Chapter 8

The hotel bar was packed. Everyone dressed their best. Glamorous, but aging. Polished, but pretending. I let them all fade into background noise.

Because when I walked in—tight royal blue shirt hugging my chest, sleeves rolled just enough to show a vein or two—I wasn’t looking for conversation.

I was hunting.

And he was already watching.

Wes stood near the far end, tall and fuckable in that black button-down—tight across his chest, collar open like he wanted someone to grab it and pull. He looked rich in that shirt. Hungry in the eyes. And next to him, of course, was Ryan Evans—grinning like a bastard in a blood-red formal shirt, black pants, hair tousled from probably not giving a shit.

They were a pair. Hot. Smug. And already undressing me with their eyes.

I took my time walking past. Ran my fingers along a table. Bent slightly to grab a drink—let the shirt pull tight around my waist.

And then Wes moved in.

“You look so fucking hot in that shirt,” he whispered behind me. I felt his breath, low and begging. “Noah, please let me take it off tonight.”

My smirk lit up before I even turned.

“You asking for permission now?” I said, facing him slowly. My fingers trailed lightly across his arm as I passed by. His jaw tensed.

Ryan raised his brows, sipping his drink nearby. “Damn, bro. He’s gonna make you beg.”

I shot Ryan a glance. “Still not over yesterday, huh?”

He laughed, soft and smug, looking like he knew every inch of what I tasted like.

Wes grabbed my wrist gently as I stepped past, eyes dark. “You’re evil.”

“No,” I said, licking my bottom lip. “I’m just enjoying myself.”

And I was. Watching Wes squirm under all that tension. His fingers on my skin. His breath uneven. I could see how tensed he was. His forearms flexed, veins thick. His cock? Definitely straining against those tight black pants.

I leaned in slightly. “You hard already?”

He exhaled through his nose. Didn’t answer.

“Thought so,” I whispered, then slipped away into the crowd.

The day dragged on with boring activities. Photos, speeches, some awkward “so what do you do now?” moments. I played nice. But my eyes kept wandering.

Wes and I would brush past each other. Accidentally on purpose.

Once, he leaned close beside me during a group photo and I felt it—his thigh. Tensed. Close. Hard.

I looked over and smiled. Didn’t say a word.

Evening hit, and the lights dimmed in the ballroom. More drinks. More small talk.