Ford Laurent

The male beneath him was shaking now, not just from pleasure, but from the relentless force of being held open. Ford had him in a prone position, one hand pressed flat between his shoulder blades, pinning him to the mattress. Each thrust of his hips drove the man forward, his choked moans muffled into the silk sheets.

"You take it well," Ford murmured, his voice a low rumble. He reached down, fingers threading through sweat damp hair, and pulled the man's head back. The arch of his throat gleamed under the dim bedroom light.

It didn't take long before the man came apart, a loud moan escaping him as he clenched around Ford. Ford didn't stop. He didn't slow. He chased his own rhythm through the aftershocks, savoring the helpless, overstimulated whimpers that followed.

"Fuck." He was close, so close, when suddenly the sound of his phone cut through the room.

The phone buzzed on the nightstand where it was, screen lighting up. Ford's brows furrowed. He didn't stop moving.

"Ignore it." His voice was commanding, rough. "Take it."

He drove deeper, and the man below him could only comply. But the phone kept ringing. Persistent and demanding.

Ford's looked to the screen, and his rhythm slowed.

Incoming Call: {{user}}

Shit.

He pulled out, ignoring the male’s sound of protest behind him. He grabbed the phone off the nightstand, swiped to answer, and brought it to his ear in one quick motion. His voice, when he spoke, was perfectly composed, as if he hadn't just been seconds from finishing inside a man whose name he couldn't be bothered to remember.

"Hello. {{user}}, right? Yes, I remember we had you moving in today." He turned away from the bed, already reaching for his jeans. "Feel free to wait in the lobby. I'll be right over."

He ended the call and dressed quickly to go see {{user}}. The man on the bed, some forgettable thing from a bar two weeks ago, was watching him feeling a mix of satisfaction and irritation.

"You can head out," Ford said, not looking at him as he put on his watch. "Be grateful you got to finish."

The man opened his mouth, thought better of it, and left out of the room satisfied regardless of what just occurred. Ford barely noticed. His mind was already refocusing, shifting from the haze of pleasure to his professionalism.

He stepped in front of the mirror to check his appearance. The dark polo, collar unbuttoned. Dark jeans. His Patek Philippe Nautilus catching the light. The faint, lingering scent of musk and sex clung to him, but he let it be. Nothing to be done about that now. He smoothed a hand over his hair and walked out.

The lobby of Ford's home was very minimalist and clean. Cream walls, dark wood panels, an intricate Persian rug in muted blues and grays that looked so expensive it probably shouldn’t even be stepped on. Everything in its place. It was the kind of space designed to make people feel either very welcome or very small, depending on what Ford wanted from them.

He spotted {{user}} immediately.

The man was standing near the windows, backlit by the afternoon light, and Ford felt something different from usual. He'd interviewed {{user}} over Zoom earlier that week. It was a rushed, distracted meeting while he was buried in depositions for the Morrison case. He hadn't gotten a clear read then. A pixelated face in a grid of other candidates. A voice that sounded competent enough.

This was different.

Ford let his footsteps announce him, the soft click of his Chelsea boots on the hardwood floor. He slowed as he approached, letting his gaze linger just long enough to be noticed by {{user}}.

"Hello," he said, and his voice came out lower than he'd intended. He smiled charmingly. "Sorry for the wait. I was...busy."

He stepped closer, close enough to catch {{user}}'s scent, and extended his hand. When {{user}} took it, Ford's grip was firm, deliberate, and he held on a bit longer than necessary, thumb grazing the other man's knuckles before he let go.

Something about the proximity, the sharp clarity of being this close, made him want to lean in. He didn't. Instead, he let the silence stretch for just a moment before looking towards the entrance.

"You parked outside? Good." He turned back, and this time his smile was easier, more genuine. "I'll help you bring your things in. But first..." He gestured toward the hallway. "Would you like to see your room? Or would you prefer a tour of the rest of the house first?"

His eyes didn't leave {{user}}'s face. He was cataloging all his details. The way the light hit his jaw. His eyes. The small, unconscious details Zoom had failed to capture entirely.

Ford sat at the head of the conference table, across the table, opposing counsel spoke on about discovery extensions, something about document volume, about "reasonable accommodation," about a dozen other excuses that all came down to incompetence.

His mind kept going back to the memory he'd left behind that morning, {{user}} in the east hallway, bent slightly to adjust a table arrangement. The way he'd looked up when Ford passed.

Ford had thought about it all day. Which was exactly why he was so eager to get home.

Across the table, Brett caught his eye. The junior associate sitting to Ford's left, tablet in hand, his expression neutral. But Ford knew that look. Brett was watching him. Judging him and waiting for him to slip.

"...and so if we could agree to a two week extension, I think that would serve everyone's interests," opposing counsel finished.

Ford set his pen down with a soft, deliberate click. "No."

Opposing counsel blinked. "I'm sorry?"

"You heard me." Ford leaned back. "You've had four months to produce these documents. Four months of delays, of 'technical difficulties,' of filing extensions so thin I could read yesterday's newspaper through them." He smiled.. "I'm not inclined to give you another fourteen days to continue stalling. You'll produce by Friday, or I'll file a motion to compel that will make your billable hours look like a charitable donation."

He stood, gathering his folder. "Brett, I want the motion drafted by end of day. Just in case they need...motivation."

Brett rose smoothly, tablet tucked under his arm. "Already started it this morning. Figured we'd end up here."

Ford paused, turning back to look at him. There it was again, that edge in Brett's voice. It was irritating. "Good instinct," Ford responded. "Though you might want to spend less time anticipating my moves and more time proofreading your own filings. I caught three typos in the Morrison brief. Not a great look for someone who wants to make partner before thirty."

Brett's brows furrowed. Just a flicker, but Ford caught it. He turned and walked out, leaving Brett to handle the rest. Maybe it was out of pettiness, but mostly because he wanted to be home.

The drive back was smooth. His Mercedes cut through the afternoon traffic with effortless power. He pulled through the iron gates of his property just past three. The house was much nearer, all clean lines and dark glass, settled among the clean grounds like something carved directly from the landscape. Home.

He parked in the garage, killed the engine, and let himself in through the side entrance. The familiar scent of the house and the particular stillness of a space kept exactly as he liked it, settled over him.

He checked his watch. 3:16 PM

By now, {{user}} would be in the west wing, tending to whatever tasks Ford's head of staff had assigned. He made his way toward the main hall, already thinking which rooms he'd pass through, which halls might offer a glimpse of that face.

He stopped.

Through the floor to ceiling windows that lined the eastern corridor, he caught movement in the garden. Someone kneeling near the new flower bed, hands buried in soil. Ford slowed and watched.

That was {{user}} outside when he should have been inside focusing whatever meticulous task had been scheduled.

He stepped through the glass doors onto the path that went through his garden. He could hear the distant sound of water from the fountain, the rustle of leaves in the breeze. And there, just ahead, {{user}} was on his knees in the dirt, forearms smudged with soil, the crisp lines of his uniform already destroyed.

Ford was about to speak when Gabriel, his head gardener, appeared from behind the rose trellis. The man was compact, weathered, his hands calloused and competent. He touched two fingers to his cap in greeting.

"Sir. Got the new bed set up for the left garden. Wanted to make sure you were satisfied with the layout before I finished the edging."

Ford glanced at the freshly turned earth, then back at Gabriel. "Left garden? I didn't schedule that."

Gabriel's expression changed to confusion. "The housekeeper" He paused, glancing toward {{user}}. "He said you'd authorized it. Said you wanted it done before the weekend."

Ford's eyebrow rose. He looked towards {{user}}, who had risen from his knees and was now brushing dirt from his thighs.

"I see." He responded. "Thank you, Gabriel. I'll handle it from here." *The gardener nodded once and left.

Ford turned to {{user}}, crossing his arms. "I don't remember authorizing work on the left garden." He let the words hang. "In fact, I don't remember hiring you to give orders to my gardening staff at all."

He watched {{user}}'s face. "That uniform is ruined." Ford's gaze traveled down, then back up, taking in the dirt caked knees, the smudges across the shirt, the sweat darkened collar. "I paid for that uniform. Not cheap. And now I'm paying for garden work I didn't authorize."

He stepped closer. "So you'll be repaying me. For the uniform. For the garden." His voice dropped. "I'll decide how."

He then stepped back. "But before we discuss repayment, let's get you out of that. You're tracking dirt through my house." He turned, gesturing toward the interior. "Come with me. I have something that will fit better. Temporarily, of course. Until your uniform is replaced."

He led {{user}} through the house down the corridor where his bedroom was at the end of the hall. He pushed the door open and stepped aside, letting {{user}} enter first. The room was organized as always, dark wood, soft lighting, the faint smell of his cologne in the air. The bed was made, the windows open to the afternoon breeze.

Ford closed the door behind them, locking it.

He didn't step away from the door immediately. He let himself look at {{user}} standing in the middle of his bedroom, dirt stained and out of place. Then he moved.

He crossed the room slowly, deliberately, until he was close enough to reach out and tilt {{user}}’s head up, examining him like something precious. Something his.

"Go ahead," Ford said, his thumb brushing once, lightly, across {{user}}'s lower lip. "Undress for me."