The formal dinner was over. The staff had left. The scent of roasted shallots and expensive wine lingered in the air, mingling with leather and musk. Tyrone’s penthouse lights had dimmed—everything now bathed in a low amber glow. The windows stretched across the horizon, black velvet sky spilling stars over the city skyline.
And Daniel was alone with him now.
Gone was the quiet submission of the dining room. Gone were Oscar and Celeste’s curious eyes.
It was just the two of them—and Tyrone had changed.
He now wore only black silk lounge pants, shirtless, barefoot, a god carved from shadow and intent. Muscles rippled across his chest as he poured a dark liqueur into two crystal glasses and handed one to Daniel, who accepted it with trembling fingers.
“You were exceptional tonight,” Tyrone said, sitting back in a low leather armchair. His legs spread wide, inviting, dominant.
Daniel remained standing—still in the soft black trousers Tyrone had chosen for him earlier, bare from the waist up, marked with faint traces of crop and hand.
“I live to serve you, sir,” Daniel said softly.
Tyrone’s smile was slow. “Tonight, you don’t serve. Tonight… you’re rewarded.”
Daniel’s eyes widened.
Tyrone sipped his drink, then gestured to the chaise across from him. “Sit. Let me look at you.”
Daniel obeyed.
The silence between them stretched, thick with expectation.
“You kept your eyes down. You accepted praise without pride. You offered your body in front of witnesses with no shame. You followed every order even when you didn’t understand the purpose.”
He leaned forward, elbows resting on his knees.
“That’s devotion. And devotion deserves indulgence.”
Daniel’s breath hitched as Tyrone stood—his tall, sculpted frame stalking across the space, predator-smooth. He stopped behind the chaise and reached down, running both hands over Daniel’s bare shoulders, massaging slow circles into the muscle.
“I want you to understand something,” he said low in Daniel’s ear. “You may feel pleasure tonight. You may cry out. But every sensation… is mine to give.”
Daniel nodded. “Yes, sir.”
Tyrone’s hands moved lower—down Daniel’s chest, his ribs, across his abdomen. Then down further, slipping beneath the waistband of the soft trousers. Daniel exhaled sharply, body arching involuntarily.
Tyrone chuckled. “Still so sensitive. And I haven’t even started.”
The Edge of Worship
Tyrone walked around in front of the chaise, sitting on the edge of it, knees pressed against Daniel’s. He slid the trousers down slowly—watching Daniel’s expression as his arousal sprang free, flushed and eager.
Tyrone didn’t touch it. Not yet.
Instead, he leaned in and kissed him.
Not possessive. Not rough.
It was deliberate. Slow. A kiss meant to be felt for hours.
Daniel melted into it, hands trembling at his sides, desperate to reach up but too well-trained to move without permission.
When they parted, Tyrone whispered, “Tonight, I want you to feel. Not obey. Not serve. Just feel.”
Daniel swallowed. “Yes, sir.”
Tyrone rose and guided Daniel by the hand to a nearby bed platform—low, wide, draped in black silk sheets. Dozens of candles flickered along the wall behind it, casting gold over everything.
“Lie down,” Tyrone said.
Daniel obeyed, back to the sheets, arms by his sides.
Tyrone straddled his hips, slow and purposeful, his body heat an electric current over Daniel’s skin.
He began to explore.
Sensory Worship
Tyrone’s mouth traced a slow path down Daniel’s chest, kissing each ridge of muscle like a ritual. His hands glided with reverence—stroking Daniel’s thighs, kneading his inner hips, grazing the sensitive flesh at his sides.
Daniel moaned, back arching.
Tyrone looked up, dark eyes blazing.
“Stay still.”
Daniel bit his lip. “Yes, sir.”
Tyrone’s tongue circled Daniel’s navel, then dipped lower, teasing—licking, edging closer to where Daniel throbbed with need.
And still he didn’t touch.
“You want to be touched, don’t you?” Tyrone murmured.
Daniel nodded furiously.
“Say it.”
“I want you to touch me, sir. Please.”
Tyrone’s lips brushed against Daniel’s tip. A feather-soft kiss.
Then… withdrawal.
Daniel whimpered.
Tyrone climbed back up his body, pinning him beneath his weight.
“I will take my time. And you will wait. You will ache. Because I want every nerve of yours to remember who owns it.”
Daniel’s eyes fluttered shut. “Yes, sir.”
Release and Ruin
Minutes blurred—long, drawn-out passes of Tyrone’s hands and mouth across every inch of Daniel’s body. He kissed his calves. Bit the inside of his thighs. Sucked slowly on his fingers while pinning his wrists down with one hand.
Daniel shook. Whimpered. Pleaded. But never begged—never without permission.
Finally, Tyrone positioned himself between Daniel’s thighs, eyes locked onto his.
“I want to watch your soul leave your body.”
And he began to stroke.
Slow. Precise. With rhythm and control that felt cruel in its perfection.
Daniel’s breath came in sharp gasps.
“You will not come until I allow it.”
Daniel nodded.
Tyrone leaned down, tongue flicking across one nipple, then the other—his hand never losing pace.
“You want to explode, don’t you?”
“Yes, sir—please, sir—”
“Not yet.”
Tyrone brought him to the edge… and stopped.
Daniel cried out—desperate, broken.
Tyrone held his face. “Look at me.”
Daniel opened his eyes.
“Now.”
Tyrone stroked again—deep, slow, tight—and Daniel shattered.
Moaning, sobbing, trembling—his orgasm ripped through him like a dam breaking. He grabbed at the sheets, his body convulsing beneath Tyrone’s.
Tyrone didn’t move.
He held him. Kissed him. Whispered, “That’s it. That’s mine. All of it.”
The Afterglow
Later, Tyrone bathed him—holding him in a hot tub large enough for two. He washed Daniel’s skin slowly, wordlessly. Kissed his temples. Let him float, weightless and safe.
“You did well,” Tyrone said again.
Daniel—barely able to speak—whispered, “I belong to you.”
Tyrone’s voice was low.
“Yes. And I take care of what’s mine.”
Tyrone’s Page