"Sit," he commanded.
I lowered myself into the desk chair, achingly aware of his scrutiny. He remained pressed against the wall, safely outside the camera's range, but his presence saturated the room. My skin prickled, every nerve ending screaming for his touch even across the space.
"Remember," he said, his voice carrying clearly despite the distance. "You're tired of my restrictions. Frustrated by my control. Ready for a change."
"Yes." The word emerged strangled. I shifted in my seat, trying to ease the pressure against my erection.
"And if he asks about marks, about bruises?"
"A rough encounter at a club," I recited the lie we'd agreed upon. "Someone I picked up when you weren't watching."
His footsteps approached, the cane tapping against the floor. He stopped beside my chair, still outside the camera's view but close enough to touch. His hand found my throat, fingers unerringly locating the hidden bruises through the silk collar. I swallowed hard against his palm, my pulse racing. The pressure awakened the marks, sending heat pooling in my groin.
"Good man," he said softly, and those two words ignited liquid fire in my veins. "Don't disappoint me."
The laptop chimed with an incoming call.
Algerone's hand withdrew. He retreated quickly to the wall, his cane marking a rapid rhythm. I straightened, composing myfeatures into professional neutrality while my body screamed for his touch. The phantom pressure of his fingers lingered on my throat as I accepted the call.
Shaw's face filled the screen with his perfectly groomed silver hair, calculating eyes, the kind of surgical smile money buys. He looked exactly as he had eight years ago when he'd tried to purchase me away from Algerone. I let him see what he expected, a hint of tension, calculated frustration, while behind the camera, my true god watched.
"Maxime St. Germain," he purred. "You look tense. Is he working you too hard?"
I sensed Algerone's presence across the room, his stillness more commanding than any movement. In my peripheral vision, he stood against the wall, utterly motionless. But his eyes... they burned into me, noting every word, every gesture. My cock throbbed insistently, but I compartmentalized the sensation through decades of boardroom warfare.
"You have no idea," I replied, injecting the right amount of frustration. "He's becoming... insufferable."
The word burned my throat like acid. From the corner of my eye, I noticed Algerone's hand tighten on his cane. My body responded to that tiny movement, nipples hardening beneath silk, but my face remained perfectly controlled.
Shaw leaned forward, interest sharpening his features. "Oh? The great Algerone Caisse-Etremont showing cracks in his armor?"
I allowed a small, calculated smile. "Even titans age, Gideon. And age rarely improves temperament. After thirty-two years, you'd think he'd trust my judgment. But then, trust seems a finite resource in his world."
"Trust," Shaw mused, "is such a fragile thing. Once broken..." He let the implication hang.
"Indeed." I shifted slightly, ostensibly adjusting my position but trying to relieve the ache between my legs. The movement made my collar gap just enough. Shaw's eyes sharpened.
"That mark on your neck," he said slowly. "Did he do that?"
My pulse jumped. In the reflection, Algerone's knuckles whitened on his cane.
"Rough encounter at a club," I said smoothly, allowing a small smile while my stomach twisted. "You know how I like to unwind when he's not watching."
Shaw's expression turned predatory. "Still sampling the local talent? I remember your... appreciation for variety during our dinner in Manhattan."
The reference made my skin crawl. Shaw had purchased that escort thinking he gave me what I wanted. He never knew that all I'd ever wanted was the one man I couldn't have. The man watched from across the room now, his presence a physical weight.
"Variety keeps life interesting," I replied.
"Speaking of variety," Shaw leaned back, "I'm prepared to offer you everything Algerone never could. Creative freedom. Unlimited resources. And..." his smile widened, "a much more understanding approach to your personal needs."
My expression remained neutral, thoughtful. "Attractive promises," I acknowledged, tilting my head. "But I've built Lucky Losers from the ground up. I know every contract, every connection, every skeleton in every closet. That institutional knowledge isn't easily replaced."
Shaw's eyes gleamed. "Name your price."
"It's not about money." I let steel enter my voice, the tone that made hardened mercenaries retreat in boardrooms. "It's about respect. Partnership. Not just becoming another acquisition in your portfolio."
"You'd never be just another acquisition," Shaw assured me, leaning forward. "You'd be my right hand. My equal partner in expansion into markets Lucky Losers hasn't even dreamed of."
