On Your Knees

1. Ethan

ONE

Ethan

What a fucking spectacle. I knew it would be. I’m dressed for it in my tux. I’m pretending to enjoy it. I’m pretending a lot of things.

The difficulty varies in intensity. It’s pretty fucking intense right now with her on stage.

That’s why I’m here—because she is. She doesn’t get to do shit like this, be applauded, be fawned over, without looking at my face.

She probably can’t see me right now though.

It’s the cocktail hour before the charity dinner, and she’s on stage welcoming everyone while I’m at the back of the room near the bar.

She’s so pleased we’re here to do good—and my, my, don’t we look good doing it? Cue two hundred chuckles and a practiced smile from Ruby. It’s so practiced that it’s almost natural, like a reflex, like something Pavlovian.

She’s wearing angelic white with gold detailing. Her dark brown hair is in a sleek updo, though one section has been coiled at her left temple like a rosette. To me, though, it looks like a snake. If there’s any gray in her hair, it’s well covered. Ruby knows the value of appearances.

I decide to save my energy for the dinner, so I keep my body turned toward her but I mentally disengage. No one will notice as long as I clap when everyone else does.

With one hand elegantly in my pocket, I sip my gin and tonic. I’m as practiced as she is. I’m just as expensive—and just as terrible.

My glass is soon nothing but ice and garnish. I’m going through them too fast. It frustrates me because I’m here to rattle her, not to let her rattle me.

“Can I take that, sir?”

My eyes drift disinterestedly to the server—then they lock.

The background blurs and recedes, becoming mere shadow and shape, leaving only him in focus.

It’s not just that he’s beautiful. I can dismiss that.

I’m beautiful. Ruby is beautiful. Lots of disgusting people here are beautiful.

But this one… he’s not wearing it like we are, like it’s part of a costume. He doesn’t even know it’s there.

He can’t be that innocent, can he? Not in this cesspool of a ballroom. Not in this city.

But that’s what’s caught my eye, the question of it. He looks innocent, with his dark blond hair slicked back to bare all the striking angles of his face. He looks angelic in a way that Ruby could never be, no matter how much white she wears, in a way that I could never be.

“Um… sir?”

Ooh, he’s submissive. I can hear it in his voice. I can feel it in my balls. He’s submissive—and I’m cruel.

I’m so, so cruel.

I hold his eyes with mine as I set my glass on the edge of his empty silver tray. Focused on me, he doesn’t see what’s coming, doesn’t shift the tray to compensate.

Unbalanced, the tray flips off his hand. The silver catches the light as it falls, beautiful for half a second before it clatters to the floor and the glass shatters.

His terror is exquisite. There’s no anger in it, no recognition that I’ve done this to him. It’s pure. I don’t know if I want to capture it on canvas, to paint every stroke of wide-eyed horror, or to fuck him until that terror peaks and breaks into bliss.

But I would have to hold him still for either of those things, and I don’t have that power right now. He’s not mine, not yet.

So, unguided, uncontrolled, he panics. He dives down and snatches at the broken glass like the blunder can be undone.

I dive down after him and snatch his wrist. That wrist is bare because his sleeve is too short, so I feel the heat of his skin and the bones beneath. I grip so hard that his hand releases the shard of blood-smeared crystal.

“Careful,” I hiss. This isn’t what I wanted, him getting hurt, but this is a problem of mine. I don’t always think about the consequences of my actions.

He’s muttering under his breath. It sounds like fuck, fuck, fuck. Beyond that, he’s frozen in my grip. With my other hand, I carefully pick up the larger pieces of broken glass, putting them on the tray.

There’s a ring of silence around us. We’ve become a sideshow of the circus. The way he’s shaking tells me that he’s as aware of that fact as I am, and less used to the attention.

One of the other servers arrives with a dustpan and apologies, but I don’t hear a word.

All I hear is fuck, fuck, fuck. All I see is that my beautiful submissive is bleeding on the floor.

I stand, pulling him up with me, and tug him through the crowd.

He doesn’t fight me. Maybe he thinks he’s in trouble. Maybe he thinks he deserves this.

Goddamn it. I usually go for brats. Brats know their worth. This one doesn’t.

When we reach the hallway, he starts to pull back. He’s realized that I’m not taking him to his manager.

He mumbles, “I… wait… what?”

I ignore his half-formed protest and drag him into the restroom, locking the door behind us. He stumbles as I force him toward the sink. I pull him down so that his hand is over it.

“Stay,” I order.

I leave him there and go to check the cabinet. Restrooms like this, the kind with a couch and good lighting and mouthwash by the sink, tend to be fully supplied, so I’m not surprised to find a small first aid kit. Grabbing it, I turn to face him again—and freeze.

Sacrifice.

That’s what he looks like, standing there at the sink, eyes wide, blood dripping, so damn willing.

A sacrifice.

The thought sends an awful shiver through me and has my cock trying to stiffen inside its cage.

The above-sink light beams down on him, flashing against his sandy hair, striking his nose and high cheekbones, revealing the shocking blue of his eyes.

God, he’s beautiful. Why is it striking me so differently than usual? Why don’t I hate it? Is it the innocence? Because the more I look at him, the more certain of it I am, and it seems like something that should repel me.

As I return to him, I expect him to flinch. People usually do when I’m like this, even brats. I’m not exactly angry, but I’m something like it. My darkness is showing. But he just watches me, undaunted, and I’m reminded that innocence is merely inexperience. It’s not the same as goodness.

Goodness would shrink from me. The fact that he doesn’t means there’s something dark in him too. But it’s buried, I think. He might not even know it’s there.

I set the first aid kit on the counter and pick up his hand. I’m gentle this time. There’s no reason not to be. He’s right where I want him.

The cut isn’t as deep as I thought. It doesn’t need to be stitched, and it’s on the outside edge of his palm where it shouldn’t affect him much.

Still. He could’ve really damaged his hand.

My anger sparks, partly at him, partly at myself.

I dig my thumb into the meat of his palm near the cut.

He doesn’t protest or pull away. He accepts the punishment, whether or not he knows that’s what it is.

It mollifies me enough that I’m able to take the edge out of my voice before I ask, “What’s your name?”

“Levi.” His voice is breathy. I don’t think it was like that before. I glance at the front of his black pants, but they lie flat. So do mine in spite of my arousal, but I seriously doubt that Levi is wearing a cock cage.

“I’m Ethan,” I tell him. I leave off my last name. He’ll probably figure it out eventually, but I don’t want us to start talking about Ruby.

I turn on the water and rinse his hand. He complies with that, but when I let go to open a package of gauze, he gets antsy.

He says, “I really shouldn’t be taking up your time. I can do that.”

“You’re not taking up my time, I’m giving it. There’s a difference.”

I can see in his eyes that he doesn’t understand, but when I press the gauze against his palm, taking physical control, he settles again.

God, that satisfies me. Except… it doesn’t actually. It only makes me want more.

“You don’t have much experience, do you?” I ask, my voice low and rough. Anyone with experience would interpret the question in the way that I mean it, but my guess is proven correct when Levi takes the question innocently.

“I’m just a temp. I’ve never done anything like this.”

Ah. That explains why his clothes don’t fit. His sleeves are not only too short, they’re too tight. His black vest is too. But I like it. It shows off his lean, athletic build. He’s beautifully structured.

“They threw you into this pit of vipers with no experience?” I ask as I let go of him to find a bandage.

He gets antsy again, and his words tumble out. “They were shorthanded. And I didn’t realize what I was getting into. I mean, they told me, but I guess I wasn’t really thinking. I just… needed the money.”

“I see.” I take hold of him again. He stills, but he’s not as relaxed as before. He’s remembered his troubles.

He says, worried, “But now I’ll be sent home. With my hand cut, I can’t serve.”

“Dinner is served with gloves. No one will know.”

“I’m just serving drinks, not dinner.”

“You’ll serve my table,” I tell him as I start bandaging his hand. “Unless your hand hurts too much?”

“No, it’s fine, but I doubt they’ll—”

“Test it.”

I release him so he can flex his fingers. They’re nimble, delightful to watch, and he doesn’t show any sign of pain even though it must hurt. I wonder… how much pain could he handle?

Images flash through my mind, some good, some bad, and my cock throbs against the bars of its cage.

I throw away the wrappers and return the first aid kit to its cabinet, then I motion Levi to follow me to the door. I stop abruptly, making him bump into me. He tries to step back, but I catch his elbow.

“I’ll tell them that you’re serving my table,” I say.

Levi is several inches shorter than I am, so his head is tilted back to look up at me. I can tell he doesn’t think it will work, but he says, “That’s really nice of you. Thanks.”

It’s not nice of me, not at all, not for so many reasons—and it’s definitely going to work. But I just smile and say, “You’re welcome, Levi.”

When we’ve parted ways—with him looking back over his shoulder and me watching him—I detour to the kitchen. I tell the coordinator to reassign Levi to the Castle table.

She’s clearly startled and displeased, but she only says, “Of course.”

Like most people, she assumes that Ruby’s desires and mine are aligned.

Then I return to the ballroom. I get a fresh drink at the bar, buying time for Ruby to take her seat. Most people have by now, but a few are lingering in pre-dinner conversations.

Finally, she sits. The table is full except for the seat to her right. I take a circuitous route so that I can approach from behind. Her stiffness tells me that she knows I’m coming. It’s subtle, but I can see it. I know all her tricks.

But she knows mine, too, so she manages not to flinch when I lay my hand on her shoulder and lean down to kiss her cheek. I hate it, but so does she, and that’s what counts.

That, and the way she must seethe inside when I say, “Hello, Mother.”