Richard's fingers hovered over the edge of the deck, not quite touching it, like the cards might burn him.
"Easy." Marcus's voice came from across the coffee table, low and amused. "They're just cards, Rich."
"I know what cards are."
"Then pick them up."
Leo snorted from his spot on the floor, already cross-legged and slouched forward, elbows on his knees. "Dude's gonna lose before we even start. Look at his face."
Richard's jaw tightened. The flush was already climbing—he could feel it, that telltale heat creeping up his neck, staining his cheeks before a single hand had been dealt. He hated it. Marcus loved it.
Which was probably the point.
"Rules are simple," Marcus said, settling back into the leather sofa. The cushion dipped beside Richard, close enough that their shoulders nearly touched. "Each hand, lowest loses. One item per loss. Socks count. Watches count. Rings count." He paused, letting the grin spread slow. "Underwear counts double."
Leo barked a laugh. "Double?"
"Incentive to lose faster."
Dylan had claimed the armchair, legs stretched out, arms crossed. He didn't say anything, but one eyebrow lifted—a question he didn't bother to voice.
Marcus caught it anyway. "You in or out?"
"I'm here." Dylan's voice was flat, unhurried. He uncrossed his arms and reached for a beer from the six-pack at his feet. "Deal."
The cards slid across the table's surface. Richard's hands moved before he could overthink it—he was decent at poker, maybe better than decent, but that wasn't the point and he knew it. The point was that Marcus had asked, and Richard owed him, and they both knew that was the real game.
Five cards. Richard fanned them slow.
Pair of eights. Nothing special. He kept his face still, or tried to.
Leo won the first hand with a pair of jacks, slapping his cards down like he'd drawn a royal flush. Dylan folded early, losing a sock with the same expression he'd worn through the whole deal—neutral, watchful, his dark eyes tracking each move around the circle.
Marcus lost second hand. He shrugged, pulled his shirt off in one smooth motion, and draped it over the arm of the sofa without breaking eye contact with Richard. His chest was lean and cut, the kind of build that came from climbing or swimming or whatever Marcus did when he wasn't being insufferable.
Richard looked down at his cards. Pair of threes.
He lost the third hand.
"Shirt," Marcus said, not a question.
Richard's fingers found the hem. The fabric lifted over his ribs, his chest, his shoulders—he was paler than Marcus, leaner, the architecture of his body all sharp lines and visible bones. He folded the shirt and set it aside, keeping his eyes on the table, but he could feel Marcus's gaze like a touch.
"Not bad," Leo said, genuinely appreciative. "You work out?"
"I walk fast."
Leo laughed. "Walk fast. Sure, man."
The next hand, Leo lost his shirt too, tossing it over his head with a whoop. He was all sun-bronzed skin and easy confidence, sprawled back on the floor like being half-naked in his friend's living room was exactly where he belonged. Dylan lost a second sock, then his watch, setting it on the arm of the chair with precise care.
Richard won a hand. Then another. His stack of chips grew, and he let himself believe, for a moment, that he might make it through this with his dignity intact.
Then Marcus dealt again.
Richard's cards: two, seven, nine, four, king. Nothing. He stared at them like they'd personally betrayed him.
"Fold," he said.
"Can't fold in strip poker," Marcus said, soft. "That's the rule. You play what you're dealt."
"Since when?"
"Since I made the rules."
Leo was watching now, a grin spreading slow. Dylan took a long pull of his beer, saying nothing.
Marcus laid down his hand. Straight, low but clean. Leo had a pair. Dylan had nothing.
Richard's cards hit the table face-up. The silence stretched half a second before Marcus's smile deepened, and Richard knew—he'd known all along, probably, from the moment Marcus suggested this game—what came next.
"Pants," Marcus said.
The word hung in the air.
Richard's hands found his waistband. The button came undone with a soft click. The zipper followed, a sound too loud in the quiet room. He pushed the denim down his thighs, past his knees, and kicked them off, leaving him in nothing but a pair of black boxer briefs and the heat crawling up his chest, his throat, his face.
Leo whistled, low and teasing. "Damn, Rich."
Richard didn't answer. His eyes were on Marcus—on that slow, knowing smile, the way Marcus's gaze traveled down his body and back up, unhurried, like he was reading something written there.
The game continued. Dylan lost his shirt, folding it with methodical care and setting it beside the armchair. Leo lost his belt, then his jeans, whooping through both. Richard lost another hand, and another, until he was down to just the boxer briefs and the desperate hope that the game would end before he had to lose those too.
Marcus called the final hand a few rounds later, pushing his chips into the center with both hands. "Last one. Winner takes all."
Richard looked at his cards. A flush. A decent one, hearts, the kind of hand that could actually win.
He played it.
Marcus's hand hit the table. Full house, kings over eights.
"Well," Leo said, breaking the silence. "That's that."
Richard's eyes stayed on the cards. On Marcus's full house. On the way Marcus was looking at him now, patient and pleased, like he'd known the outcome before the cards were even dealt.
Leo stood, stretching his arms over his head. "I'm out. Dylan, you coming?"
Dylan unfolded himself from the armchair, slow, gathering his shirt and socks and watch. He paused at the door and glanced back—at Richard, still sitting on the floor in his boxer briefs, at Marcus, still lounging on the sofa like he had all the time in the world.
"Night," Dylan said.
"Night," Marcus answered.
The door clicked shut. The lock turned.
Richard was alone with his best friend.Richard was alone with his best friend. The lock had clicked shut with a finality that settled into the room like dust. Leo's laughter was already fading down the hall. Dylan's footsteps, heavier, quieter, followed. And then nothing. Just the hum of the refrigerator, the faint buzz of a streetlamp through the blinds, and Marcus's slow exhale from the sofa above him. Richard stayed on the floor. His knees were starting to ache against the worn wood. The boxer briefs were thin, useless coverage, and he could feel the cool air against his thighs, against the heat still burning up his neck. He didn't move. Didn't look up. Just waited, because that was the game now, and he knew it. Marcus let the silence stretch. A full thirty seconds. Maybe more. Long enough for Richard's pulse to find a rhythm, settle, then quicken again when Marcus finally shifted on the leather, the creak of the cushion loud in the quiet. "You can get up," Marcus said. His voice was low, unhurried, the same drawl from the card table. "If you want." Richard's throat tightened. *If you want.* As if that was the question. As if Marcus didn't know exactly what Richard wanted, or at least what he'd let happen. He stayed on the floor. Marcus laughed, soft and warm. "Okay." The sofa creaked again. Footsteps crossed the room, slow and deliberate, and then Marcus's bare feet came into Richard's field of vision. Toes on the floorboards. Pajama pants hung low on his hips, loose, the drawstring undone. He'd pulled them on after the game, but nothing else. His chest was still bare, still cut with shadow in the dim light. Richard's eyes stayed on those feet. On the floor. Anywhere but up. "You took that loss pretty well," Marcus said. "The last hand, I mean. Most people would've called bullshit." "Would it have mattered?" "Not really." Richard's hands were flat on his thighs. He could feel his own pulse in his palms. "Then why would I call it?" A pause. Then Marcus's hand was in his hair, fingers threading through the damp strands at the nape of his neck, and Richard's whole body locked. The touch was light, almost casual, but it pinned him in place more effectively than any weight. "You're so good at this," Marcus murmured. "You know that?" "At losing?" "At letting me win." Richard's eyes closed. The shame was supposed to be there, sharp and familiar, but all he felt was the heat of Marcus's palm against his scalp, the way his spine softened without permission. "Come on." Marcus's hand slid down, curling around the back of Richard's neck, tugging gently upward. "Up. Shower." Richard's eyes opened. "What?" "You heard me." Marcus was already pulling back, turning toward the hallway. "You smell like beer and surrender. And we're not done." The words landed somewhere in Richard's chest, low and hot. He pushed himself up, legs unsteady, and followed. The bathroom was small — Marcus's apartment wasn't built for luxury. A single sink, a toilet, a shower stall with a glass door fogged from the last use. Marcus reached past him and turned the handle, and the pipes groaned before water hissed out, steam rising almost immediately. Richard stood in the doorway, arms crossed, then uncrossed, then let them hang. He didn't know what to do with his hands. He never did. Marcus stepped into the spray first, letting the water hit his shoulders, darken his skin. He turned his face into it, eyes closed, and Richard watched the water trace the line of his spine, the curve of his waist, the dip where his hipbones cut sharp. "Come here," Marcus said, without opening his eyes. Richard's feet moved before his brain caught up. The tile was cool, then warm where the spray had reached. He stopped just outside the edge of the water, close enough to feel the heat radiating off Marcus's skin. Marcus opened his eyes. Reached out. Hooked his fingers into the waistband of Richard's boxer briefs. "These stayed on long enough." The fabric slid down Richard's thighs, caught on his half-hard cock, then dropped to the wet tile. He stepped out of them, bare, exposed, the water finding him now, warm against his chest, his stomach, his thighs. Marcus's hand found his hip. Pulled him closer until their bodies were nearly touching, water running between them, steam curling around their faces. "Tell me what you owe me." Richard's breath caught. "What?" "You heard me." Marcus's hand slid from his hip to his stomach, palm flat, fingers splayed. "You've been carrying that debt around for months. Every time I bring it up, you dodge. I want to hear you say it." The water was warm, but Richard's skin was cold beneath it. He stared at the line of Marcus's jaw, the water beading on his collarbone, anything but those dark, knowing eyes. "I borrowed money," Richard said. Quiet. "From someone I shouldn't have." "Who?" "Leo's cousin." Marcus's hand stopped moving. "Tomas." "Yeah." "How much?" "Three thousand." Marcus let out a low breath. "Three thousand dollars. To a man who breaks fingers for a living." His hand resumed its path, sliding lower, fingers brushing the trail of hair below Richard's navel. "And I paid it." "I know." "Do you know what I had to give him to make that debt disappear?" Richard's throat was tight. "No." "Good." Marcus's fingers curled around Richard's cock, loose and warm, not quite gripping. "Because I'm not going to tell you. But you're going to remember, every time I touch you, that you belong to me until I decide otherwise." Richard's mouth opened. Nothing came out. Marcus's hand tightened, just a fraction, and Richard's breath stuttered. "Say it." "I belong to you." "Again." "I belong to you." "Until?" "Until you decide otherwise." Marcus smiled. It was slow and satisfied and it made Richard's stomach flip. "Good boy." The praise hit like a current, low and electric. Richard's cock thickened in Marcus's grip, and Marcus felt it, of course he did — his smile deepened, his thumb tracing the underside, finding the ridge, pressing just hard enough to make Richard's hips twitch forward. "Look at that," Marcus murmured. "So fast. You always this eager?" "No." The word came out rough. "Just — you." "I know." Marcus's grip loosened, then tightened again, a slow rhythm, building and releasing. The water ran over them both, steam thickening the air, and Richard's head fell back, his palms flat against the tile behind him for support. "Tell me something embarrassing." Richard's eyes snapped open. "What?" "Something embarrassing. Something you've never told anyone." Marcus's hand kept moving, steady and patient, and Richard's brain was already starting to fuzz at the edges. "You answer honestly, or I stop." "You wouldn't." Marcus's hand stopped. Richard made a sound, half-groan, half-whimper, and Marcus waited, hand loose around his cock, doing nothing. "I —" Richard's voice cracked. "I had a crush on you. In high school. For like, two years." Marcus's hand resumed, slow and deliberate. "I know." "You —" "I know, Rich. Everyone knew." He leaned closer, mouth brushing Richard's ear. "You weren't subtle." Richard's face burned — the flush climbing his chest, his throat, his cheeks, visible even in the dim bathroom light. But Marcus's hand was moving again, and the shame was mixing with something else, something hot and liquid, pooling low in his gut. "What else?" "I —" His hips were moving now, small thrusts into Marcus's fist. "I still do." Marcus's grip tightened. "Do what?" "Have a crush on you." "Is that what it is?" Richard's eyes met his. The water was streaming down Marcus's face, clinging to his lashes, and his expression was impossible to read — patient, hungry, waiting. "I don't know what it is," Richard said. "But it's — it's more than that. It's —" He stopped. Swallowed. "I'd do anything you asked. That's what it is." Marcus's hand stilled. For a second, just a second, something flickered in his eyes — not the game, not the grin, something raw and real that was gone before Richard could name it. Then Marcus's hand moved again, faster, and Richard's thoughts dissolved. "That's what I thought," Marcus said, his voice rougher now, less controlled. His palm slid over the head of Richard's cock, wet and slick, and Richard's knees buckled slightly, his hands scraping against the tile. "Please —" "Please what?" Richard's jaw worked. The word was right there, desperate and shameful, and Marcus's hand was wound tight around him, pulling him toward an edge he could feel approaching like a wave. "Please let me —" "Not yet." Marcus's hand pulled away. Richard's body lurched forward, chasing the contact, but Marcus stepped back, out of the spray, water dripping off his shoulders, his chest, his hand still glistening. "Turn off the water." Richard's hand found the handle. The spray died. The sudden silence was deafening, filled only by his own ragged breathing, the drip of water against tile. Marcus reached for a towel, dried his hands, then tossed it at Richard. "Dry off. Then bed." Richard caught the towel against his chest. His body was still humming, still aching, his cock hard and ignored, desperation curdling in his stomach. "Marcus —" "I said bed." Marcus's voice was even, but his eyes were dark. "You'll come when I say you can. Not before." Richard stood there, wet and shivering, the towel pressed against his skin. Steam was still rising from the drain. His body was screaming for release, and Marcus was already walking out the door. "Don't keep me waiting." Richard's feet moved. The bedroom was dark, the blinds half-drawn, a single streetlamp casting orange stripes across the sheets. Marcus was already on the bed, sprawled on his back, arms behind his head, watching the doorway like he'd been waiting all night. Richard crossed the room. The towel dropped. He climbed onto the mattress, skin still damp, and Marcus's hands found him immediately — pulling him close, settling him on his stomach, one palm flat against his lower back. "Good," Marcus said, his voice low and satisfied. "Now stay." Richard's face pressed into the pillow. His cock was trapped against the sheets, aching, untouched. Marcus's hand was warm on his spine, unmoving, and the edge was still there, still sharp, still unbroken. He didn't know how long he'd be held there. He knew he'd wait as long as Marcus wanted. The pillow muffled his breath. The orange light cut across his ribs. And Marcus's thumb traced a slow circle at the base of his spine, patient and unhurried, settling in for the long night ahead.
Richard's lips parted against the pillow. The words came
Richard's lips parted against the pillow. The words came out muffled, half-swallowed by cotton and the dark.
"What did you give Tomas?"
Marcus's hand went still on his spine. The silence stretched, three heartbeats, four, long enough for Richard's pulse to climb his throat and lodge there, a living thing he couldn't swallow down.
"That's what you want to ask?" Marcus's voice was different. Not the tease. Not the drawl. Something flatter underneath, like a stone turned over.
"I need to know." Richard's fingers curled into the sheet. "What it cost you."
Marcus's hand lifted. The warmth left Richard's back in a single cold rush. He heard Marcus shift on the mattress, felt the weight redistribute, and then Marcus's hand was back — not on his spine but in his hair, gathering a fistful of damp black strands and tugging, just shy of pain, until Richard's neck arched and his face lifted from the pillow.
"Look at me when you ask that."
Richard turned his head. The orange light cut across Marcus's face, half in shadow, half in gold. His eyes were dark, unreadable, but his jaw was set in a way Richard rarely saw — tight, held, like a door kept closed by will alone.
"What did you give him?"
Marcus held his gaze for a long breath. Then he released Richard's hair and leaned back, one hand braced on the mattress beside Richard's hip, close enough that the heat of his body pressed against Richard's side.
"My watch."
Richard blinked. "Your —"
"My father's watch. The one he gave me before he died." Marcus said it flat, like it meant nothing, but his hand had found Richard's lower back again and was pressing, hard and grounding, against the curve of his spine. "It was worth more than three thousand. Tomas knew it. I knew it. He took it, and the debt disappeared."
Richard's throat closed. "Marcus —"
"Don't." The word cut through the dark, clean and sharp. Marcus's hand slid lower, over the swell of Richard's ass, fingers curling. "I didn't tell you so you could spiral. I told you so you'd understand what I meant when I said you belong to me. That watch was the last thing I had of his. And I gave it up because you were going to get yourself killed borrowing from a man like that."
Richard's hands were shaking. He pressed them flat against the mattress, tried to steady them. "I'll pay you back."
"With what?" Marcus's voice was soft, almost amused. "You're a broke twenty-two-year-old who walks fast for exercise. You don't have three thousand dollars. You don't have anything except what I give you." His finger traced the cleft of Richard's ass, light, barely there, and Richard's breath stuttered. "But you've got this. You've got you. And right now, that's enough."
Richard's eyes burned. He didn't know if it was shame or want or something else entirely, something he didn't have a name for yet.
"Lie back down."
He turned his face into the pillow. Marcus's hand found his hip, then his cock, pulling him onto his side, rearranging his body like furniture until Richard was on his back, legs spread, the orange light falling across his stomach, his thighs, the desperate angle of his erection.
"Look at you." Marcus's voice was low, reverent. "Hard and aching and you haven't said a word."
"You told me to stay." Richard's voice was rough. "I'm staying."
Marcus's mouth curved. He lowered himself, not quite touching, the heat of his body a promise hovering over Richard's skin. His hand wrapped around Richard's cock again, slow and deliberate, and Richard's hips jerked upward before he could stop them.
"Tell me something," Marcus said, his thumb circling the head, spreading the bead of moisture already gathered there. "Something I don't know. Something you've never said out loud."
Richard's hands found Marcus's forearms, gripping, not to stop him but to hold on. His brain was static, pleasure already short-circuiting his thoughts.
"I —" His voice broke. "I think about you. When I touch myself."
Marcus's hand tightened. "What do you think about?"
"This." The word came out raw. "You. Your hands. Your — your voice. The way you look at me like I'm something you own."
"You are." Marcus's grip moved faster, wet and slick, and Richard's thighs spread wider, his head pressing back into the pillow, a sound tearing out of his throat that he didn't recognize. "You're mine. Say it."
"I'm yours."
"Again."
"I'm yours."
"And you don't come until I say so."
"Yes — yes, Marcus —"
The edge was coming, rushing up like a wave, and Richard was hurtling toward it, his whole body strung tight, his fingers digging into the meat of Marcus's forearms, the pleasure building, cresting —
And Marcus's hand pulled away.
Richard's body seized, a sound of pure frustration tearing from his chest. He bucked against the empty air, reaching, grasping, but Marcus was already sitting up, wiping his hand on the sheet, his expression calm and unhurried.
"Not yet."
"Please —"
"I said not yet." Marcus's hand landed on Richard's chest, palm flat over his heart, feeling it hammer beneath his ribs. "You're going to lie here, hard and aching, and think about everything you just told me. And when I'm ready, I'll let you come." He leaned down, his mouth brushing Richard's ear. "But not before I've wrung every last confession out of you."
Richard's chest heaved. His cock lay wet and neglected against his stomach, his thighs trembling, his whole body a wire pulled taut.
Marcus settled beside him, one hand draped across his stomach, fingers tracing idle patterns through the sweat cooling on his skin.
"Now," Marcus said, his voice soft, almost tender. "Let's start with what you said earlier. About still having a crush on me. Tell me more about that."
Richard's eyes closed. The night stretched ahead, dark and full of questions, and the edge was still there, still waiting, still his best friend's to hold.