantra, trying to make it stick.
I close my eyes, forcing my breath slow, but Phoenix is there behind my lids—his mouth curling, his eyes locked on mine, his hand daring me to respond. I should push him away, should lock this down before it gets worse. Before I get reckless.
And yet, under the shame, under the fear, I feel it. That small, dangerous ember that wants more.
I get up, slightly stumbling to the fridge to grab a beer, hoping it’ll drown out the memory of Phoenix’s touch. I down it, wishing I had something harder than this.
My phone buzzes on the counter. I pick it up expecting a text from Silas or Jeremy but it’s a message from an unknown number.
I open it and almost drop my phone on the tile. It’s a picture of a guy’s torso, shredded hard abs covered in cum. A cybersygilism tattoo peeps from the bottom of the picture on his hip. The caption reads, See what you do to me?
My body freezes. My fingers clench the beer bottle trying to let the cold sink into my feverishly hot skin.
I know that fucking tattoo. I’ve seen a flash of it every day for the past month. Phoenix.
How am I supposed to respond to something like this? Seems like you need a shower?
But my eyes catch every etch of muscle under his skin. The way his hip bones slope out of the frame makes my mouth water.
I should just ignore it. Just say wrong number and call it a night.
My phone buzzes in my hand. Another message comes in.
Your read reciepts are on, Leander.
...
Taking a moment for yourself? Do you want more?
Heat flushes my cheeks as I stalk over to the couch and angrily reply.
Fuck off.
He replies almost immediately.
I’m trying.
...
It’d be easier if I could see you.
My cock twitches in my pants. This can’t be happening.
You’re drunk.
And you’re not?
Tell me you’re not turned on and I’ll leave you be.
But my hand is already adjusting myself, trying to relieve any pressure. Fuck, I want to see that picture again. I want to drag my tongue over his skin and lick him clean.
Phoenix is impatient.
Taking a long time to reply again.
Tell me what you’re doing.
I don’t respond. I physically can’t. I’m frozen at the foot of something frightening and also exciting and I can’t seem to step over the threshold.
My phone rings, the same number flashing on the caller ID.
“What do you want?” My voice is rough and not as threatening as I had hoped I would sound.
“Unzip your pants, Leander.” Phoenix’s voice was low and husky in my ear. He says my name with such hunger I want to moan.
“Phoenix—”
“I’m not going to tell you again.” He pauses, almost sighing the next words. “Pleasure yourself, Lee. I wanna hear you get off.”
For some reason, my hands follow his instructions. I place the phone on speaker and drop it on the couch. My fingers fumble with the button of my jeans.
I shove my briefs down, the head of my cock already purple and leaking from the strain of Phoenix’s voice.
“Spit in your hand,” he instructs.
I follow.
“Grab your cock.”
My hand is slick and warm against my long shaft. I groan from the first pass of my hand.
“Yeah, that’s it,” Phoenix coos. “Now do it hard and rough. I’m not gonna go easy on you.” Amusement touches his voice as my hand pumps with more aggression.
“God, you listen so well, Lee,” he praises. His breath coming in short bursts like he’s also rubbing one out.
The praise makes my dick shudder in my hand wishing it was inside his mouth, his body, his hand.
“Fuck, I can’t stop thinking about how well you drank that beer earlier tonight,” Phoenix groaned. “I’ve already came twice from just thinking about how angry your eyes were. It wasn’t enough, though. I needed you to know about the mess you made.”
I groan, gripping my penis harder until my hips are thrusting into my own hand.
“Don’t you dare come until I say so,” Phoenix growls.
I whimper as I slow my pace down slightly. “Phoenix—”
“Not yet, Lee,” he groans.
I can hear a wet sticky sound slipping from the phone. “Fuck, I need to be inside you. I need to feel you wrapped around me.”
I almost can’t believe he wants me. That he’s pleasuring himself from the thought of me. The thought makes me wild, ravenous. Out of control.
Stars threaten to blind me as my head falls back onto the couch. “Please.”
“Ask again.”
“Please let me come. Please, Phoenix. Please.”
“Now why are you never this sweet to me in person?” He makes a happy sound. “Go ahead. But make a lot of noise while you do it.”
I follow his instructions; my fingers being controlled by his hand. I groan loudly as sticky white cum shoots across my t-shirt. My moans fill the apartment at an almost embarrassing volume.
“Fuck,” Phoenix grunts softly like he didn’t want to miss a single sound I made.
After, I’m done gasping and the phantom touch of his fingers disappears, Phoenix’s low chuckle floats through my living room. “See you Monday, Cameron.”
The line goes dead.
What the fuck did I just do?
The morning comes too fast.
I wake with the sound of his voice still in my head, low and teasing, curling around me like smoke. I lie there staring at the ceiling, sheets tangled around my legs, my body still tense from what I let myself do last night.
What I let him make me do.
I shouldn’t have picked up the phone. I told myself I wouldn’t. I told myself I’d keep him at arm’s length, let his jokes and his boldness slide off me like water. But Phoenix doesn’t slide off. He sticks. He presses. And the worst part is that I let him.