Bossy

by N.R. Walker

Tall, dark hair, solid build, dark eyes, and a nervous smile. The way he looked around the bar told me he was new here, and he wasn’t sure he fit in. Call me superficial, but I could tell by his T-shirt that he didn’t fit in here.

It’s what made me good at my job. I could tell the serious buyers from the players by the way they walked. Like the four guys he’d walked in with. They were just four more suits and egos, but this guy was different. And his T-shirt was cool, as was the way he wore it. But in a room full of Armani, Brioni, and Gucci, he wore a vintage The Clash tee, black skinny jeans, and— Wait . . . Those were Alexander McQueen boots. I liked it.

This was just the means to an end. And this was going to be a very good end. I knew it already. He was confident, gorgeous, and well-built. The size of those boots better not be a disappointment . . . Okay, you know what? Don’t judge me. I said from the very beginning that I wanted a dicking. A very thorough dicking.

“Holy fuck,” I breathed, stepping back so I could look down. So not only was the size of his boots no lie whatsoever, but I was beginning to wonder if I’d bitten off more than I could chew. So to speak. He was big. He chuckled. “Still want it for hours?” Motherfucker. I managed to catch my breath. “God, yes.”

“No strings, no complications,” I added. “Just more of the best sex I’ve ever had.” “The best?” “You can turn up here and use my body like that any time you like.” “If you want me to turn up here and use your body like that, I’m more than happy to oblige.” His eyes shone with humour. “You took my dick like a champ.” This wasn’t a weird conversation to be having at all. “You give dick like a champ.”

“Twice really is adequate. Some would say great, even. Three is a milestone seldom reached.” I laughed and held up three fingers. “You set this precedent, not me.” “Nine o’clock?” “I’ll be here.” “Naked when you open the door, I hope.” I groaned out a laugh as I rolled over. “If you insist.” “I do.”

“So it’s new?” “No, that’s not it. I mean, it is new, but it’s not what you’re thinking.” “How do you know what I’m thinking?” “Well, it’s not anything remotely serious, let me put it like that.” “Ah.” She nodded knowingly. Her smile was cheeky and she leaned in. “A booty call.”

No. I wouldn’t ask him his name. I’d just have to make up a name for him instead. I could just go with the obvious like Mr Ed for his horse dick. Or I could call him Friday at Nine. Or maybe The Clash for his T-shirt, or Ticklish, or Sexy as Hell, or Cutest Laugh. Or maybe I could call him Late.

I waited by the door and pulled my robe around me tight. He knocked once and I opened the door. He was wearing tight jeans, a shirt with The Killers on it, and an apologetic smile. “You’re late,” I said flatly. He looked me up and down before meeting my eyes. “And you’re not naked.” “I was. At nine.”

I raised an eyebrow. “I’m impressed.” But getting back to the number exchange . . . I picked up my phone. “What’s your number?” He smiled as he ran it off to me, and I entered it in and shot him a quick text. Nice shirt. His phone beeped and he pulled it out of his pocket. He smiled when he read the message. He replied. You’re still wearing the robe. I chuckled. “Just so you know, I’m saving your name in my phone as SAF.” “Saf? What does that mean?” “Sexy as fuck.” He sipped his vodka, smiling. “I’m saving yours as Still Wearing the Fucking Robe.”

“Go and sit on the sofa. I’m going to grab the condoms and lube. Then I’m going to sink down on your monster cock and ride you till you come.” His nostrils flared and his breath hitched. But he began to thumb through his phone. “Gimme one sec. Just gonna change your name to Bossy.”

“Well, I can be arrogant too. And what was it? Bossy. Isn’t that what you called me?” “It is. It’s in my phone, so it stays.” I raised my chin. “It’s true. I am bossy. So I can’t even be mad about it.” “You called me Sexy as Fuck.” “Because you are. And it’s in my phone, so it stays.” I waved my hand at his torso, at the towel, at his face. “Exhibit A, your honour.”

“Give me a ten-second sales pitch,” Massa said. He was a business marketing major, so this was his thing. “Uh . . . ten seconds?” “Now you’ve got eight.” “Fuck.” “Seven.” “A Singaporean-style coffee house. Think Starbucks, but better. And Singaporean. Kopi and bubble tea, Asian desserts, merchandise, mugs and tumblers, coffee beans and syrups.”

“Oh, fuck,” Terrence said. “It’s Nameless Blondie.” “Who?” Luke asked. He was pretty smashed. “Nameless Blondie,” Terrence repeated. “The guy Bryce ditched us for the night he got back. The same guy he’s been seeing every weekend since then, aaaaaand the same guy he doesn’t know if he has a name. Well, we can assume he has a name, but Bryce here doesn’t know it. Their little arrangement doesn’t include much talking, apparently.”

He grinned, and he was just about to say something when the woman I’d seen him with earlier came over, clearly tipsy, and put her arm around his shoulder. “Michael, Michael, we need you over here.” His eyes shot straight to mine. Michael. Michael . . . I didn’t even try to hide my smile. I had his first name.

“You know the best thing about Netflix?” I asked. We were sitting on his couch, freshly showered. He’d given me a pair of running shorts to wear, which fit me like Lycra. I thought they were a tad tight, but the way he eyed the outline of my junk and licked his lips, I was keeping them on.

“Wh-thah?” he mumbled through a mouthful of food. I laughed. “Charming.” He managed to swallow and tried to playfully kick me. “Shut up. What’s the best thing about Netflix?” I pressed the Netflix button on the remote. “That your ‘because you watched’ section will tell me more about you than what you ever could.”

“I do apologise on behalf of Natalie Yang. She’s stuck in traffic in the tunnel, I believe. My name is Michael—” My words died right there, because the Mr Schroeder who walked in stopped me in my tracks. SAF stood there, staring at me. My SAF, the Sexy as Fuck, no-complications fuck-buddy who left my place this morning. But he looked different. Gone were the band T-shirts, skinny jeans, and trendy boots. Now he wore dark charcoal pants, Italian wool . . . Brioni, I was certain. His shirt was white, starched, and tailored just for his body. I’d never seen anything so gorgeous.

“So, is it Bryson or Bryce? Or can I just keep calling you SAF?” He grinned. “My friends call me Bryce.” I bit the inside of my lip so I didn’t smile too big. He considered me one of his friends. And not the friend-zone kind either, but more than an acquaintance.

“I must say, the suit is nice and all, but I think I prefer the Purple Rain shirt.” He grinned. “You already know how I feel about you in your suit.” I laughed. He wanted me to wear it when I opened the door on Friday night. “Right. The robe has lost its appeal. I forgot.” “Oh no, the appeal of the robe still exists. But those pants and your—” I stopped walking. “Okay. I think I need to stop you right there.”

“If someone tells you it can’t be done, what they’re saying is they couldn’t do it. If they’re not good enough or not brave enough to make it happen is something only they can answer.” I shrugged.

“Ooh, early dinner. Usually reserved for people with children or by the elderly folk who like to be home by eight.” “Or reserved by a guy who wants to eat early so he can then scope out a new venue, and then,” I added brightly, “perhaps more sex.” “More sex? Does this impede on the three-times quota?” He made me smile. “You drive a hard bargain.” “I’m having some serious concerns for my ar—a certain part of my anatomy. Given the bargain you drive is not small, by any means.” I barked out a laugh. “Well, I’m all for giving that certain part of your anatomy a break, but I seem to recall someone begging for it.” “Begging is a strong choice of verb. It implies the desperation of a homeless person in a Charles Dickens’ book.” Chuckling, I cupped my hands and held them to him. “Please, sir. Can I have some more?”

“I shouldn’t have shown you that place.” “What?” What the fuck? “Why not?” “Because I can’t guarantee you’ll get it. While I’d like to say it’s a possibility, it’s highly likely it’ll go to someone else.” “If I can’t have it, why the hell did you show it to me?” “Because I knew it’d be perfect. I want you to have the perfect place. And it was a good idea until you looked at me like you did back there . . .” He ran his hand through his hair. “Fuck!” What? “How did I look at you back there?” “You smiled . . . you smiled at me like . . .” He shook his head. “And now you’ll blame me if you don’t get it. Which will be fair. It will be my fault, and I don’t want you to blame me. I don’t want to see that smile die in front of me because I couldn’t get you this place.”

“So does your business have a name?” “Ah.” He blushed and sat back in his seat. “It does. I think. But it might sound stupid. I don’t know yet. I’ve had a logo done but I’m having second thoughts . . .” “Why?” He shrugged. “It might be . . . immature. I dunno.” “What is it?” I was more than curious now. “Kopi Kat.” He tapped his fingertip on the table and chewed on his lip.

“How did you hear about this place?” I asked, putting my cutlery on the plate. I literally couldn’t eat another bite. “Massa, a friend of mine. How he heard about it is anyone’s guess.” “Well, thank him for me. That meal was amazing.” He laughed. “I’m not telling him. He’ll ask if I blindfolded you to get here. It must remain a secret.” I laughed at that. “The Fight Club of restaurants.”

“I’m Blade Runner?” He pretended to be offended. “Guess it could be worse.” “That movie was epic, by the way. But this place is very you.” He leaned back in his seat and met my gaze. “How so?” Oh god. How to phrase this? “Well, you want to fly under the radar, no fanfare, no pretences. You’re fine dining without the signage and pretentious advertising. Understated, a little eclectic, but genuine.”

He signalled for a waiter, paid the tab, and we left. Not before I got an exquisite view of his arse and that fucking bulge in the front of those dark grey suit pants. He, of course, caught me checking him out. “See something you like?” “I was just thinking that the suit designers and fitters at Brioni should get a pay rise and possibly a commendation of merit for their aesthetic efforts to gay men all over the world.”

“My first thought was that you didn’t belong there, surrounded by ten-thousand-dollar suits, because you weren’t rich enough. And that’s where I was wrong. You don’t fit in with that crowd because you’re better than them.” “You think money means—” “No,” I reached over and took his hand. “I’m not explaining this right. It’s not the money. Not to you. But it is to them. That’s all it is to them. They think respect and self-worth are directly proportionate to their net value. But you’re not like that. You walked into that bar wearing jeans and a T-shirt with more integrity than they could dream of. Because you know your self-worth, and you know that fake bullshit is cheap.” I sighed, hoping I’d explained myself. “That was my first impression of you. Confident, classy, and sexy as fuck. In a vintage The Clash shirt.”

“Well, yes. Then there’s no blurred lines or conflicts of interest. But only if you want to,” he added quickly. “I just thought . . . maybe . . .” He let out a laugh that became a sigh. “I want to keep seeing you. And if the professional thing is going to mess with the personal thing, I’d rather it didn’t. If we had a choice, I’d rather choose the personal.” Oh my god. “I want to keep seeing you too,” I whispered, my heart in my throat. I put my free hand to my chest. “I thought you were going to tell me you didn’t want to see me anymore.” He grinned. “I thought you were going to say that.” I laughed, so very relieved. “Thank you for speaking up. For saying that.”

And then I heard the very familiar intercom buzzer. I heard Susannah say something, but it took a second to register what it was . . . Oh my god. Time seemed to move in slow motion, all hot and cold and pulsing in my ears, and by the time I pulled on some shorts, I almost fell over trying to get out to my living room just in time to see my dad open the door. Bryce stood there in his Purple Rain T-shirt and jeans, holding up a pair of Speedos. “Get ready—” His words died right then and there, and he spotted me behind my dad. “Come in, son,” Dad said. “You must be the boy Michael was just telling us about.” And I swear to fucking god, my soul left my body.

“I was wearing the robe when they turned up. With Speedos. If that’s any indication of how my evening is going.” “I waved a pair of the smallest Speedos I could buy in front of your father’s face,” I added. “If you’re wondering how my evening’s going.” He looked up then and almost smiled. “Fucking hell. I’m so sorry.” I took a sip from the vodka bottle and relished the burn. “I could tell by your face. The horror-stricken, absolutely mortified look on your face told me you didn’t plan this.” “Plan this?” He was back to looking horror-stricken. “I’d rather plan a colon cleanse with bleach and a toilet brush.”

I showered at his place, left my Prince T-shirt on his bed, and picked out a clean shirt from his wardrobe. It was a bit tight, but I didn’t care. I wanted to wear his shirt, and I wanted him to have mine. I wanted to see him in it, I wanted him to smell like me, I wanted him to have some part of me, and I wanted him to think of me while he wore it.

“There is something we do need to talk about, though,” he said. “What’s that?” “Dinner, because I’m starving. And your BTS shirt.” “Leave my shirt alone.” He laughed. “No, I want it. You can keep the Purple Rain one. I want this one.” “You can’t have it.” “Yes, I can.” “No, you can’t. It’s mine.” “I’m pretty sure you’ll give it to me.” “Is that right?” He ran his hands down my back and over my arse, and he rolled his hips, grinding against me. “Yeah.”

I tightened my arms around him and something warm and lovely settled beneath my ribs. My heart felt too big for my chest, as if it had grown big enough for two. As scary as it was, as much as it took the ground from underneath me, I relished the freefall. I loved him. I was in love with him. I don’t know how that happened. How we’d gone from a casual hook-up, from something fun and flirty to this. To love. But that’s where I was. That’s what this was. I couldn’t deny it. I wouldn’t. I was in love with Michael Piersen.

He got out first, and when I came out with no more than a towel around my waist, he was dressed in his jeans . . . And my BTS shirt. “Hey.” He laughed. “Told you I’d get it.” My mouth fell open. “That’s not how this works.” He ran his fingers through his hair, brushing it back from his face. His grin was breathtaking. “It’s exactly how this works.” He picked up his shirt from the floor—the oversized one that made him look hot as hell—and threw it at me. “You can wear that.” “You’re so bossy.”

Bryce. But not like I’d seen him before. He was wearing a full three-piece suit. A dark grey suit very clearly made just for him because that fit was like a second skin. It showed his muscular thighs, his trim waist, broad shoulders, and exquisite neck and hair . . . I almost tripped over my own feet.

He grinned and stepped over to me, his palm found my cheek, his eyes bore into mine. “I like how it sounds too.” He kissed me softly. “Boyfriends, exclusive, just you and me.” I could barely whisper. “Just you and me.”

“Michael,” I said, my voice barely a whisper. “I’m falling in love with you.” He blinked, pale skin in the darkness, his eyes wide and shining like a galaxy. “Bry . . .” “You don’t have to say anything,” I blurted out. “I just wanted you to know. My friends could tell. I’m different with you. I’m better. I was at the bar, watching you laugh with them, and I just needed to tell you how I feel. So there it is. I’m in love with you, but I don’t expect anything in return. That’s not why—” “I’m falling in love with you too,” he said, and my entire body thrilled at his words. “I think I loved you from the first night I met you.”

But after I’d eaten too much, my eyelids began to droop. I patted my belly. “Oh, carbs activated,” I said. “Coma in four, three, two . . .” He laughed and took my hand. “To bed with you.” We stripped down to our underwear, I set my alarm for far-too-early o’clock, and we crawled into bed. But this time, he pulled me close, his arms tight around me, my head on his shoulder. He rubbed my back, stroked my hair, and I was warm and content, so loved that I slept like the dead.

“I worry for him.” He looked at me then, his gaze piercing. “I worry that he has too much on his plate. And seeing him in there just now, I can see how happy he is. Maybe he was never cut out for the hotel industry. Maybe I knew that all along. Seeing how invested he is in his business . . . It was the right decision for him.” “Yes, it was.” Then that fucker looked me right in the eye. “That’s why I’m asking you to walk away.”

“What did you say to him?” He sighed as if I was some petulant child. “I explained that if he truly understood how much your new enterprise meant to you, he’d make himself less of a priority.” My blood ran ice cold and steaming hot at the same time, and I swear my vision blurred. I wanted to punch the ever-loving shit outta something. “You’re lucky this conversation is over the phone and I’m not standing in front of you,” I said, my voice low and seething. “Bryce—” “You don’t get to make decisions for me! You had no right!” I thumped my hand down on the table and tried to speak more calmly. “You had no right to even speak to him. I’m going to see him now, and I swear to God, if he won’t see me . . .” I disconnected the call before I could actually threaten him.

“I’m going to fucking kill him,” I breathed. Michael shook his head and pulled away. He used the sleeve of his shirt to dry his tears and he took a breath. “I didn’t want to ruin your first day,” he whispered. Then he started to cry again. “It was supposed to be special.” I took his hand and led him to the couch. We sat side by side but I held his hand in mine. “Tell me what he said.” He shook his head again, but not as though he didn’t want to tell me. It was more that he didn’t want to relive it. I dunno. He just looked so damn sad. “He said if I cared for you at all, I should understand that you need to focus on your shop.” “But that’s not true,” I replied. “Isn’t it?” he shrugged.

He sounded so defeated, as if he agreed with what my father had said. “Michael, please.” “I’m just . . . I’m sorry. But what he said really hurt me.” “Baby, he’s not me. What he said doesn’t reflect how I feel. I love you. That hasn’t changed.” “I know, and I love you too.” “But?” I knew it was coming. I could feel it. “But I think I need a little time.” My heart beat in my chest like a hummingbird caught in a snare. “Are you . . . are you breaking up with me?” He shook his head and fresh tears streamed down his face. “No. I don’t want to.” He chewed on his bottom lip. “But I need some time.”

“Bryce.” “Dad.” He looked away first. “Look. I know what you’re going to say.” “You have no idea what I’m about to say.” His eyes narrowed at me and I wondered if that was how he’d looked at Michael. It fuelled my resolve to have this conversation. “You told Michael to leave me.”

“You don’t get to parent me now. Dad, I love you, and I respect all you’ve accomplished. And yes, there was always food in the fridge and a roof over my head, but you never parented me. Wanna know who taught me how to tie shoelaces? Julia, the nanny from Ireland. I was five. Who helped me with my homework projects in primary school? Sharline, the nanny from England. Then I went to boarding school. Oh, and who taught me how to drive? Roger.” Roger had been my dad’s personal driver for years. “So don’t come at me with your parenting high horse bullshit.”

“You’re not sorry.” The words were out before I could stop them. “What you did was cruel and unnecessary, and for no one’s benefit but your own.”

“Yes! I love him. And I won’t apologise to you for being happy. Well, I was happy. Until you fucked it up. You have just been biding your time and waiting, waiting, waiting for me to fuck something up. A successful business or a successful relationship, like they can’t exist in the same universe. But I can have both. If it kills me, god, I will have both. But now he won’t even speak to me because of what you said.”

I kissed him, soft and sweet. “I just want to cuddle on the couch. I want to lie with you, hold you close, and think about nothing.” Then as an afterthought, I added, “Oh, and I want my BTS shirt back.” He grinned. “Four out of five, I can do.”

“Michael,” he murmured, holding my shirt so I couldn’t leave. “If I asked you to love me forever, would you?” Forever . . . “I will already love you forever,” I replied, still unsure what he was getting at. “No, if I asked you if you’d be with me forever . . .” His tired brown eyes met mine. “Would you be with me forever? If I asked. Because I’m asking. Love me forever. Say you will. Because I will only want you until the day I die. There is no one else for me. There’s nothing else for me but you. Forever. Michael.”