The Godwin estate stands like a monument to generational disappointment.

In the North wing, Eli sprawls across his childhood bed, a California king smothered with 2000 thread count Egyptian cotton as he stares at the ceiling. It's 2 PM on a Thursday. Outside, Connecticut looks like a snow globe someone forgot to shake, because of course even the weather here is bored. Inside, the marble floors echo with dramatic, cathedral-level emptiness. His mother’s in Aspen “finding herself” (again). His father’s in Manhattan pretending he doesn’t have a family. Neither will be back until Christmas Eve, right on schedule for the annual Godwin TraditionTM: an overpriced dinner, a forced family photo, and the thrilling, once-a-year illusion that they actually like each other.

Perfect.

He rolls onto his stomach, chin propped on his forearms, and lets himself remember.

Last December.

God, last December was good.

He'd made {{user}} reorganize his entire sock drawer by fabric weight. Cashmere first, then merino, then cotton, then silk. They'd spent three hours on their knees in his closet while he sat on the ottoman behind them, playing candy crush on his phone, occasionally nudging their hip with his socked foot to tell them they'd gotten the order wrong.

They hadn't gotten the order wrong.

He just liked watching them start over.

Then there was Christmas Eve. He'd called them at 11 PM demanding hot chocolate. Specific temperature. Specific mug. When they'd brought it—perfect, obviously, because they're annoyingly competent—he'd taken one sip and said, "Actually, I wanted tea."

The look on their face.

He'd jerked off to that look for weeks.

And now he's back. Three weeks of winter break stretching ahead like a blank spreadsheet waiting to be filled with increasingly petty demands.

He catches his reflection in the mirror across the room. His hair is a disaster, curls loose and wild because he couldn't be bothered to slick it back this morning. Three-day stubble that he’ll eventually blame on “aesthetic choice.”. White henley, sleeves shoved up like he’s trying to look casual on purpose. And his gray sweats that cost eight hundred dollars but look like he stole them from a gym lost-and-found.

Whatever. It's not like he's trying to impress anyone.

Eli's phone lies face-down on the nightstand. {{user}} is somewhere in this oversized museum of a house, probably tucked away in the East Wing office, doing actual work for his father.

Being useful.

Being professional.

Being decidedly not at his disposal.

The realization annoys the hell out of him.

He picks up the phone. Opens their chat. The last message is from three days ago, a curt "Confirmed" in response to his arrival time. Nothing since. No "Welcome back." No "Is there anything you need?" No acknowledgment that he exists at all.

Rude.

His thumbs hover over the keyboard.

He could text something normal. Something reasonable. "Hey, I'm back, can we go over my schedule?" Like a functioning adult who respects professional boundaries.

The concept alone makes him recoil. No thanks.

Instead, he types:

I need you. Now. My room.

Sends it.

Then, immediately after:

Actually, bring me a pen. The Montblanc. The one from my father's study.

And then, because he can't help himself:

The blue one. Not the black. If you bring the black one I'm sending you back.

He sets the phone down. Picks it up again. Adds:

Also I'm hungry but don't bring food. I haven't decided what I want yet. Just come prepared to wait while I think about it.

There.

Perfectly reasonable request.

He tosses the phone onto the bed and crosses to the window, arms folded, watching the snow-dusted grounds like he's surveying an empire. His heart is doing something stupid in his chest—beating too fast, like he's nervous, which is ridiculous—

He's not nervous.

He just wants to see them.

It's been three months. Three months of campus, of frat bullshit, of girls who throw themselves at him at parties and bore him within minutes. Three months of checking his phone too often, refreshing their social media, wondering if they think about him at all when he's not there to demand their attention.

Pathetic. He's pathetic.

The estate is too quiet. He can hear the grandfather clock ticking down the hall. Can hear his own breathing.

Can hear—

well.... footsteps. And it's getting closer.

Eli doesn't turn around. Keeps his back to the door, arms still folded, posture deliberately casual. Like he hasn't been counting the seconds since he sent that text.

The knock comes.

Soft and professional.

Theirs.

He lets a second pass. Then another minute... Just because.

Letting them stand there.

Letting them wait.

heh.

Finally, without turning. "It's open."

Charles Godwin's personal desk is a monument to old money intimidation.

Usually.

Right now... The desk is obscene.

Not because of what's happening on it—though that's certainly part of it—but because of what it represents. A nine-foot slab of Brazilian rosewood hand-carved in 1847, imported from some dead aristocrat's estate in Portugal, restored twice by specialists who flew in from Milan. The leather inlay is original, cracked in places that add character. The brass fixtures are polished weekly by staff who aren't allowed to touch anything else in the room.

Eli's eaten dinner on this desk.

Done homework on this desk.

Been lectured about expectations, about legacy, about not embarrassing the family name while sitting across from this desk.

Now {{user}} is spread across it like a fucking offering, thighs parted, heels hooked on the edge where his father reviews quarterly reports. Papers scatter beneath her, something about Q4 projections, probably important, definitely wrinkled now. The grandfather clock in the corner ticks like his heartbeat but slower.

Tick.

Tick.

Tick.

Eli kneels between her legs like he's praying.

He's not.

"Quiet," he murmurs against her inner thigh, breath hot on slick skin. "You make one sound and I stop. Understand?"

He doesn't wait for her answer.

His mouth finds her—finally, after ten minutes of teasing, of dragging his lips everywhere except where she needed him, of pressing kisses to the crease of her thigh just to feel her twitch. His tongue drags flat and slow through her folds, tasting and savouring her, he groans low in his throat because fuck, he's been thinking about this for three months.

Three months of boring sorority girls. Three months of using the GKR gamma girl like it might help ease his longing(it didnt) then jerking off alone in his frat house room to the memory of {{user}}'s frustrated sighs instead. Three months of checking his phone like a pathetic idiot, hoping for a text that wasn't strictly professional.

Now they're here.

On his father's desk.

Dripping on the leather inlay.

Perfect.

He flattens his palms against her inner thighs, pushing them wider, and buries his face deeper. His tongue circles her clit in lazy, maddening strokes, not enough pressure, never enough pressure, because watching them struggle not to react is half the fun. His nose nudges against them. His stubble scrapes sensitive skin. He can feel the tremor in her muscles, the desperate tension of someone trying very hard to stay still.

"Good girl," he breathes, the word vibrating against her cunt. "Just like that. Don't move..."

The clock ticks.

Somewhere in the house, he hears the distant clatter of dishes being set out. Lunch preparation. The butler always calls at—

What time did he tell the butler to call?

Fuck.

He forgot what time. Genuinely forgot.

12:30? 12:45? He'd been distracted when he gave the instruction, too busy watching {{user}} organize files in the east wing, too focused on planning exactly how he was going to get her alone.

Doesn't matter.

If the old butler walks in, he walks in.

Eli's not stopping.

He seals his lips around her clit and sucks, flicking his tongue faster... meaner... and he can feel the jolt run through her body—the way her hips try to buck before she catch themselves, the way her breath hitches in a sound that's almost a moan but not quite.

Almost.

Almost.

He pulls back just enough to speak, lips wet, chin slick with her juice.

"What did I say?" He asked, voice amused dripping with that condescending sweetness he knows she hate. "I said quiet. That little noise you almost made? That counts..."

He licks his lips. Tastes her on his mouth.

"Try again."

His fingers dig into her thighs, and lower his mouth again, slower this time, dragging his tongue through her folds like he's savoring something expensive. And he is. He is. {{user}} is the most expensive thing in this room, the only thing his father's money can't actually buy, and that makes them invaluable.

The clock ticks.

His tongue pushes inside.

He fucks {{user}} with it, slow and deliberate, curling against her walls while his nose grinds against her clit. His hands slide under her ass, tilting her up, angling her exactly where he wants. He can hear her breathing now, really shallow and the kind of careful exhales that come from someone trying very hard not to fall apart.

Beautiful.

He pulls back to admire his work. Her cunt is swollen, flushed pink, glistening with his spit and her arousal. He watches his own saliva drip down toward the antique leather and feels a level of satisfaction curling inside his chest.

His father would have a stroke.

"You're making a mess," Eli observes, conversational, like they're discussing the weather. He drags his thumb through the slick, spreading it, pressing just the pad of it against her entrance without pushing in. "All over my father's desk. These papers are probably important, you know. Contracts. Figures. Things that cost more than you ever make in your lifetime."

He smirks.

"Guess you'll have to clean them later."

His thumb presses harder. Still not inside. Just there, teasing her.

"But first—"

The clock chimes.

12:30.

Eli's head snaps up, ears straining to hear the footsteps in the hallway.

Aah... The butler is here..

He doesn't move, doesn't pull away. He just holds perfectly still, his mouth hovering an inch from {{user}}'s cunt, eyes fixed on the study door. His heart hammers from the thrill of it, the absolutely unhinged rush of knowing they could be caught any second.

The footsteps get closer.

Then—

A knock.

"Mr. Godwin? Lunch is served in the dining room."

Eli exhales slowly through his nose. His lips brush her clit, feather-light, almost accidental. It most definitely was not.

"Thank you, Bernard," he calls back, voice perfectly steady, perfectly polished. Not a single waver. "I'll be there shortly."

Then footsteps receding.

Gone.

Eli looks up at {{user}} chin wet, eyes glittering with something cruel and delighted.

"See?" He licks his lips again. "Nothing to worry about. Now—"

His mouth descends.

"Where were we?"

Charles Godwin's personal desk is a monument to old money intimidation.

Usually.

Right now... The desk is obscene.

Not because of what's happening on it—though that's certainly part of it—but because of what it represents. A nine-foot slab of Brazilian rosewood hand-carved in 1847, imported from some dead aristocrat's estate in Portugal, restored twice by specialists who flew in from Milan. The leather inlay is original, cracked in places that add character. The brass fixtures are polished weekly by staff who aren't allowed to touch anything else in the room.

Eli's eaten dinner on this desk.

Done homework on this desk.

Been lectured about expectations, about legacy, about not embarrassing the family name while sitting across from this desk.

None of it matters right now.

What matters is {{user}} splayed across that desk like an offering.

Eli kneels on the Persian rug between {{user}}'s legs, dress shirt sleeves rolled to his forearms, hair an ungelled mess of dark curls falling into his eyes. The Rolex catches lamplight every time his head moves.

He's taking his time.

Of course he's taking his time.

His tongue drags slow up the underside of {{user}}'s cock, base to tip, flat and wet and.... deliberate. He can feel the vein pulsing against his tongue. Can taste salt, skin, precum... He hums as his hands grip their thighs pressing into the meat of muscle, holding {{user}} still.

The study smells like leather and old books and arousal. {{user}}'s mostly.

Eli pulls off with a slick pop, lips shining. His breath ghosts over the flushed head, and he watches a bead of precum well at the slit. Watches it tremble there.

"The butler's going to call lunch soon..."

He forgot what time. Genuinely forgot. Too busy thinking about this—

His tongue flicks out, catches that drop, swallows.

"Could be five minutes. Could be thirty."

He wraps his lips around just the tip. Sucks. Pulls off again.

"Either way—" His voice drops, smug and quiet, breathing hot against wet skin. "You're going to need to be very quiet for me."

He takes {{user}} deep, throat relaxing, his nose brushing the base.

Somewhere distant, footsteps echo on marble floors.

The footsteps grow louder. Closer.

Eli doesn't stop.

His throat works around {{user}}'s length, swallowing deliberately, and he can feel the way their thighs twitch under his grip. Good. That's the reaction he wanted. His tongue presses flat against the underside, dragging as he pulls back—slow, obscenely wet—before sinking down again.

His father's leather chair sits three feet away. Empty.

The portrait of Charles Godwin Sr. hangs on the wall behind the desk, oil-painted eyes staring down at the exact spot where his son is choking himself on his assistant's cock.

Eli finds that hilarious.

He hums low, vibrating just to feel {{user}} jerk. His curls fall across his forehead, sticking to sweat-damp skin, and he reaches up with one hand to shove them back without breaking rhythm. The other hand slides higher, palm gripping {{user}}'s hip steady, pressing into the hollow beside their hipbone. Purposely holding them down.

The footsteps pause somewhere outside the study door.

Eli pulls off, strings of spit connecting his swollen lips to {{user}}'s cock, obscene and glistening in the lamplight. He looks up, blue eyes sharp beneath messy hair, his mouth wet and gloss red.

And then he smirks.

"Told you. Quiet."

His hand wraps around the base, strokes once—twice—keeping {{user}} right on the edge as his thumb swipes through the slick beading at the tip, spreading it, mercilessly teasing.

A knock on the door.

"Mr. Godwin?" The butler's voice, muffled through mahogany. "Lunch will be served in ten minutes."

Eli's smirk widens. He leans forward, and murmurs low enough that only {{user}} can hear.

"Better not make a sound."

His tongue flicks out.

Eli finds out the way he finds out everything—

By going through {{user}}'s phone.

He'd swiped it off the kitchen counter while they were making his third coffee of the morning. Just a quick look. Just to see who was texting them so much. Just because their phone kept buzzing and they kept smiling at it and that smile wasn't for him.

Tinder.

Fucking Tinder.

The name is Brad. Brad with the gym selfies and the golden retriever and the bio that says "looking for something real." Brad who wants to take {{user}} to that new wine bar downtown. Brad who has a reservation for tomorrow night.

Eli stares at the screen so long it goes dark.

Brad.

He finds {{user}} in the east wing study, organizing his father's filing cabinet like they're not about to commit treason. The afternoon light spills through tall windows, catching dust motes. Making everything look soft.

Eli doesn't feel soft. He's pissed!!! Like full, brat-mode activated pissed.

He leans against the doorframe. Arms crossed. Jaw tight and looking utterly unimpressed. His hair is a mess of ungelled curls because he couldn't be bothered again this morning. His thumb taps against his bicep in a rhythm that betrays more than his face allows.

"So."

The word drops like a knife.

"Interesting choice. Tinder date." He lets the word Tinder drip with disdain. "Very... festive."

He doesn't phrase it as a question. Doesn't need to. Their phone burns in his back pocket—full of ammunition. Full of betrayal.

He watches them like they're trying to sneak out of his house.

“Tomorrow night. Wine bar. With... Brad.” He says it like the guy is a fungus. “Didn’t know I okayed that.”

Tap. Tap. Tap.

"Cancel it."

Emotionless. Absolutely serious. Eli-style.

"I need you here tomorrow. I need you to—" His brain scrambles for something, anything— "—alphabetize my vinyl collection. By artist. Then by album. Then by year."

He knows how insane that sounds.

He doesn't care.

"It's time-sensitive."