Forbidden Daddy Desires: Steamy MM

He didn’t let me finish him.

After Leo’s footsteps faded, Alistair simply tucked himself back into his trousers, leaving me kneeling on the floor, hard and aching and utterly humiliated.

“A pity about the interruption,” he said, his voice smooth as silk as he fastened his belt. He looked completely unruffled, while I felt like I’d been put through a wringer. “But I suppose it builds character. And anticipation.”

He helped me to my feet, his hands steadying me on my arms. My legs felt like jelly. I quickly pulled my trousers back on, my hands fumbling with the zipper.

“You’ll finish what you started,” he said, it wasn’t a question. It was a statement of fact. “But not here. Not now.”

He straightened my tie for me, his touch infuriatingly paternal. “You’re a remarkable young man, Julian. Truly. Go back to the gala. Smile. Mingle with Leo. Act like nothing happened. Can you do that for me?”

I could only nod, my throat too tight to form words.

“Good boy,” he said, and the praise, as condescending as it was, sent a fresh wave of heat through me. He unlocked the door and held it open for me. “I will join the party later.”

I walked back into the ballroom on shaky legs, my face burning. I felt like everyone could see what I’d just done, that the scent of him was still on my breath. I avoided Leo’s gaze, grabbing another glass of champagne and downing it in one go.

The rest of the evening was a blur of forced smiles and meaningless small talk. I could feel Alistair’s eyes on me from across the room, a constant, heavy presence. Leo tried to talk to me a few more times, but I gave him short, non-committal answers, my mind too scrambled to hold a coherent conversation.

Finally, it was over. As people were leaving, my phone buzzed one last time.

Mr. Sterling: My car. Outside. Now.

I found the sleek black town car waiting at the curb. The driver opened the door for me, and I slid into the plush leather interior. Alistair was already there, a glass of whiskey in hand. He said nothing as the car pulled away from the curb, merging into the city traffic.

We drove in silence for a long time, the city lights blurring past the tinted windows. My anxiety ratcheted up with every passing block. Where was he taking me?

“Do you know why I agreed to fund that new arts wing, Julian?” he asked suddenly, breaking the silence.

I shook my head.

“Potential,” he said, turning to look at me. “I believe in nurturing potential. In shaping it. And you, my boy, are brimming with it. You have a fire in you. A… recklessness. It’s what makes your art so compelling. And it’s what makes you so incredibly vulnerable.”

He reached over and placed his hand on my thigh, his grip firm. “I can make you a star, Julian. I can get you into any gallery you want. I can ensure you never have to worry about money again. All you have to do is what you’re told. When you’re told.”

The car pulled up to a high-rise apartment building, all glass and steel. The driver opened my door. We went up in a private elevator, opening directly into a penthouse apartment that was stunningly minimalist and breathtakingly expensive. The floor-to-ceiling windows offered a panoramic view of the entire city.

He led me to the bedroom, a vast space with a king-sized bed that looked like it was floating in the middle of the room. He turned to face me, shrugging off his tuxedo jacket.

“Now,” he said, his voice low and gravelly. “Where were we?”

This time, there was no rush. He undressed me slowly, his hands and lips exploring every inch of my body. He was in complete control, dictating the pace, the pressure, the intensity. He pushed me back onto the bed, his mouth finding mine, his kiss demanding and possessive. He tasted of whiskey and power.

He was right. I was putty in his hands. I wanted everything he was offering, and I hated myself for it. I arched into his touch, my body betraying my mind, my soft moans filling the quiet room.

“You see?” he murmured against my skin. “You were made for this. For me.”

He moved down my body, his mouth leaving a trail of fire. He took me into his mouth, and I cried out, my hands fisting in the expensive sheets. He was skilled, relentless, driving me to the edge again and again before pulling back, leaving me gasping and begging.

“Please, Mr. Sterling,” I whimpered, not even knowing what I was begging for. Release? Mercy?

“Call me Alistair,” he commanded, before flipping me over onto my stomach. He pulled my hips up, and I felt the cool, slick liquid of lube being applied. Then, he was pushing into me, a slow, relentless stretch that burned and pleased in equal measure.

He filled me completely, his body blanketing mine, his lips against my ear. “You’re mine now, Julian. Say it.”

“I’m yours,” I gasped, as he began to move, his thrusts deep and punishing. “I’m yours, Alistair.”

The pleasure was overwhelming, a tidal wave that swept away everything else. I was lost in the sensation, in the feeling of him taking me, claiming me. I felt my orgasm building, a tight coil in my gut, and I knew I wouldn’t last much longer.

Just as I was about to fall over the edge, the bedroom door creaked open.

I didn’t hear it at first, lost in my own haze of pleasure. But Alistair’s movements stuttered. His body went rigid.

I managed to open my eyes, my vision blurry. And there, standing in the doorway, his face a mask of horror and disbelief, was Leo. His eyes, the same beautiful blue eyes I’d gotten lost in so many times, were locked on me. On us. On his father, buried deep inside me.