Chapter 7
Owen
MUSIC FLOATS THROUGH THE evening air, mingling with laughter and the clink of glasses. The scavenger hunt has finally ended, and we’re celebrating with drinks and dancing in the lodge’s garden.
I cradle my club soda, the condensation cool against my palm, and listen to Naya’s story about crystals.
“—and that’s why selenite can’t be cleansed in water,” Naya concludes. “It just dissolves.”
“Fascinating,” I murmur, nodding as if I’ve absorbed a single word she’s said.
My gaze drifts to where Slade leans against a wooden post, nursing what looks like sparkling water.
His eyes meet mine across the distance, dark and intent, and the look sends heat crawling up my spine.
I jerk my attention back to Naya, who’s now explaining the difference between natural and lab-grown crystals.
“Are you okay?” Naya asks, pausing her crystal monologue. “Your aura’s flashing bright red.”
“I’m fine,” I manage. “Just a little warm.”
She studies me, her head tilting to one side. “It’s more than that. There’s an energy around you tonight…very intense. Very passionate.”
I fight the urge to glance at Slade again. “Must be all the excitement for Ava and Bryce.”
“Maybe,” she says, unconvinced. “Anyway, I think I’ll get another drink. Want anything?”
I lift my still-full glass. “I’m good, thanks.”
As Naya drifts toward the drinks table, I allow myself one more look at Slade.
He’s speaking with Bryce now. Even from here, I can see the tension in Slade’s shoulders.
Like me, he’s sipping something non-alcoholic.
The realization sends another pulse of heat through me—we’re both staying clear-headed tonight, both anticipating what comes later.
“Owen!” Ava appears at my side, cheeks flushed with happiness and probably a glass or two of champagne. “Isn’t this amazing? The lodge staff set everything up exactly how I wanted.”
I smile at my sister. “It looks great, Av. The lights, the flowers—it’s perfect.”
“And we won!” She bounces on her toes, excitement radiating from her. “The scavenger hunt! Bryce figured out that last clue about the old clock tower.”
“Impressive,” I say, forcing myself to focus on her. “So what’s this prize? The private hot springs?”
“Yes! Tomorrow morning. It’s supposed to be this secluded natural pool that’s not open to regular guests.” She grabs my arm, squeezing it. “I’m sorry you and Zara didn’t win. You seemed to be having a good time together, though.”
There’s a hopeful lilt to her voice I recognize.
“She’s nice,” I say. Guilt twists in my stomach when I think about how I used Zara earlier, flirting to make Slade jealous. I’m not proud of it.
Ava studies me, her excitement dimming. “Just nice? I thought there might be a spark there.”
“Not really my type. But we could become friends.”
“Oh.” Her disappointment is palpable. “Well, there’s still Naya. She’s single too, you know.”
“Uh, I don’t think that would work out either.”
Bryce joins us, sliding an arm around Ava’s waist. “What won’t work out?”
“Owen’s rejecting all my matchmaking attempts,” Ava pouts.
Bryce chuckles, pressing a kiss to her temple. “Maybe let the man find his own dates, babe.”
“But he’s terrible at it! No offense, Owen.”
“None taken,” I mutter, grateful for Bryce’s intervention.
My gaze drifts past them to where Slade was standing, but he’s no longer there. I scan the garden, heart rate picking up when I don’t spot him.
“Looking for someone?” Bryce asks, his tone casual but his eyes sharp.
“No,” I say too quickly. “Just taking in the party,” I add, desperate to change the subject. “The music’s great.”
“The band is all local,” Ava says, falling for my clumsy redirect. “They use instruments crafted from reclaimed materials. Even the drum set is made from old barrels and recycled cymbals.”
I feel a presence at my back. I don’t need to turn to know it’s Slade—my body recognizes him, responds to him on some primal level that bypasses conscious thought. The hair on the back of my neck stands up. My mouth goes dry.
“Mind if I steal Owen for a minute?” Slade’s voice is smooth and controlled. “I had a question about…tech companies.”
“Of course,” Ava says. “But don’t bore him with work talk all night, Slade. It’s a party!”
Slade’s hand settles on my lower back, just the lightest touch, but it burns through my shirt like a brand. “I’ll try to keep it brief,” he promises.
He guides me away from the crowd, toward the edge of the garden where the string lights end and shadows begin.
“Having a good time?”
I take a sip of my club soda, buying myself a moment. “It’s a nice party.”
“You seem distracted.”
“Do I?”
His mouth curves into a smile. “You haven’t stopped watching me all night.”
“That goes both ways,” I counter.
He doesn’t deny it. Instead, he steps closer—not touching me, but close enough that I can feel the heat radiating from his body.
“No alcohol tonight,” he observes, nodding at my glass.
“Seemed wise,” I reply. “You too, I notice.”
“I want a clear head.” His gaze drops to my mouth, then returns to my eyes. “For later.”
The tension between us is thick enough to cut with a knife. Somewhere in the garden, someone laughs. The band transitions to a slower song. None of it seems real compared to the man standing before me.
“Are you still mad about earlier?”
“Mad isn’t the right word.” His voice drops lower, meant only for me. “I don’t like games, Owen. I don’t like being manipulated.”
“I wasn’t—”
“You were,” he interrupts, his tone leaving no room for argument. “And now you need to face the consequences.”
The word sends a shiver through me that has nothing to do with fear and everything to do with anticipation.
“What consequences?”
Instead of answering, Slade leans in, his lips brushing the shell of my ear. “Twenty minutes. Our room.”
***
I count to one hundred and twenty before making my way to our room. My heart pounds against my ribs as if trying to escape, my skin feeling too tight, too hot. The hallway stretches before me, each step bringing me closer to whatever Slade has planned.
I slide the keycard into the slot, watching the light turn green with a click that seems thunderous in the silent corridor. I push the door open and enter, my breath catching at the sight before me.
Slade sits in the armchair by the window, freshly showered, wearing nothing but tight black boxer briefs.
Water droplets cling to his dark curls, glinting in the soft lamplight.
His skin appears burnished gold in the warm glow.
He cradles a glass of amber liquid, taking a measured sip as his eyes meet mine.
“Close the door.”
I obey without thinking. The sound of the lock seals us into our private world, where different rules apply.
Slade studies me, his gaze traveling from my face down my body and back up again. The weight of his attention makes my skin prickle with awareness. I shift from one foot to the other, unsure what to do with my hands.
“Take off your clothes and go shower. Be thorough.”
My mouth goes dry. I should question this, should ask what he’s planning, should at least hesitate. Instead, my fingers reach for to the buttons of my shirt before my brain catches up.
“Now, Owen,” he adds when I don’t move quickly enough.
I strip without trying to make a show of it, following orders. Shirt first, then kicking off my shoes, peeling off socks, unbuckling my belt. When I push down my pants and underwear in one motion, I’m already half-hard, my body responding to his commands even as my mind reels.
Slade watches the entire process, his expression giving nothing away except for the darkening of his eyes. When I stand naked before him, exposed and vulnerable, he nods toward the bathroom.
“Go.”
I retreat, closing the door behind me with trembling hands. The reflection in the mirror shows me a man I don’t recognize—flushed cheeks, dilated pupils, tousled hair, and a growing erection that makes it clear just how much Slade’s dominance affects me.
As I step under the hot water, I try to make sense of what’s happening.
Two days ago, I would have sworn I was straight.
The idea of wanting—needing—to submit to another man’s commands would have seemed absurd.
Yet here I am, hard and aching at the thought of what awaits me when I finish this shower.
I reach for the complimentary body wash, squeezing a generous amount onto the washcloth.
The instructions were clear: be thorough.
I work the cloth across my chest, down my stomach, over my arms. I pay special attention to my underarms, between my fingers, behind my ears—all the places that might carry any trace of the day’s sweat or grime.
I wash my cock and balls, wincing as the rough cloth slides over sensitive skin. Then, taking a deep breath, I add more soap and reach behind myself. The sensation of my own fingers sliding between my cheeks, circling the tight ring of muscle, feels strange but not unpleasant.
The water pounds against my back as I continue cleaning myself, inside and out as best I can. My cock is fully hard now, demanding attention I refuse to give it. Whatever happens next, it’s clear Slade is in charge. The thought sends another pulse of heat through me.
I dry myself with one of the lodge’s organic cotton towels, patting rather than rubbing, treating my skin with a care I never bother with. After a moment’s hesitation, I wrap the towel around my waist, securing it at my hip, and step back into the bedroom.
Slade hasn’t moved from the armchair. His eyes track me as I cross the threshold.
“Come here.” He points to a spot on the floor at the foot of the bed.
I move there, standing as water still drips from my hair onto my shoulders.
“On your knees.”
My breath catches. I should assert myself, maintain some semblance of equality between us. But my body is already lowering itself to the carpet, knees pressing against the rough fibers, back straight, hands resting on my thighs.