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.
The position feels right in a way I can’t explain. Like I’m finally where I belong.
Slade stands, the movement fluid and controlled. He crosses the short distance between us, stopping in front of me. From this angle, I have to tilt my head to look up at him. His hand reaches out, fingers threading through my damp hair, gripping just tight enough to hold me in place.
“Do you understand why you’re being punished?”
“Because I flirted with Zara to make you jealous.”
“And?”
