Chapter 23
Young-gi
Did I really think I was obsessed with Tommy before now? I was a fool. That’s nothing. A drop in the ocean. Now? Yes, this is obsession. Before? A mere curiosity, a mild fixation.
I keep him in my line of sight, turning slightly in my chair as he bounces around the spacious office. We’re in the tower of my legitimate business, and I vividly recall the last time I had him here. The way he revealed a little more of himself, the way he submitted to my demands, to my stare.
But unlike last time, his sketchbook sits untouched on the table Yosef brought in for him, the table I left there since that first time, as if some part of me knew that there was no going back, that I’d have Tommy with me all the time.
Instead of sketching, Tommy is exploring the space–prowling around the conference room, poking at the audio equipment, trying to open locked file cabinets, and rearranging books on the shelf.
Last night, and all day yesterday, he was in a withdrawal-induced coma. It was nearly impossible to get him up, and when I did, he was in a bad mood. But today? He’s acting like a hummingbird in a cage, buzzing around my head.
He couldn’t be more obvious.
Nothing goes untouched in his quest for distraction and attention, not even the giant rug near my desk. He lifts it up, looking under it, then pauses.
I know what he sees–the drain. He looks up at me, and slowly lowers the rug again before brushing it flat. The expression in his eyes… It’s art. A mix of cautious awareness, resigned acceptance, interest, and suspicion. But no fear.
He’s incendiary.
I have to bite back my smile.
Eventually, he runs out of things to mess with, runs out of subtle ideas to get my attention as I type and read over reports, and he presses his hands against my desk, looming over me.
He’s changing tactics, and getting more direct.
And I’m so pleased with him, because this is exactly what I wanted.
When he’s feeling on edge and in need, I want him to turn to me.
“I’m bored.”
And so it begins. “Do you want a book?”
“I wanna leave, this place sucks.”
“You want to leave?” I keep my tone amicable.
He hesitates, suspicious of me. “Yeah.”
My grin is irrepressible, and a little vindictive. “That’s too bad. I’m not done, and you’re staying with me. You’ll have to be patient. I know you can do it. Settle down.”
Tommy shifts his weight, antsy and pushy. “That’s not fair. I’m bored.”
“That’s not your safe word, Tommy,” I remind him. He immediately gets the most adorable scowl on his face, just like every other time I’ve pointed that out. He glares so fiercely, his eyes promising trouble, and I know he’ll deliver.
Bring it on.
My voice is a little deeper, rougher, when I continue. “If you want something other than your sketchbook, tell me now. My calls are starting soon and you’re going to behave.”
He huffs and rolls his eyes before stalking to the window, leaving me without an answer, as if I don’t warrant one. He’s feeling very bratty today. Bratty enough that I think I know exactly what he’s hoping for.
My vicious, bloodthirsty boy wants a spanking.
He said it loud and clear in the kitchen yesterday. He admitted something he can’t take back. He admitted his need.
And I’ll fucking provide.
Of course, I’m not willing to actually hurt him, so rather than hit him harder, I’ll have to change other variables to make sure he feels the sting more than he did last time. I’m looking forward to it.
I watch him stare angstily out the window, frowning, until he finally acknowledges me with a sullen attitude. “How long do we have to stay here?”
“I have three meetings.”
“Ugh.” He groans like I just told him he has to stay for three days instead of three hours. “No. I’m not staying for that shit, I’m leaving.”
Oh? “Tommy, you’ve earned your spanking. Don’t worry about that. But if you keep pushing me, you’re going to get more than you bargained for.”
He freezes, eyes wide, jaw slack. “Wait, what?”
“Are you going to pretend I’m mistaken?” I ask him.
“You use misbehavior as a way to ask for my special, undivided attention. I got the request loud and clear, you haven’t been subtle, and I’ve made time on my calendar.
Tell me I’m wrong now, or sit down at your table and work on your sketchbook until my meetings are over.
Be patient, and I’ll give you exactly what you’re asking for. ”
He swallows hard, and I love to watch the way his mind works, to see the way his expression gets hungry. “Or what? What happens if I don’t behave?”
Oh, Tommy. “You can find out if you want.”
Before he can respond, my laptop chimes. My meeting is starting. I make sure the camera is turned off before logging on.
“Is everyone here?” I ask right away, and I’m startled by how flat and lifeless my tone is when I’m not talking to Tommy. I’ve never noticed that before.
I get a round of affirmatives, then I pass the meeting off to the accounting team to get us started.
My attention never leaves Tommy as he watches me, but I keep him in my peripheral.
That chasing, catching feeling–that hunting, seeking feeling–swells inside me as he narrows his eyes and stomps to his table.
By the way he practically throws himself into his chair, I can tell he’s working himself up to a fit of temper. My mouth waters, my fingers almost tremble, and I struggle to name this feeling. Impatience, yes. Excitement, almost definitely.
But why? Do I want him to misbehave? Do I crave discipline? No, I don’t think that’s it at all.
I’d be happy to wait until after my meetings. I’d be glad to give him my attention and care in the privacy of our home tonight, praising him for waiting so patiently.
But, I realize now, that what I really want is to give him what he needs when he needs it. And if he needs me to pass another test right here, right now, then I will. Gladly, eagerly, with a thirst for success.
He’d better be ready, because I’m coming for him.
I’m paying as little attention as possible to the meeting, just barely enough to know what’s being said.
Every other part of me is focused on Tommy, but I keep my eyes on my computer.
I’m not looking directly at him, even though I know he’s come to enjoy my stare.
It’s not a punishment, but a sort of dare.
I’m daring him to act out for my attention, or to be good.
He gets to choose. Either way, I’ll give him what he needs, what he’s asking for, and it will be a rush that I’m coming to crave.
He picks up his pencil and opens his book. He scribbles idly for a few seconds, but his mouth is turned down and he can’t sit still in his chair.
Riiip, the sound of paper tearing almost makes me look, but I wait. I wait.
Until a small ball of crumpled up paper taps the side of my head and hits the desk. Only then do I look at him.
He smirks at me smugly, twisting back and forth in his chair and tapping his pencil against the tabletop. He’s all movement, all motion, all noise; he’s a mess. I really like that about him. He’s more interesting than any other person I’ve ever met.
“Sir?” a voice asks from my computer.
“I agree,” I say calmly. Tommy’s smirk drops into a scowl as I prove that I’ve still been paying attention to my meeting. “And what about the reports from development?”
That launches a whole other department into their speech, and I calmly pick up the paper Tommy threw at me, and drop it in the wastebasket by my desk.
He wants a chance to act out? I’ll give him one. I go back to watching my screen.
Tommy huffs, annoyed, and his tapping gets louder, his fidgeting gets faster.
His leg bounces under the table and I wish, not for the first time, that I was better at reading emotions.
I want to trace his misbehavior to the source.
I want to see where all his issues begin, what his anger is plugged into in his psyche; I want to understand him.
But, then again, his mystery and his complexity, paired with his oh-so-obvious needs and blatant attempts to drive me away, are what make him so interesting.
A pencil sails through the air next, skittering across my desk and onto the floor. I raise an eyebrow at him. And, like he was waiting for my glance, he stands.
His face is an angry storm cloud, all his teasing gone. A mood swing blasted him straight into actual rage, his temper getting the better of him.
“I’m fucking bored,” he growls, keeping his voice down, showing without meaning to that he is still a good boy. “I’m leaving.”
I mute my microphone. “You can try. But there’s only one word that will get you out of here, and you haven’t said it yet.”
“Ugh!” He throws his arms up. “Not everything is a game, Young-gi! Maybe I’m just bored!”
“Then use your safe word, and I’ll let you wait in the lobby with Yosef.”
“Fuck you!” he snaps. “I’m not using my safe word.”
“Then you’re not asking to leave,” I counter, my heart picking up speed, my blood thrumming. “You’re asking me to stop you.”
“I-I–Fuck you!” he says again, louder this time, angrier. He shoves his sketchbook off the desk as he storms toward the door. This is a test; it couldn’t be more clear.
So I go after him.
*********
Tommy
I hear Young-gi stand up behind me, so I take off running.
But he’s faster than I expect, his pounding, running footsteps catching up frighteningly fast, and there’s no one to hear my undignified, startled scream as he grabs me from behind and starts dragging me back toward his desk.
The chase is over practically before it began, but goddamn, it floods me with adrenaline like nothing I’ve ever experienced before.
I grab his arm that’s around my waist, and I throw my weight around, but I don’t scratch at him, don’t hit or kick.
I don’t actually want to get away, I just want to see if he’s serious.