Chapter 4
Slade
THE DINING ROOM HUMS with conversation as we finish our lunch, but my mind is elsewhere—upstairs, where Owen waits.
I take a measured sip of water, studying our group.
Bryce catches my eye across the table, one eyebrow raised in silent question.
He knows me too well—can sense when my attention has shifted, when I’m planning an exit.
I offer him a slight shrug in response before setting my glass down. It’s time.
“The pottery session starts in twenty minutes,” Ava announces. “We should head over soon to get good spots.”
The others nod, finishing the last bites of their salads and sandwiches. I clear my throat, drawing their attention.
“I need to check in on a patient file,” I say, pulling out my phone as if I’ve just received a message. “My colleague texted—they want my opinion.”
Ava’s face falls. “Oh, but the pottery class is supposed to be one of the highlights of the weekend.”
“I know, and I’m sorry.” I inject the right amount of regret into my voice—enough to be convincing without overplaying it.
“Can’t it wait?” Zara asks, looking between me and Ava.
“If it were just paperwork, yes. But it’s not, unfortunately. I’ll try to wrap it up quickly and join you.”
Bryce, bless him, jumps in. “You should handle that. Patient recoveries can go sideways fast if the orders aren’t right.”
Ava sighs, but nods in understanding. “Of course.” She reaches across the table to pat my hand. “Just try to join us if you can. I’ll save you a spot.”
“I’ll do my best,” I promise, already standing. “Don’t wait for me, though.”
I feel the weight of Bryce’s gaze as I gather my phone. When I meet his eyes, there’s a look there that makes me wonder how transparent I’m being. He’s rarely seen me like this—distracted, making excuses. It’s unlike me, and we both know it. Does he realize it’s about Owen? I can’t tell.
I exit the dining room with measured steps, not rushing despite the urgency I feel. The lobby is quiet, just a few guests milling about, studying activity pamphlets. I press the elevator button, keeping my expression neutral even as anticipation builds in my chest.
As the elevator rises, I study my reflection in the polished metal doors. I look the same as usual—controlled, composed. But something has shifted beneath the surface. This pull toward Owen feels fundamental, as if it’s always been there, dormant and waiting.
I slide the keycard into the slot, watching the indicator turn green with a soft click. I push the door open, stepping into a room filled with afternoon light. The curtains are partially drawn, creating bars of sunlight across the floor. And there, in the armchair by the window, is Owen.
He looks up as I enter, his posture straightening. His hair is damp, curling as it dries, suggesting a recent shower. He’s dressed simply—a soft gray t-shirt and loose navy shorts that show off his long legs. His feet are bare, one tucked beneath him on the chair.
“You came,” he says, his voice carrying a hint of surprise despite our arrangement.
I close the door behind me, engaging the lock with a decisive click. “I said I would.”
His eyes follow me as I cross the room, dropping my keycard on the dresser. I note the slight tension in his shoulders, the way his fingers curl against the armrest. Nervous, but not afraid. Anticipatory.
“Did anyone suspect anything?” he asks.
“Bryce might. He knows me too well.” I move closer to his chair. “The others bought the medical emergency excuse.”
Owen nods, his gaze dropping before returning to mine. “And what exactly couldn’t wait until after pottery class?”
“I think you know.”
The flush I’ve come to anticipate creeps up his neck, settling high on his cheekbones. It’s fascinating—this physical tell that bypasses all his efforts at control.
“You followed my instruction,” I observe.
The blush deepens, spreading across his face. He doesn’t respond, but his body speaks volumes—the way he shifts in the chair, the quickening of his breath.
“You did well,” I add, watching his reaction to the praise.
Something flickers in his expression—pleasure, confusion, want—all mixed together. It confirms what I’ve been suspecting since our first interaction.
“I have a theory about you, Owen.”
His eyes widen. “A theory?”
I take the final step that brings me in front of him. Without conscious thought, his knees part, creating space for me between his legs. I slide into that space, a perfect fit. The position forces him to look up at me, emphasizing the power differential between us.
“Yes.” My hand lifts to his face, fingers ghosting along his jawline. His skin is smooth, freshly shaved. I brush my thumb across his cheekbone where the flush is most pronounced.
Owen swallows, his Adam’s apple bobbing. “What kind of theory?”
“I think you like following commands.” I keep my tone matter-of-fact, as if I’m delivering a diagnosis. “I think you respond to authority. To structure. To being told what to do.”
The flush spreads further, creeping down his neck beneath the collar of his t-shirt. He doesn’t confirm or deny, but his silence is answer enough.
“Am I wrong?” I press, my fingers moving to trace the outline of his ear, down the sensitive skin behind it.
He shivers, his gaze dropping to the floor. But I can see this evasion isn’t denial—it’s recognition. My theory is hitting its mark.
“Look at me,” I say, not a request but an order.
His eyes snap back to mine, confirming yet again what I’ve suspected. He responds to direct commands with instinctive obedience.
“Where do you like to submit, Owen? In what contexts?” My arousal builds as I ask the question. I make no effort to hide it—my shorts do little to conceal my growing erection.
Owen’s gaze flickers, noticing. His lips part, but no words come out.
“You don’t have to answer,” I tell him. “Your body is already telling me what I need to know.”
My thumb moves to his lips, tracing their fullness. They’re plush and pink. I remember how they felt against mine behind the waterfall—eager, responsive. I wonder how they’ll feel elsewhere.
I press my thumb against the seam of his lips. “Open your mouth.”
There’s a momentary hesitation—a flicker of uncertainty in his eyes—then his lips part, accepting my thumb. The wet heat sends a jolt of pleasure straight to my groin.
“Now suck.”
He closes his eyes, hollowing his cheeks as he follows my instruction.
The sight pulls a groan from deep in my chest. “Good boy.”
His response to the praise is immediate and unmistakable—a low moan vibrating around my thumb, his suction intensifying. His eyelids flutter, his breathing quickening.
“You like that,” I observe. “Being told you’re good. Being praised for your obedience.”
He doesn’t answer—can’t with my thumb in his mouth—but the way his hips shift in the chair tells me everything.
My gaze drops to his lap, where the thin fabric of his shorts does nothing to hide his arousal.
The head of his cock pushes against the material, creating a visible tent.
A small damp spot has formed where the tip presses against the fabric.
“No underwear,” I note. “Were you that certain of what would happen when I returned?”
His eyes open, meeting mine with a mixture of embarrassment and desire. He swallows around my thumb, his throat working.
I notice his gaze has dropped to the bulge in my own shorts. He’s transfixed by the outline of my erection straining against the fabric. Without thinking, I reach down with my free hand, gripping my length through the shorts, stroking slowly.
Owen’s reaction is immediate—his pupils dilating until his blue eyes are black with desire. He watches my hand move, mesmerized.
“Is this what you want?” I ask, continuing the slow, deliberate strokes. “My cock?”
He doesn’t answer, but his gaze remains fixed on my movements, his breathing shallow and quick.
I understand his hesitation. This is all new territory for him, just as it is for me.
The difference is that I’ve always been comfortable with my desires, whatever form they take.
Owen, I suspect, has spent a lifetime denying his.
“Do you want to see it?” I ask, my voice rougher now with arousal.
After a brief pause, he nods, the movement slight but unmistakable.
I withdraw my thumb from his mouth, leaving a wet trail across his bottom lip. Holding his gaze, I push my shorts down just enough to free my cock. It springs up, fully erect, the head already glistening with pre-cum.
Owen’s eyes widen, his lips parting in an unconscious gesture of want. I watch his reaction, cataloging each micro-expression—the flare of his nostrils, the quickening of his pulse visible at his throat, the way his hands grip the armrests more tightly.
I wrap my hand around my length, stroking from base to tip. Another drop of pre-cum forms at the slit, and I spread it with my thumb, making the head glisten in the afternoon light.
“Do you like what you see?”
Owen nods, unable to tear his gaze away.
“Do you want to taste it?”
His eyes dart up to mine, uncertainty warring with desire. Then he nods again.
“Open your mouth,” I instruct. “Stick out your tongue.”
He complies, his pink tongue extending past his lips. The sight of it—of his willing submission—sends another surge of pre-cum beading at my tip.
“Good boy,” I murmur, cradling the back of his head with one hand while the other guides my cock to his waiting mouth.
I drag the head across his extended tongue, watching his eyes roll back. A shudder runs through him, his hands flexing against the armrests.
“You like how I taste,” I observe, not a question but a statement of fact.
I continue this teasing, drawing my cock across his tongue, letting him sample but not giving him more. My hand on the back of his head holds him steady, controlling his movements. He takes what I give him without trying to take more—another sign of his natural inclination toward submission.
“Now suck,” I command. “Just the head. No more.”
He closes his lips around the crown of my cock, creating a gentle suction that pulls a groan from deep in my chest. The sound echoes in the quiet room, loud enough that I worry about being heard in the hallway.
The wet heat of his mouth is exquisite. His inexperience is evident in the tentative nature of his movements, but what he lacks in technique he makes up for in enthusiasm. His eyes close in concentration as he explores this new experience.
I glance down at his lap, noting that the damp spot on his shorts has grown. His hips shift, seeking friction that isn’t there. He’s enjoying this—not just enduring it, but taking pleasure in the act of pleasing me.
The sight of him—golden hair falling across his forehead, those full lips stretched around my cock, the flush of desire coloring his cheeks—pushes me closer to the edge.
I’ve been aroused since the waterfall, since feeling his hardness against mine behind that curtain of water.
The buildup has been intense, my control fraying with each passing moment.
“Open your mouth again,” I order, pulling back. “Give me your tongue.”
He complies, his eyes opening to meet mine. They’re glazed with desire, pupils blown wide.
I grip myself firmly, stroking with purpose now. “You want to taste me, Owen? Want me to come on that pretty tongue of yours?”
He nods, looking up at me with an expression of innocent hunger that undoes me.
With a few more powerful strokes, I’m coming, my release spurting across his waiting tongue with an intensity that draws a guttural growl from my throat.
Wave after wave crashes through me as I watch my cum painting his tongue, his lips, dripping down his chin.
He doesn’t flinch or pull away. He moans at the taste, his eyes half-closing. When I finish, he closes his mouth, swallowing everything I’ve given him.
“Fuck,” I breathe, watching his throat work. “Good boy. So good for me.”
His hand moves toward his own erection, still straining against his shorts. I catch his wrist, stopping him.
“No,” I say firmly. “That’s mine.”