Chapter Text
Taking a sip of his drink—fifteen-year-old Macallan Fine Oak, the only drinkable Scotch on the menu—Kinn flicked his eyes to the stage, more out of boredom than actual interest. He scanned over the half-naked bodies on display, skin glistening and muscles contracting with each movement as they swayed to the music. Calling it dancing would be a stretch, though they did call themselves dancers, or so Kinn was told, or rather corrected, by Time, every time he let the term “strippers” slip. More often than not, he did it just to fuck with him—Time’s indignant “They are called dancers” and Tay’s amused snort keeping him entertained.
He'd reached a silent agreement with Tay to indulge Time every so often and endure coming to this place, if only to shut him up. But the sleezy patrons, the sticky floors, the distinct smell of sweat and dried semen turned Kinn’s stomach every time. He felt indelibly unclean, like no matter the amount of time he’d spend in the shower, he couldn’t get the grime off.
He picked up his drink, swirling the dark liquid around. He always drank to excess here. The alcohol was the only thing that made the experience remotely tolerable. He looked up as he tipped his glass back—
And promptly choked, his throat burning.
Coughing like a two-pack-per-day smoker, he ignored Tay’s concerned look, gaze glued to the stage. He blinked back the cough-induced tears, his vision, along with his airway, slowly clearing. He took a long breath.
The man—the stripper, or dancer, whatever—on the stage was exquisite. Tall, lean muscle, perfect body proportions. Sharp eyes. Probably the most attractive facial features Kinn had ever seen on a man, and he’d seen a lot of men. He made everyone else on the stage look like a troop of oversized, epileptic monkeys.
The man made a half-spin, and Kinn nearly choked again—on his own saliva this time—at the sight of his ass, the perfect round shape stretching his briefs to their limit.
He wasn’t sure how long he just stared unblinkingly ahead, but when he finally woke up from his trance and became aware of his surroundings, he realized—
He was salivating. His heart was pounding in his chest. He felt hot, feverishly so.
And he was hard.
He closed his eyes, shocked at his reaction, betrayed by his own body. He’d feel humiliated, except the only thought his brain was able to produce right now was how much he fucking wanted.
He glanced over his shoulder, gesturing to his bodyguards, then his eyes pulled back to the stage like metal to magnet.
“Khun Kinn?” said Big, or maybe Ken. Kinn was too focused on the sight before him to make the distinction.
“Get me the manager.”
~~~
Despite his childhood being largely shit, filled with an army of bodyguards (preventing him from going anywhere or doing anything remotely fun) and a parade of teachers quizzing him on guns, tactics, and finance from the time he had stopped pissing in his diapers and graduated to a full-size, gold-plated toilet, when it came to the materialistic side of life, Kinn had never lacked for anything.
Pa had bought him his first Maserati when he was five. He’d been assigned a personal driver named Igor, who spoke broken Thai, was roughly a hundred years old (as per five-year-old Kinn’s estimation), and smelled like Kinn’s full-size, gold-plated toilet. But Kinn had adored Igor because he would take Kinn (and an army of bodyguards) on secret adventures. They’d play catch in the park, hunt deer in the woods, then stop for ice cream on the way back. Igor had represented a parental figure to Kinn, in many ways exceeding that of his own father, until he’d gotten shot by a rival mob when Kinn was twelve.
Little Kinn had owned a truckload of toys that he would play with once or twice before replacing it with shining new toys that would meet a similar fate a few days later. He would get the newest consoles and videogames on the market (and sometimes before they’d hit the market).
The trend had continued to early adulthood, when he would handpick the men he’d wanted—pretty, pliant, non-confrontational. The nice type. He’d never lacked for things. For beautiful men. For really good sex.
He contemplated all this as he thought back on his earlier conversation with the manager of that shithole.
My sincere apologies, sir, but Porsche does not accept clients in that sort of capacity.
Kinn’s first reaction had been to snort. In his personal experience, everyone had a price.
Or so he’d thought.
He still maintained the same opinion an hour later as he leaned back against the leather seat of his newest Maserati, the lights of Bangkok’s skyline flickering in the darkness behind the beams of a bridge they were passing over. He’d stopped at four hundred thousand Baht because, despite wanting him—Porsche—very, very badly, he still had some dignity left. He thought anything in excess of that amount would just make him look desperate.
He took out his phone, scrolling through the photos sent by the agency he liked to use. They were discreet, accommodating, and had a vast selection of pretty men to choose from.
He frowned as he caught himself discarding one after another. They all suddenly seemed lacking, like each of them was deficient in some way or other—not a single one was adequate.
He closed the list in frustration. This would not do. He was horny, and he wasn’t about to do the work himself.
He opened his messages, typing the name in the search box. There were very few escorts he would see more than once, and Nes was one of the exceptions—a doll-eyed, beautiful man, who sucked cock so well that a couple of times Kinn had been on the verge of passing out from the sheer pleasure this man had given him.
Sighing, he keyed in a brief message, then pressed send on the screen.
He really fucking needed that right now.
~~~
An hour later, with Nes’s pretty mouth hard at work, Kinn’s unwanted thoughts were dissipating like smoke as Nes sucked him with the proficiency of a first-class Dyson (Kinn had never touched a vacuum cleaner in his life, but he’d seen the commercials).
Groaning, he clutched Nes’s hair like a vice, controlling the speed. It felt good. He was finally getting relaxed, and he let his eyes drift shut.
Heat coiled in his groin, and in the next moment, a stream of uninvited thoughts rushed to the forefront of his consciousness. He groaned louder, the image of Porsche dancing as if he didn’t have a care in the world forcibly entering his mind.
He snaped his eyes open to chase away the image, focusing on Nes’s pretty eyes, his hollowed cheeks, his full lips wrapped around Kinn’s cock.
The pleasure that had been rapidly building escaped out of reach, and Kinn groaned again, in frustration this time.
Fuck.
He didn’t have the energy to chase it again. He needed to come, needed the release.
Son of a—
He’d just have to—
He closed his eyes. He pictured Porsche’s firm ass swinging to the music, his body sensually moving to the beat, his expression care-free, self-indulgent, sharp eyes piercing Kinn.
Kinn moaned through his orgasm like a two-bit whore, his hips thrusting up, driving his cock into the warm mouth, riding out the shockwaves of bliss.
When the last aftershock rippled through his body, his eyes flew open. He stared at the ceiling, his mind a whirlwind of thoughts instead of the peaceful post-orgasmic state he’d hoped for.
Well, fuck. This had officially turned into a thing.
~~~
This thing, as he so descriptively called it, grew like a parasite inside him. It started fairly innocuously, with his mind conjuring up images of the man at random—and occasionally not so random—times throughout the day, during mundane activities like eating, exercising, holding a guy at gunpoint, or when he was stroking himself to orgasm in the shower. Sure, it was a bit inconvenient and distracting, but he could live with it.
He could still make a reasonable justification for his behavior a week later when he returned to the dump, as inconspicuous as possible and with a minimal number of bodyguards present. He was sure that, over the past week, his brain must have completely exaggerated the man’s appearance, so he came here to look for all the imperfections that he’d missed the first time. He planned to find as many flaws in the man as he could, then move on. Maybe he’d still have time to text Nes later that night and fuck him like he hadn’t been able to fuck anyone since this thing.
It was a solid plan. He had it all figured out.
Except when Porsche came onto the stage and started dancing, Kinn’s body was unwillingly put through the same series of reactions as that first night—mouth salivating, heart galloping, heat spreading like wildfire, dick hard—and he had to concede that this thing had turned into a problem. A real problem that, depending on how things would play out, had the potential to have real consequences.
That night, he lay in bed awake for a long time, an unfamiliar excitement buzzing just beneath his skin. Though he knew the trigger, he didn’t understand it. Nothing had happened. He’d just watched Porsche dance, but even that had apparently given him some sort of thrill. He felt like he was high on something, and it felt really fucking good. But he was too wired to sleep, too fluttery to even think about bringing himself off.
He came back the following night (because what if last night had been a fluke?), and then the next night. He stopped trying to justify his actions after that. Porsche was a highly addictive drug. Kinn would be appalled at how quickly he’d become an addict, except it felt too good to give a shit.
Acquiring Porsche’s schedule was child’s play. He didn’t even need Arm’s help because, astoundingly, the shithole had a detailed website. On the nights that Porsche wasn’t working, a void grew in Kinn’s chest—an aching emptiness. He felt as though he didn’t get his fix—irritable, distracted, too restless to fall asleep.
He had Arm dig into Porsche’s past. He studied the contents of the folder meticulously, memorizing every detail. Porsche was an orphan who took care of his little brother. He worked two other jobs besides dancing—street fighting and bartending—and juggled various side hustles with attending college. His uncle was a gambler, and his family’s debt wasn’t insignificant, even by Kinn’s standards.
By the end of the third week, Kinn had a four-gigabyte folder titled “Porsche” in his gallery. His phone was kind enough to send him helpful statistics on app usage, like the average amount of time he spent using the Photos app (four hours per day in the past week). He couldn’t pinpoint exactly when he’d begun to jerk off exclusively to pictures of Porsche, but it had become his daily routine. He had several favorites and knew which image to pull up when he needed to get off quickly. The one time he’d tried to fuck Nes, he’d ended up propping his phone against Nes’s back as he’d pounded into him, keeping his eyes fixed on an image of Porsche on a motorcycle, his lean chest peeking through a half-buttoned shirt, a bright smile playing on his lips.
Kinn was a rational man. Logical. He did not act on emotions. He’d been taught to suppress his emotions since before he could even spell “emotions”. But his problem wasn’t rational. He didn’t understand it. He’d never wanted anything or anyone as much as he wanted Porsche. He wasn’t even sure what it was, precisely, that he wanted from him. Did he want to own him?
In his personal experience, yes—want implied a desire to own. But somehow he didn’t think it applied to how he felt about Porsche.
Regardless of what it was that he actually wanted, the sheer potency of it was beginning to spiral out of control. Obsession implied weakness. People with strong characters did not get obsessed. Kinn had never had to question the strength of his character. He exuded confidence and authority that commanded respect. His enemies regarded him as one tough sonofabitch. But the way he felt about Porsche forced him to admit, if only to himself, that he had fallen into a deep pit of obsession that was more intense than he’d ever thought himself capable of.
There were very few things in life he feared, but this scared the shit out of him.
~~~
“What can I get you?”
Sharp eyes looked directly at Kinn, and for several long seconds, Kinn forgot how to breathe.
“I’ll have . . . an Old fashioned,” he managed to get out once he remembered he was capable of speech. He wasn’t about to risk drinking whatever passed for Scotch around here.
Porsche nodded, reaching for a bottle of whiskey, and Kinn tried not to wince at the brand.
He watched the effortless movement of Porsche’s hands following the simple recipe—one sugar cube, pour bitters, add water, stir, add ice cubes, pour whiskey, garnish with an orange twist—a wave of arousal washing over him at the display of easy competency.
“Here you are.” He slid the glass in front of Kinn. “Enjoy,” he said good-naturedly, throwing a smile at Kinn that went straight to his chest.
Kinn released the breath he’d been holding. The proximity to this man made his skin tingle and his heart pound. The same thrill he got from watching Porsche dance spiraled through him, but more intense, as if he’d doubled his usual dose of the drug.
“Thank you.” He attempted to smile back, with dubious success. He took a sip, letting the caramel, vanilla, and oak flavors coat his tongue, then swallowed, the sweet liquid sliding down his throat.
“This is good.” There was surprise in his voice—too obvious, but too late to tone it down.
Porsche raised an eyebrow at him. “What, didn’t expect it would be, in this fine establishment?”
Kinn knew when to remain silent, thanks to his stellar upbringing as the son of a mafia boss.
Porsche smirked at him, and Kinn felt a strong urge to kiss that smirk off his face. He quashed it with the same determination the Bomb Squad disarmed explosives.
He took a breath in, then let it out slowly. “I’m Kinn.”
A look of surprise flashed in Porsche’s eyes, and then his smile widened. Kinn stared. He really was exceptionally beautiful.
“Porsche. It’s nice to meet you, Kinn.”
Kinn felt a jolt of warmth at the sound of his name coming from his lips. He snapped his gaze up, realizing he’d been blatantly staring. Porsche’s eyes were focused on something behind Kinn, his expression sobering. Tilting his head, he looked back at Kinn. “Friends of yours?”
Biting down on a sigh, Kinn turned around. He sent Big and Ken—stationed directly behind him like a pair of mother hens—a sharp look, eyes jerking to the exit in a subtle signal. They thankfully took the hint, decidedly less subtly striding to the door, where they assumed a guard stance. Kinn suppressed an eyeroll at their flair for the dramatic, then turned back to Porsche.
“They’re shy,” Kinn explained, shrugging his shoulders.
Porsche gave a snort, pulling a rag from underneath the bar. He wiped the counter in front of Kinn, then threw the rag over his shoulder, hands already busy washing glasses at the sink. He threw a too casual glance at Kinn. “So, what can I do for you, Khun Kinn?”
His sudden formality stung a little. “Eh? I came here to have a drink,” he replied nonchalantly, lifting his glass as proof.
Porsche looked him up and down, eyes lingering on his watch. “Uh-huh. Your kind of place, is it?”
Kinn took a long sip. Keeping his gaze trained on Porsche, he licked his lips. “I’ve heard the bartender’s got skills.”
Porsche didn’t respond, but he didn’t break the eye contact either. As the seconds ticked by, Kinn’s body began to react to the unwavering attention from the object of his burning, irrational desire. A wave of heat pulsed through him, and his heart was—kill him now—fluttering.
He was a mafia boss, who was a teenage girl at heart, apparently. He held back a scoff, clearing his throat instead. And when the fuck had he developed that nervous tic?
Mafia boss. People pissed their pants when he entered a room, and not because they had difficulty with bladder control. He squared his shoulders, folded his arms. He sharpened his expression to one he reserved for handling tough negotiations.
“Name your price.”
For a moment, Porsche looked adorably confused. Then, shock spread across his face. “I beg your pardon?”
Did he stutter? “I would like to pay you. For services rendered. The type of service is your choice—I am open to negotiation. Name your price and I will meet it.” He kept his voice soft and patient. More flies—or in this case, cock—with honey, or so the saying went, he’d never actually tested it out. Bullets and cash worked just as well, in his experience.
Porsche stared at him incredulously. “Are you asking me to . . . whore myself out?”
Kinn bit off a sigh. This was going fucking wonderfully. “I am offering you a business deal. A very lucrative one where you get to name the price. Any price.”
Porsche closed his eyes, his nostrils flaring as he took a deep breath. He squeezed his hands into fists on the edge of the counter, knuckles turning white. “I am not a—” he cut himself off, then shook his head. “I don’t fuck—or get fucked—for money,” he said sharply, eyes snapping open and pinning Kinn with a look that promised a slow and painful death to anyone who dared to challenge that statement.
Fuck, he was cute. Kinn had never had to work for it this hard.
“If it’s the physical part that’s bothering you . . . we could work something out,” he suggested reasonably.
Porsche looked at him dubiously, eyes questioning.
“I could just watch,” Kinn said softly.
He heard a sharp inhale. Porsche’s gaze darted away, his cheeks turning red. Kinn wanted to run his fingers over the darkening skin.
“Watch what, exactly?” Porsche asked so quietly it was almost a whisper, not meeting Kinn’s eyes.
Kinn considered his options while trying to stay realistic. He finally settled on, “I’d like you to dance for me.”
Porsche snapped his head up, eyes boring into Kinn. “You’ve seen me dance.” It wasn’t a question, and Kinn detected a hint of accusation in his voice.
“I love the way you dance,” Kinn admitted, letting genuine admiration seep into his tone.
Porsche angled his head to the side, searching Kinn’s face as though attempting to solve a puzzle.
Kinn’s gaze didn’t waver. “Also . . .”
God, he wanted him. He wanted everything. He wasn’t about to risk losing any chance he might have, though, by succumbing to greed. But maybe . . .
“This might be hard to believe, but what I actually want most is to . . . make you feel good.”
He realized it was true when he said it. With slow, unhurried movements, he leaned in, pausing near Porsche’s ear. “I’d make it so good for you, Porsche.” His voice came out so soft and gentle he barely recognized it as his own.
He heard Porsche suck in a breath, saw a shiver run through him. He held back the smile that threatened to break out and eased back a little, watching Porsche closely. “But if you don’t let me pleasure you, then how about I watch you pleasure yourself?” He allowed the smile to form this time. “I promise to keep a respectful distance at all times.”
Porsche’s expression was a blend of shock and disbelief, but Kinn hoped he wasn’t imagining the tiny flare of interest in his eyes. He held onto the faint glimmer of hope like a drowning man clutching at a straw.
For all the suave act he’d put on, his ears and neck were growing warm. His gaze fell to his drink—an inept negotiation move that would have earned him a calm yet deadly look of disappointment from pa. What in the—
He resolutely picked up his glass and took a long sip. He wasn’t an amateur, for fuck’s sake.
Seconds stretched into minutes, but neither of them spoke. Kinn’s heart began to feel heavy, like it would plummet and rip through his diaphragm at any moment. It was a somber, foreign feeling. He knew avoiding eye contact was a poor tactic, but he couldn’t bring himself to raise his eyes.
“Why?” There was genuine puzzlement in Porsche’s simple question.
Kinn felt an unfamiliar shyness well up inside him. Hesitating, he spun his glass in a slow circle, toying with it, before finally looking up to meet Porsche’s questioning gaze.
“I like you,” he said simply. The words tasted foreign, juvenile on his tongue—completely inadequate to how he actually felt. He held his breath, searching Porsche’s face to gauge his reaction.
It seemed it was the right thing to say because Porsche’s expression eased a little. He appeared mildly exasperated, but also like maybe he found Kinn charming, however slightly. Kinn counted it as a win. Porsche was fucking considering it, Kinn was certain.
Porsche’s eyes turned conflicted, like he got caught in an internal argument, for a long, painful moment before finally sighing in defeat. He squared his shoulders, crossed his arms, then sent Kinn a level look. “Five hundred thousand Baht.”
Kinn was careful not to move a single facial muscle, maintaining an expression of polite interest, though inside he was bouncing like a kid on a sugar high. He’d been prepared to pay several million. Heart pounding against his ribcage, he extended his hand.
“It’s a deal.”