The Moment Everything Shifted
1054 Words
Marcus' POV.
*Don’t let him touch you again.*
Not a suggestion. Not even a threat. Just fact. Like he really did own me.
I exhaled hard, shaking my head and trying to shake *him* off too.
Faileed woefully.
Dropping onto the bed, the laptop balanced on my thighs, towel barely hanging on. The screen glowed blue against the dim room, rain still lashing the windows to help my drown out my thoughts.
Focus. Outfits. Pink. Coordinate. Easy.
I opened the browser tab Ethan had left ready… a high-end menswear site with curated collections. Everything screamed money and precision.
I scrolled. Charcoal? Too dark against pink. Navy? Safe, but boring. Blush tones, soft rose, ivory with subtle sheen… Ethan in pale colors felt wrong, like putting a blade in pastel wrapping.
But I clicked anyway, and three pieces caught my eye:
- A slim-fit ivory tux with faint silver threading . It was elegant, modern and would make his shoulders look lethal under ceremony lights.
- A light taupe suit for the bachelor party. Relaxed but sharp, sleeves he could roll the way he always did.
And then,
- A soft blush-pink blazer with matching trousers. Bold, but if Emily wanted twinning, this would shut her up without making him look ridiculous.
I added all three to the cart. Hesitate, then checked out with my card even though his were already saved in the autofill. Of course they were.
Payment confirmed.
I snapped screenshots of the order, texted them to him:
[Done. Bought all three. Ivory for wedding, taupe & blush for bachelor. Let me know if you hate any.]
Sent.
Falling back into the pillows, I stared endlessly at the ceiling. The rain had slowed to a steady drum, thunder grumbling far off with a low, quieter sound.
The laptop was still open. His laptop. His personal laptop.
The temptation hit like a slap.
I sat up slowly, and weighed consequence against conscience.
Just… a quick look. What harm could it do? He handed it to me. Left it with me. Practically invited me.
The desktop was clean and organized, folders labeled with ruthless efficiency: Work, Travel, Archive, Photos, Music.
Music first… harmless.
Frank Ocean. Doja Cat. Chase Atlantic. A playlist titled “Late Nights.” I smirked. He had good taste.
Photos next.
Baby pictures, surpsingly so. Ethan as a kid with a gap-toothed grin while his parents beamed behind him. Family vacations, him at graduation with a crooked cap and arms crossed like he already owned the world.
Then, older shots.
One in particular caught my eye.
A guy… same height, similar build, dark hair.
They were laughing at a rooftop bar, arms around shoulders. It looked… intimate. In a way none of the pictures that followed did.
And then, another. They were at the beach, shirtless and visibly drunk. One at the club too, lips brushing cheeks, drinks raised.
My stomach twisted.
Who the hell was that?
I kept scrolling. The photos stopped being cute.
The last few: Ethan alone, shirt unbuttoned, eyes heavy-lidded while straight at the camera like he knew someone would see.
Like he *wanted* someone to see.
Then, a tucked-away folder labeled **Archive 3**
It looks vague, and was hidden between “Taxes 2024” and “Contracts Signed.”
Probably business. Probably none of my business.
Yet, I clicked, and the moment it opened, dozens of thumbnails loaded instantly.
Men. Entwined.
Bodies pressed tight with sweat-slick skin, hands gripping hips and mouths open in silent moans.
Some solo… thick c***s in fists, veins standing out, precum glistening.
Some pairs… dominant frames pinning willing ones to walls, beds, floors.
Leather cuffs. Rope. Blindfolds. One thumbnail showed a man on his knees, head tilted back, tongue out, waiting.
My breath stopped.
Every single one screamed dominance. Control. And the top always looked like Ethan. Those broad shoulders and commanding grip, the same coiled power I’d felt when he draped his arm over me in the diner.
I hovered over one file, and clicked before I could think.
The video thumbnail expanded. It was a guy bound to a headboard, wrists cuffed, legs spread.
Another man, tall, dark-haired with his face cropped out, stroked him teasingly slow, whispering something that made the bound one arch and beg.
The voice in the preview clip was low, controlled. Familiar.
I slammed the laptop shut. Heart in my throat.
He’s gay. Or bi. Or… something.
And he likes it… rough? The way he commands a boardroom is the same way he’d command a bed.
The same way he’d command *me*.
My d**k twitched against the towel, already betraying me with a hard, aching throb.
Guilt crashed in right after.
He’s marrying my sister. He just kissed her in front of me.
And then… me.
Fuck it. I couldn't help it. I opened the laptop again, back to Archive 3.
I didn’t click anything else. Just stared at the grid of thumbnails like they might burn me.
Then the door opened without a knock, and Ethan stepped inside.
The rain still glistened in his hair, jaw set like he’d been chewing on something bitter.
His eyes dropped to the open laptop. To the screen. To Archive 3.
His dirty laundry was out in the open.
I knew… everything!
But, unnervingly, he didn't flinch. Didn't look surprised.
He just closed the door behind him, and leaned back against it with his arms crossed.
“Find what you were looking for?”
His voice was calm. Too calm. The kind of calm that came right before something snapped.
My mouth opened, but nothing came out.
He pushed off the door, and walked towards me. Every step controlled and predatory until he stopped at the edge of the bed.
Then he looked down at me, towel barely on, mask half-gone, laptop glowing between us like evidence.
“You shouldn’t have looked,” he said quietly.
But his eyes said something else.
They said: You did. And now we both know.
He reached past me, then closed the laptop with one hand before leaning in.
His voice dropped to a whisper, rough at the edges.
“But you did.”
He moved even closer, thumb brushing my lower lip in one soft, deliberate stroke.
“Question is… what are you going to do about it, Marcus?”
- Writer
