What Remains #3
“I am. Is that terrible?” Cal didn't look apologetic. “I've spent three years watching these people bury truth. Watching them destroy lives for profit and power. Seeing them finally face consequences feels—cathartic.”
“It's not terrible. It's human.” Ethan sipped his tea. “I spent three years angry. Wanting revenge. Knowing I'd never get it. So yes. I understand catharsis.”
We sat in comfortable silence for a while. Just being. Breathing. Processing the fact that we'd actually won something that had seemed impossible.
We made it to my quarters. The space that was officially mine but had started feeling like ours weeks ago.
Inside, Cal dropped the crutches against the wall with a clatter. Started unbuttoning his shirt with hands that shook slightly—not from exhaustion, but anticipation. Three years of carrying truth finally finding rest. Three years of wanting this man and having to wait for the right moment.
This was the right moment.
“Let me,” I said. Moved his hands aside. Worked the buttons slowly. Deliberately. “You've been moving all day on those injured ribs. I want to see what I'm working with before I wreck you properly.”
“Wreck me.” Cal's mouth curved. “Big promises from a man who's also injured.”
“I have a working arm and complete determination. That's all I need.” I pushed his shirt off his shoulders. Let it hang open, exposing his chest. The bandages. The bruises fading to yellow-green. “Beautiful. Even damaged.”
“Damaged isn't beautiful.”
“On you it is. Proof you survived. Proof you're here.” I traced the edge of the bandage. “And proof you're mine.”
Cal's breathing changed. Went heavier. “Yours.”
“Mine.” I kissed his throat. His collarbone. The line of his shoulder. “And I'm going to show you exactly what that means now that we don't have corruption to hunt or people trying to kill us.”
“Just regular sex then? How boring.” But his hands were already working my belt. “I was hoping for something more creative.”
“Who said anything about regular?” I caught his hands. Stopped him. “You don't get to touch yet. You get to stand there and let me look at you. Let me decide what I want to do with you.”
“Dom—”
“That's Sir to you. In this space, you follow my rules.” I stepped back. Gestured. “Shirt off. Leave the trousers. Let me see you properly.”
Cal obeyed. Shrugged the shirt off completely. Stood there in just trousers that hung low on his hips. His cock was already making itself known. Thick outline visible against the fabric.
“Good.” I circled him. Taking my time. “You're always so controlled in public. I like seeing you like this. Eager. Ready. Waiting for permission.”
“I'm not waiting—”
“You are. Because you know what happens if you don't. You know I'll make you wait longer. Make you beg. Make you so desperate you forget how to be snarky.” I stopped behind him. Ran my hand down his spine. “And you love it. Love giving up control to someone who knows how to use it properly.”
Cal's breath caught. “You're very confident for someone who's been injured.”
“I'm confident because I know exactly what you need. What you've needed for three years but were too stubborn to ask for.” My hand moved to his arse. Squeezed through the fabric. “Complete surrender. Total trust. Someone who'll push you to the edge and catch you when you fall.”
“Romantic.” But his voice had gone rough.
“Honest.” I moved around to face him. “Now. Bed. On your back. Keep the trousers on until I say otherwise.”
He moved to comply. Careful of his injuries. Laid back against the pillows with his hands at his sides. Waiting.
I was unbuttoning my own shirt when the knock came.
“Ignore it,” Cal said immediately.
The knock came again. Harder this time. More insistent.
“Fuck.” I grabbed my shirt. Buttoned it enough to be decent. Opened the door ready to tell whoever it was to disappear.
Ethan stood there.
He was looking past me. At Cal on the bed. Shirt off. Obviously aroused. Obviously waiting.
“Fuck,” Ethan said. Not apologetic. Just... hungry. “I heard you two come back here and thought—” He stopped. Swallowed.
“You want to join?” Cal asked. “Or just watch?”
Ethan's eyes widened slightly. Then darkened.
“I—fuck. I don't want to intrude on what you two have.
But three years is a long time. And you're both—” He gestured vaguely.
“You're both very attractive men who are clearly about to have excellent sex and I'm standing here trying to remember why I knocked instead of just going to my room to deal with it myself.”
“Come in,” I said. Decision made. “Close the door. And if you're staying, you follow the same rules Cal does.”
Ethan entered. Closed the door. Locked it. “What rules?”
“My rules. In this room, I’m in charge. What I say goes. You don’t touch without permission. You don’t come without permission. And you do exactly what I tell you to do.” I held Ethan’s gaze. “Can you handle that?”
His eyes were hard but not defiant—more desperate than proud. “I’ll take it. However you’re willing to give it.”
Cal sat up, knees drawing closer, chest rising and falling with shallow breaths. He looked at me, waiting for my verdict—the final word on whether this became memory or reality.
“Dom. Are we doing this?”
I let my gaze drift over both of them, savouring the electric anticipation
“We’re doing this,” I said finally, my voice calm, slow, absolute.
I reached for the wine, pouring myself a glass.
“Good. Then here’s your first instruction, Cal, worship him.
I want to see you undress him. Take your time.
Make him feel it.” I sank into the wide armchair at the foot of the bed, glass in hand, settling back to watch the scene unfold—heat and control winding through my blood.
Cal’s breath shivered in his chest, but he moved without hesitation.
He stood in front of Ethan, eyes roving up and down, as if recalibrating who this man had become.
Ethan was taller than either of us—built like a truck now, his arms and chest broad enough to block the lamplight, the new tattoos slashing black across tan skin and muscle.
His hands trembled faintly at his sides as Cal stepped in close, the intimacy of it almost startling.
Cal reached up, hands gentle, starting with the hem of Ethan’s shirt—already half-off, but Cal slid it from his shoulders, letting his palms map the shape of Ethan’s body as he exposed every new inch of skin.
Ethan’s muscles rippled beneath the touch, the tattoos coming into sharper focus: lines, script, symbols marking time and loss, some raw and jagged, some almost beautiful.
Cal pressed a kiss to Ethan’s collarbone, lips brushing over a faded scar. Another to his shoulder, following the line of ink.
He knelt—slowly, careful of his own injuries—his mouth trailing lower as he moved.
His hands found the button of Ethan’s trousers, working them open, letting them drop slowly over Ethan’s hips, revealing black boxer-briefs stretched taut over thighs so thick the fabric threatened to give.
Ethan’s cock was still soft, but as Cal pressed his face into the hollow of Ethan’s hip, mouthing at the sensitive skin, it began to swell—thickening, lengthening, a physical answer to the attention.
I took a slow sip of wine, watching them both. Cal’s mouth worked along the line of Ethan’s boxers, breathing in his scent, tongue tracing the waistband, hands kneading his ass and thighs as if he could memorise him by touch alone.
He pressed a kiss just above the bulge of Ethan’s cock, then another, slower, his tongue peeking out to taste sweat and anticipation.
Cal pressed up to meet Ethan’s mouth, hungry, searching, tongues tangling. Ethan bent down, letting Cal claim him, letting Cal show him what it meant to be worshipped, to be wanted not for what he could survive, but for who he was.
“Enough,” I said softly.
Both of them froze.
I let the silence stretch, savouring the way Ethan’s breathing hitched, the way Cal’s shoulders lifted with each shallow breath. I shifted in the chair, deliberately, spreading my legs just enough to make it clear I was settled in for this.
“Ethan,” I said, voice calm, dangerous. “You’ve been worshipped. You’ve been seen. Now I want to see what you do when I take the leash off.”
Ethan’s head snapped up. His eyes were dark, blown wide with hunger and restraint held too long.
“Take control,” I continued. “Do whatever you want with Cal. Strip him. Touch him. Use him. Just remember one thing—he’s not yours to break. He’s mine. And he wants this.”
Something feral broke loose in Ethan.
He moved like an animal finally released from a cage—fast, decisive, all that pent-up need pouring out of him at once.
He grabbed Cal by the open shirt, hauling him up hard enough to make Cal gasp, their bodies slamming together chest to chest. Ethan’s mouth crashed into Cal’s, kissing him like he was starving.
Cal moaned into it, hands flying up instinctively before stopping himself, fingers curling in the air as he remembered the rules. Ethan growled low in his chest at the sound, a rough, pleased noise, and bit Cal’s lower lip hard enough to make him whimper.
“Fuck,” Cal gasped. “Ethan—”
Ethan didn’t answer. He shoved Cal backward until the backs of Cal’s knees hit the edge of the bed, then dropped his head and dragged his mouth down Cal’s exposed throat, over his collarbones, teeth scraping, tongue soothing.
I shifted in the chair, my own cock already hard, my hand sliding down my thigh as I watched. The sounds filled the room—Cal’s broken breaths, Ethan’s rough exhalations, skin slapping against skin.
Ethan’s hands were everywhere. Gripping Cal’s hips.
Digging into his sides. Thumbing over the bandages on his ribs with unexpected care before squeezing again, harder, possessive.
He dropped to his knees suddenly, forcing Cal to spread his legs, and pressed his face into Cal’s abdomen, inhaling like he was trying to memorise him.