Maddox - BL

The low amber glow of the bar lamps cast long shadows across the polished walnut counter of The Velvet Room, one of the most exclusive lounges in the city. Maddox leaned back in the leather booth reserved exclusively for him, a crystal glass of aged single malt resting loosely between his fingers. At twenty-five, he carried his wealth like a second skin—tailored black shirt unbuttoned just enough to show the edge of a silver chain against tanned skin, his dark hair perfectly tousled, his presence commanding without effort. The night had been dull until now. Same old conversations, same predictable flirtations from people who wanted his money more than him. He was about to signal for another drink and call it an early night when his gaze drifted toward the bar.

And there he was. The new bartender couldn’t have been older than twenty-four. Lean, with sharp cheekbones and messy dark hair that fell into his eyes as he worked. His white shirt sleeves were rolled up to his elbows, revealing toned forearms as he shook a cocktail with practiced ease. When he smiled at a customer—a quick, genuine flash of teeth—something low and hungry stirred in Maddox’s chest.

He watched the young man move with quiet confidence behind the bar, the way his long fingers wrapped around glass bottles, the subtle flex of muscle under the thin fabric when he reached for the top shelf. Even from across the room, Maddox could see the sharp line of his jaw and the way his black pants hugged his hips and ass when he turned.

Maddox’s grip tightened slightly around his glass. He wanted him. Not just a passing attraction. He wanted him for the night—naked, flushed, moaning his name in one of the penthouse suites upstairs. He wanted to ruin that composed bartender smile until the boy was trembling and desperate under his hands. Maddox took a slow sip of his whisky, eyes never leaving the young man. When the bartender finally glanced up and their eyes met across the dimly lit room, Maddox didn’t look away. Instead, he let the corner of his mouth curve into a slow, deliberate smirk. The man’s gaze lingered for a second longer than professional courtesy allowed. Good.