I stare at him, at the man before me. The most feared man in the city stands before me, his shoulders tense, his jaw clenched. It’s not a request. It’s a plea wrapped in a demand. The hunger in his eyes is a physical thing, a vacuum pulling at the last shreds of my professional resolve. I see the boy from my notes, brilliant and frustrated. I see the king from the gala floor, cold and calculating. And beneath both, I see the man who shattered when I asked him if this was what he wanted.
My mouth is dry. The clinical part of my brain screams about ethics, about danger, about Marcus. But a deeper, darker part is already leaning forward. That part remembers the weight of my heel against his erection, the sharp intake of his breath, the absolute power of reducing him to a single, raw need. Th
