Chapter 13 Josh
Josh
So… it’s like totally normal to have a shop for male corsets bookmarked on your browser, right?
Right?
Not for me!
No, I’d probably look stupid in one.
But for my little brother?
I mean, my not-blood-related, ex-adoptive brother?
Ugh. That didn’t make it sound much better.
It all started around a month ago when I happened to peek at Lane’s phone screen—not on purpose, I promise—and saw this clip of a man posing with a corset on. The vibe was all moody and masculine and sexy, and because of that, I kind of stumbled and drew Lane’s attention.
Lane and I had never been really close. He always felt out of reach, like nothing I could do or say would make him interested, and, well…
I was pretty sure he harbored some jealousy of mine and Oliver’s friendship.
Why? I had no idea. The two of them were obviously closer to each other than I was to Oliver. Lane seemed oddly territorial.
Anyway, imagine my surprise when, of all things, a thirst-trap is what finally brought us closer.
He’d ushered me over to the couch, we’d just finished our family dinner at Wes and Ro’s place, and scrolled through the rest of the creator’s social media account.
I guess before that, I always thought of corsets as a girly thing. You know, for women and cute, petite guys like Lane. What was the word… Oh, yeah—femboys! Yes, corsets were for femboys.
But… the sexy corset man was pretty jacked.
Like… really jacked.
The kind of guy who clearly spent a lot of time at the gym. Broad shoulders, thick arms, defined glutes. The corset didn’t make him look feminine at all. If anything, it kind of did the opposite—pulled his waist in just enough so that his shoulders looked even wider.
Lane had kept scrolling, clearly enjoying my confusion. “I didn’t realize you were into stuff like this.”
“I’m not,” I’d answered immediately before pausing. “…Well, I didn’t think I was…”
My brain was doing a lot of recalculating in real time.
Then he’d scrolled again. Another video. Same creator, different outfit. Black corset, black pants, shirt open. The guy turned slowly in front of the camera, shoulders rolling, the corset laces tightening around his waist.
Lane glanced at me sideways. “You know, this guy is always doing ads for this one online store. Maybe you should check it out.”
I nearly choked on air. “What? Why?”
“To get one?” He raised one perfectly groomed eyebrow at me.
“Me?”
“Yeah.”
“No way.”
“Why not?”
“Uh… I just—I don’t think I’m the type of guy to buy something like that…”
“I bet Dorian would look hot in one,” he’d murmured.
And for some reason, my brain supplied the image right away.
Dori, with his dark hair brushing his shoulders, sharp blue eyes, and tattoos, wearing that slightly smug expression like he knew something the rest of us didn’t.
He was built leaner than me, but still strong. Not soft by any means.
And yeah.
A corset would probably look insane on him.
I’d shaken that thought out of my head immediately.
Nope.
Bad thought.
Very bad thought.
Except now, a month later, I was staring at my laptop with a website for male corsets open in front of me. Specifically, the one that the sexy corset guy had been promoting in his posts.
So clearly the thought hadn’t gone anywhere.
If anything, it had gotten worse.
The models on the page rotated slowly in glossy product videos.
My mouse hovered over one. The perfect one.
The description said that it was a corset vest with a deep V-neckline, made of dark purple damask fabric with black metal boning.
I leaned back in my chair, rubbing my face. “What am I doing?” I muttered.
Because this wasn’t normal boyfriend behavior.
Right?
Normal boyfriends bought their partners hoodies and shit.
Not… waist-cinching sexy-as-fuck corsets.
I groaned and dropped my forehead against the desk. “Why am I like this?”
The laptop screen continued staring back at me like it had opinions.
And unfortunately, the opinion seemed to be: Buy the corset, Josh.
“No,” I said firmly, lifting my head and pointing at the screen like it had personally offended me. “Absolutely not.”
First of all, it was expensive.
Like… really expensive.
I scrolled back up to double-check the price, hoping maybe I’d hallucinated it the first time.
Nope.
Still there.
Still painful.
“Yeah, okay,” I muttered. “That’s reason number one.”
Reason number two?
I’d have to get Dorian’s measurements.
And how exactly was I supposed to do that?
Hey, babe, can you stand still while I wrap a tape measure around your waist? Why? No reason. You need a reason? Fuck. Okay. Nevermind. Bye. Love you.
Yeah. That wouldn’t raise any questions at all. I leaned back in my chair again, crossing my arms.
“This is stupid,” I told myself. “It’s weird. It’s expensive. And you don’t even know if he’d like it.”
Dorian liked a lot of weird stuff, but still, this felt like a gamble. What if he got offended for some reason? What if he got mad because it was so expensive? What if he laughed at it…? At… me?
No. I couldn’t do it.
But, unfortunately, my brain refused to drop it.
The thought just kept circling.
For days.
Every time Dorian stretched and his shirt rode up a little.
Every time he walked past me in those low-rise black jeans he liked.
Every time I caught a glimpse of the narrow line of his waist between his tattoos.
My brain helpfully supplied the same cursed image.
Corset.
Corset from the back.
Corset from the front.
Corset from the side.
After about a week of that, I opened the website again.
Just to look.
Looking was free.
Looking was harmless.
Totally normal behavior.
Except now I had a new problem.
Measurements.
The page listed them very clearly—chest, waist, underbust, and back length.
I stared at the list.
Then I stared up the stairs toward our bedroom.
Then back at the screen.
Then back down the hallway.
“No,” I whispered.
My brain said: But what if…
“No.”
But he sleeps really deeply.
“Nope.”
You could be quick.
I sat there for a full thirty seconds having an argument with myself before finally standing up.
“This is creepy,” I muttered under my breath as I dug through the junk drawer in the kitchen. “Oh god, I’m a freak. An actual freak.”
After a minute of rummaging, I triumphantly held up a rolled-up measuring tape. And before I could talk myself out of it again, I walked straight up the stairs to our bedroom.
The room was dim except for the soft glow from the streetlight outside. Dorian was sprawled across the bed, half on his stomach, one arm under the pillow, dark hair fanned across the sheets.
I crept closer like I was defusing a bomb. “Okay,” I whispered. “Just… quick.”
The tape measure shook slightly in my hands. I crawled onto the bed and about had a panic attack when I had to lift his upper body just enough to get the measuring tape around him.
Oh god, oh fuck, oh god, oh fuck.
Please don’t wake up, don’t wake up, don’t wake up.
I swear my heart tried to punch its way out of my ribcage when he made a sleepy noise and buried his face deeper into the pillow.
I held my breath as best I could while I worked my way down the list of measurements I needed.
At one point, Dorian rolled slightly onto his back, and I almost launched myself across the room.
But somehow—
Somehow—
I finished.
I retreated out of the bedroom like a criminal fleeing a crime scene. Once I reached the hallway, I leaned against the wall and covered my face, trying to catch my breath.
I quietly crept back downstairs to return the tape measure to its rightful place, and was just about to go back to the bedroom to sleep away what had just occurred.
But… I had the measurements.
And once you have the measurements…
Well.
It felt kind of pointless not to check if they matched the sizing chart.
Which led to me reopening the website.
Which led to comparing numbers.
Which led to realizing the purple damask corset vest would fit him perfectly.
Which led to staring at the Add to Cart button.
For an embarrassingly long time.
“Don’t do it,” I told myself.
I did it.
“Okay,” I said out loud, sitting up straighter like that somehow made the situation less ridiculous. “That doesn’t mean you have to actually buy it.”
I hovered over the checkout page.
Closed it.
Opened it again.
Closed it.
Opened it.
“But he’d look so good in it,” I muttered.
And before my common sense could stage an intervention—
I placed the order.
The confirmation email popped up instantly.
I stared at it. “Oh, my god.”
I had just spent a ridiculous amount of money on a corset for my boyfriend.
A corset he did not know about.
A corset I had secretly measured him for while he was unconscious.
Fuck.
The package arrived four days later.
Dorian was in the shower when the delivery guy knocked, which was the only reason I didn’t die on the spot. I grabbed the box off the porch and immediately looked around, as if the neighbors might somehow know what was inside.
Luckily, no one was out, so I rushed inside like I was smuggling contraband.
The box wasn’t even that big. It was small enough to hide.
I stood in the kitchen staring at it for a moment. “What now?” I whispered.
Dorian was still in the shower.
I could hear the water running.
Which meant I had about two minutes to make a decision.
I grabbed the box and speed-walked down the hallway to what was essentially a storage room. I shoved it behind a stack of old winter clothes in the back of the closet and stepped away slowly, continuing to step away until I was all the way back in the living room.
My heart was still racing when Dorian came downstairs a few minutes later, toweling his hair dry.
“You okay?” he asked casually.
I jumped like I’d been electrocuted. “Yeah!” I squeaked. “Totally fine.”
Dorian blinked at me, then narrowed his eyes slightly in that way he did when he suspected I was hiding something. “Okay…” he said slowly. “Want to try that again?”
I shook my head. “I’m good, I just didn’t hear you come down the stairs.”
“Uh-huh.” He watched me for another second before walking past me into the kitchen like nothing had happened.
I stood there for a full ten seconds before realizing I’d been holding my breath.
Cool. Totally normal interaction.
From the kitchen, I heard the fridge open.
“Josh?”
“Yeah?”
“You left the milk out.”
“Oh, shit… Did I?”
“Yes.”
I hurried into the kitchen and grabbed it, shoving it back into the fridge like it was somehow incriminating evidence.
Dorian leaned against the counter, watching me with his head tilted. His damp hair brushed his shoulders, and he was wearing one of those loose black shirts that hung open just enough at the collar to show the ink along his chest.
Which, unfortunately, reminded me of the corset.
Which reminded me that there was a corset hidden in the house.
Which reminded me that I had secretly measured him like a deranged psycho stalker!
“So…”
“Yeah?”
“You’re acting weird.”
“I’m not.”
“You are.”
“I’m really not.”
He hummed, unconvinced, then pushed away from the counter and walked over to me.
Dorian had this way of moving that was unfairly quiet. One second he’d be across the room, the next he’d be right there, close enough that I could feel the warmth of him.
“You sure?” he whispered, eyes tracking the bob of my Adam’s apple as I tried to swallow around the lump in my throat.
My heart did a weird, guilty little flip. “Positive,” I said quickly.
Dorian studied me for another moment, and then, to my immense relief, he smirked. “Okay.”
That was it.
No interrogation.
No mind games.
He just grabbed a bottle of water from the fridge and wandered back toward the living room, leaving me to stew in my weird emotions.