Twenty-five
The building is glass and shadow, surgical and alone at the edge of the city.
At night, the security lights are harsh and the parking lot feels like a stage, Brielle’s car the only one in visitor.
She kills the engine, counts her own pulse in the silence, and checks her face in the rearview.
She’s not wearing much—jeans, tank, the thinnest sweater she owns—but her body’s running furnace-hot, as if her skin knew the forecast before she did.
She walks in through the side door, the way Jason taught her years ago, and the HVAC hum greets her—industrial, impersonal.
The elevator ride is solo, the carpeted lobby dead except for the blue glow of a security panel.
Her steps echo. She likes the sound. It means she’s not hiding, not even from herself.
Jason’s office is on the top floor, the only light visible down a long hall of locked doors and dark glass.
She expects the cliché—messy desk, kid drawings pinned to the wall, some little sign of the dad and husband under the suit—but everything is stripped down, edges clean, surfaces empty.
It’s not cold, exactly, but it’s not home.
It’s the place he leads, the place he holds.
He’s behind the desk, backlit, sleeves rolled to the elbows, tie loosened to a noose that’s already lost its purpose.
His jaw is tight, but he looks up at her and the tension drops by half.
He stands—not abruptly, just with certainty, and comes around the desk.
She sees the way he shifts—boss to man, commander to conscript—in the time it takes to cross the room.
“Hey,” he says.
She’s not sure if she’s supposed to kiss him or salute him, so she just lets the air hang.
He steps up, hand at the small of her back, and leans in until his mouth is at her ear. “Thank you for coming,” he says. He’s not smiling, but there’s warmth under it, a gravity that isn’t about power.
She lets her hand rest on his chest, feels the slow pound of his heart. “You sure you want to do this here?” she asks, and there’s no edge to it. Just the real question.
He nods, not a twitch but a conviction. “If we’re doing this, I want it to mean something.”
She doesn’t need to ask what. She gets it. The last time was at home, on their bed, their world. This is the inversion.
Jason sits on the edge of the desk, palms flat on the glass. His fingers are splayed, tension in every joint. “He’s on his way up,” he says, as if he’s been rehearsing this opener all day.
She laughs, tries to let it be easy. “You schedule this in your Outlook, too?”
He smiles, faint. “Had my assistant block the hour. She thinks I’m interviewing a vendor.”
She leans against the desk beside him, their hips touching.
The office is silent except for the low whir of a computer left on screensaver.
There’s a leather chair, a wall of degrees, a landscape photo that never fit him.
She can see his reflection in the window, the way his shoulders are squared for battle but his mouth is soft.
“Are you nervous?” she asks, voice light.
He shakes his head. “Not nervous. Just…ready.”
She thinks about what he asked for. Not the performance, not even the kink of it, but the reversal: to be the one opened, the one orchestrated, the one who says yes and waits for what comes next. She understands it better now, the need to not be the anchor, even for just one hour.
A soft knock at the door.
Jason stands, wipes both palms on his thighs, and opens it. Leo’s there, hands empty, shirt untucked for once. He doesn’t say anything, just scans the room, takes in the two of them, and nods.
“Thanks for coming,” Jason says again, but the words have a different weight.
Leo walks in, closes the door behind him, and sets the lock with a click. For a moment, no one moves. Leo keeps his distance, arms loose at his sides, eyes only on Jason.
Brielle clears her throat, filling the void. “We’re all clear on what’s happening?” she says, and she’s half-joking, half-formal, a referee at the start of a match.
Jason meets her eyes. “I want you both. I want to let go.” His voice is steady. It costs him something.
Leo nods, but doesn’t step forward. “You sure?” he asks, and there’s no bravado, no challenge. Just a gentle check.
“Yes,” Jason says. No waver. “I need it.”
The three of them are triangles, all points and tension. Leo glances at Brielle, and for the first time she sees him as an equal, not an intruder or a wildcard.
He’s here because they chose this.
Because Jason did.
Brielle lets her eyes linger on Jason’s hands, the way he clutches the glass desktop. She stands, slow, and moves behind him, palms on his shoulders. He leans into the touch, eyelids fluttering, and she feels the whole body sigh of a man who never gets to let down his guard.
She squeezes, then walks around to the front, facing him. She steps between his knees, bracing herself on the edge of the desk. Their faces are even. “You don’t have to prove a damn thing,” she says, voice low.
He laughs, a single breath. “I’m not. I just—”
She puts a finger to his lips. “You’re allowed to want it.”
He nods, slow, and there’s the smallest crack in his voice when he says, “I do.”
Brielle turns to Leo, and gestures him forward. Leo moves, deliberate, closing the distance but stopping just short of contact. He waits, patient. He’s learned from last time, from every time.
Jason looks at both of them, and for once, doesn’t lead. He just sits, waiting.
Brielle is the first to touch. She lifts Jason’s chin, holds his face in her palm, and kisses him—deep, slow, no hurry. His hands go to her waist, tentative, but she catches them and pins them to the desk.
“You said you wanted to let go,” she whispers, lips brushing his.
He nods, and she can see the struggle in his eyes—the desire to take back control, to steer. But he doesn’t. He waits.
Leo steps in, and Brielle watches as he places a hand on Jason’s thigh, just above the knee. It’s a grounding touch, not aggressive. Jason closes his eyes, breathes in, and the line of his shoulders softens.
Brielle runs her hands down Jason’s chest, over the buttons of his shirt, then slips the first one free. She works slow, letting each pop of fabric build the tension. Leo’s hand inches higher, and Brielle can see the shiver that runs through Jason’s whole body.
When she’s got him half-unbuttoned, she slides the shirt off his shoulders, exposing the bare skin beneath. His chest is flushed, the pulse at his throat visible.
Leo traces a thumb up Jason’s thigh, over the waistband of his pants, and stops, waiting for a sign.
Jason doesn’t give one. He just looks at Brielle, blue eyes wide.
She leans in, mouth at his ear. “You want this?”
“Yes,” he says, and the word is a plea.
She turns to Leo. “Go ahead.”
Leo undoes Jason’s belt, slow, making sure Jason can stop him at any moment. When he doesn’t, Leo pulls the belt free, sets it aside. He undoes him slowly, deliberately. the rise of cock already half-hard.
Brielle keeps one hand at Jason’s chest, over his heart, the other on his jaw. “You okay?” she murmurs, anchoring him.
He nods, but his breath is staccato now, nerves and want in equal measure.
Leo lowers himself to his knees, never breaking eye contact with Jason. He runs both hands up the backs of Jason’s thighs, then settles at the zipper, mouth level with the bulge. He looks up at Brielle, waits for her to nod.
She does.
Leo opens Jason’s pants, slides them down, then nudges apart his knees. The motion is gentle, but it’s an order. Jason obeys, spreading his legs, and Brielle feels the quake that runs through his core.
Leo cups him through the briefs, slow, then peels them down, letting Jason’s cock spring free. It’s flushed, tip slick, veins visible even in the muted office light.
Brielle watches Jason’s face—the way his lips part, the way he gasps when Leo licks a stripe from base to tip. She feels the power in it, the release, but there’s nothing cruel about it. She wants to kiss him, so she does, swallowing the moan as Leo takes him deep, mouth soft but relentless.
Jason clutches at the desk, fingers whitening. He looks at Brielle, helpless, and she smiles, brushing his hair back from his forehead.
“Let it happen,” she says.
Leo works him slow at first, mouth and hand in perfect rhythm. He uses his tongue, circling the head, then sinking down, taking more each time. Brielle keeps her hand on Jason’s chest, feeling the way his heart jackhammers, the way his breathing staggers.
“Fuck,” Jason says, voice breaking.
“Is this what you wanted?” Brielle asks, and she’s not teasing. She’s giving him the script to follow.
He nods, but it’s not enough. She wants the words.
“Say it,” she urges.
He looks at her, lost. “I want to be used,” he says, and it’s the hardest thing he’s ever confessed.
Leo pulls off, grins, and says, “Then take it.”
He pushes Jason’s knees wider, sucks him deep, and Jason almost comes right then, body jolting. Brielle shushes him, hand at his throat now, thumb at the pulse.
She kisses him again, rougher this time, letting the tremble of his need fill her.
Leo keeps going, slow then fast, hand stroking in counterpoint to his mouth. Jason’s hips try to buck, but he holds himself back. He’s so close, so undone, and Brielle can see the panic and the thrill collide behind his eyes.
She bites his lip, hard. “Let go,” she says.
He does.
Jason unravels in her hands completely.
Hands clawing the edge of the desk. He comes hard, groaning into her mouth as Leo swallows every drop, never flinching.
When it’s over, Jason collapses back, head lolling, sweat at his temples.
Brielle strokes his cheek, gentle. “You did so good.”
He blinks, dazed, and for the first time ever she sees him not as her anchor, but as her equal. Maybe more.
Leo stands, wipes his mouth, and looks at both of them, eyes bright.
No one says anything for a long moment.
Then Jason laughs, hoarse, the sound edged with relief. “Fuck,” he says. “That was….”
He can’t find the word.
Brielle does it for him. “Real.”
He doesn’t say anything else.
He can’t.