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The boy calls him Mr. Munson the first time they meet. He is sitting behind his big desk outside of the shithead A&R guy’s office wearing a neat button-down that fits his slim body like it was tailored exactly for it, in some delicate pattern of pinks and maroons. The warmth of the fabric brings out the warm tones in the boy’s complexion. His eyes are fixed on his computer screen, but he sits up straight despite his distraction as if he is used to people looking at him constantly, judging him for the angles of his body. Big, dewy eyes slide from whatever pseudo-important nonsense is on the screen to Eddie, moving in long strides toward him, and that’s when he says it.
“Mr. Munson,” he says, tilting his head back by a few degrees so that he can look up at Eddie. He fusses with the cuffs on his shirt as if every part of him isn’t already pin-straight, and it makes Eddie smirk. There is a nervousness to the boy, a slight quiver in his eyes as he takes in the man before him — the man attached to the name he surely knows well. It’s a toss-up whether those nerves come from the fact that the boy’s boss is desperate to sign Eddie and therefore has been leaking the pressure onto his assistant, or if there is something about the human that Eddie is, the one standing before the boy, that is causing the spike of anxiety.
The boy wears it all well — not just because he’s pretty and Eddie has always found a bit of fretfulness makes a lovely accessory — but because he copes. The nerves hardly show at all, just in those eyes, and perhaps at the corners of the big smile he puts on.
“Thank you for coming in. We know you must be very busy,” the boy says, certainly having been trained to parrot such deferent, nothing lines to the bigger artists that walk through the hallways of this shiny, glass-filled building. “Mr. Sampson is ready for you.”
The boy is climbing to his feet, revealing where his shirt — little flowers, that’s the pattern; dark vines of muted blood red dotted with lighter imprints of petals — is tucked into a pair of dark gray slacks. Every line of his body is displayed in his clothes but without the cheapness of being overly tight. He spends money on his wardrobe. Boys at his level are always shamefully underpaid, but this boy takes what few dollars he has and he spends it on looking good. In all likelihood — he likes to look good. He likes people to think he looks good.
Eddie thinks that and much, much more. “Thank you,” Eddie says, nodding his head politely at the boy, who doesn’t blush or smile or giggle at the look of appreciation Eddie gives him. He does blink. Just a few, slow blinks.
“Of course. Let me just get the door for you.” It’s a glass door — everything in these kinds of buildings has to be glass for some stupid fucking reason. Doesn’t anyone ever need to scratch their balls? “Is there anything I can get for you? Coffee? Tea?”
There’s an old joke there — or me? But the boy doesn’t lead into it with his words or his smiles. His expression is completely professional, a deferential tilt to his head, and big eyes waiting for a command.
“That’s all right. I don’t think it’ll be a long meeting, ah… what was your name?”
“Oh!” How many Grammy winners ask for this boy’s name when they are pushing past him to talk to his boss? Eddie’s willing to bet not very many. “Steve.” The smile turns a little more genuine, less of something as fixed and vacant as a Ken Doll. Truly, Eddie doesn’t mind either way.
“Thank you, Steve.”
“You’re welcome, Mr. Munson. If you need anything, I’ll just be out here.” Again, he’s been trained to ask this. That doesn’t stop it from sounding so beautiful in his deep voice, looking so charming being shaped by his pink lips.
Maybe, it even makes it a little sweeter.
“Eddie!” Ryan Sampson says from his desk in the center of his big office. The entire room could probably fit the trailer Eddie grew up inside and most of the space is left empty. A long couch along one wall with a simple cabinet with glass decanters full of cucumber water, lemon water, and something with blueberries floating inside. A low, coffee table sits in front of it with entertainment magazines fanned out. And then, just the desk, and a few chairs. The rest of it just wasted square footage.
“How are you doing? I’m glad you could come in. I’ve been wanting to finish hashing out the details of your new contract.” Ryan stands up as Eddie nears him, leaning over his too-big desk to shake Eddie’s hand, before collapsing back in a high-backed leather chair. He spins in it, going for a casualness that he must hope will make him seem less desperate.
Eddie doesn’t mention that he doesn’t actually have a new contract, that he is perfectly happy to sign with his old label for another three albums. He’s here just to see how many hoops Ryan will jump through to get Eddie on his team. Eddie’s happy where he is, but he doesn’t want to deprive someone else of the opportunity of making him happier.
“Nice kid you’ve got out at your desk,” Eddie says, throwing a thumb behind him to where Steve is back sitting up straight at his desk, typing away — probably doing something mind-numbing like responding to all the e-mails Ryan can’t be fucked to respond to himself.
“Steven? Yeah, he’s a good boy. Not a lot of brains, but he follows orders and he looks good out there. Got some rich daddy out in the midwest who bought his way into USC but the poor kid couldn’t hack it, dropped out after a year. He’s lucky I took pity on him, gave him a job here or he’d be back in Iowa or wherever working at a McDonald’s.”
“Must be pretty grateful to you,” Eddie says, picking a piece of lint off his thigh.
Ryan just hums in agreement before clapping his hands and saying, “So, I’ve got the contract drawn up just like your manager wanted. There are some bonuses we worked in for you and the boys that I think should sweeten the deal a bit — better than you’d get at that old operation you’ve been at for the last ten years.”
Eddie nods along, not really listening. The drone of this guy’s voice is enough to shoot him down in Eddie’s mind, and at this point in his career, money’s not the motivator it once was. He lets the guy talk about percentages and all that shit for a couple of minutes before holding up a hand to stop him. It works like a charm, his mouth clicking shut halfway through his sentence. “What if I wanted something else to — ah, sweeten the deal?”
Ryan Sampson is not a particularly scrupulous man — Eddie figured that out within ten minutes of being in the guy’s company. Eddie, as it turns out, is not that scrupulous either, and the little smile he shares with Ryan is just the beginning of the proof.
When Steve shows up at Eddie’s house later that night, he is still in his pretty flower shirt and tight slacks, like he hasn’t made it back to his place even though it is after 10 pm. Eddie sees him on the little television screen he keeps in his kitchen—mostly for the sake of mindless sitcoms while he’s cooking, but it has the added feature of showing the feed from the security camera on Eddie’s front porch. He sees Steve walk up, fidgeting with the line of his clothing, the swoop of his thick, dark hair, running his hands over his mouth like he’s afraid there are some crumbs around his lips. In his hand is an envelope — one of those large rectangular ones that come in that dull yellow-orange that is so oddly ubiquitous amongst office supplies. It shakes a little where it is being held next to the boy’s hip.
He walks away before ringing the doorbell, for all of ten seconds before forcing himself back and pressing one of his elegant fingers against the pearlescent button. The chimes ring through Eddie’s house. He ignores them. For five minutes, he leans against the counter in his kitchen and watches the boy on his porch twitch and squirm. He almost leaves once more — but he comes back again.
Finally, Eddie deigns to go and answer the door. Immediately, Steve straightens out, quieting the movements in his body with a snap to attention. It doesn’t make him look any calmer. If anything, the nerves being expressed through his fidgets are transferred up to his eyes. They look larger than they had in the office, a tad overwhelmed, but also beautifully determined.
“Steven,” Eddie says by way of greeting. “So lovely to see you again.”
“Hi — um, hello, Mr. Munson,” the boy says, voice low and heavy with what he must know is coming for him. Eddie wonders what exactly Ryan had said to him, how he has been prepared — if he is truly prepared, but he supposes it doesn’t matter as long as things end up the way they should. “I brought the contract for you to sign. My — uh, Mr. Sampson told me to bring it back to him tonight.”
“Yes,” Eddie says, smiling with his canines. He thinks Steve might be playing a little game of make-believe with himself, holding on to the idea of this being a normal errand he is running for his demanding boss. “Well, I’ll have to look it over, of course.”
“Of course,” Steve agrees quickly, nodding his head with a little much gusto.
“Why don’t you come in? Have a drink while I go through all that boring fine print.” Eddie stands aside, his back keeping his overly large door open so that Steve can step inside. It’s a bit, Eddie thinks, like Hansel entering that gingerbread house.
Eddie leads them both through the big, dumb house — with all the money, how is Eddie supposed to not buy himself a mansion? Even if he sometimes feels like that old trailer trash boy squatting while the true owners are away on vacation. They end up in the lounge, with its sleek furniture and the wall of windows that looks over the hills. The lack of wonder in Steve’s eye is a little surprising. He doesn’t take in the view, doesn’t stare at the million-dollar architecture. It makes Eddie wonder just how rich this midwest daddy of his was — or just how often Steve has been invited to other homes owned by other celebrities.
“Drink?” Eddie asks, not waiting for an answer. He goes to the drinks cabinet he has in the corner and pours a few fingers of bourbon into a crystal glass. Steve holds it stiffly in his hand, not even pretending to bring it up to his lips. “What?” Eddie asks. “Don’t tell me you only drink sugary cocktails?”
“Oh — um, no, um — I like bourbon, I —” he looks down at the shimmering brown liquor in his hand, the crystal catching the bright lights that are shining down from the ceiling. He doesn’t drink.
“Sweet boy,” Eddie says, getting Steve’s attention back on him with the jerk of the boy’s neck. “You don’t think I’d do something like that, would you?”
“I don’t know what you mean, Mr. Munson,” Steve says in a low, half-ashamed tone.
“Here.” Eddie grabs the glass back from the boy and takes a sip himself, making a show of smacking his lips in refreshment. “Delicious.”
Steve’s face is flushed red as he takes the glass back, finally bringing it up to his mouth to sip, leaving behind a glimmer of moisture on his pink lips. “It’s good,” he says, a little shy.
Eddie smiles, like a reward for obedience, and Steve’s cheek deepens another shade. Leaving the boy to stand awkwardly in the middle of the room, Eddie sits himself down at the corner of his long couch with his own drink in hand, leaning back with an air of controlled relaxation, throwing his arm over the back so that his body is made open and large. “Do you know what is going to happen tonight?” he asks, sipping slowly, eyes never leaving Steve even as the boy darts his attention around the room.
“I think so. I — um, whatever you want?” he says, half-statement, half-question.
“Is that what your boss told you?”
Steve takes another sip, this one long and fortifying, before nodding. “He said that I should get your signature on the contract and — and I should do whatever it takes to get it and — so — I’m not dumb. I think I can sort of — imagine….”
“You don’t have to imagine, Steve. You don’t have to think at all. You just have to do whatever I tell you to do. It’ll be easy. You think you can handle that?”
Steve opens his mouth and there is almost certainly another stream of stutters about to come out, but instead, he shuts it again, taking in a deep breath. When he speaks, he says simply and clearly, “Yes.”
“Good boy,” Eddie tells him, almost groaning in satisfaction when Steve shutters at the term — but of course, he has more control than that. Does he know? Does he have any idea how obviously he broadcasts what he really wants? Eddie can read it in every little set of his muscles. “Now, take off your clothes.”
After swallowing the last of his drink with a quick tilt of his head, Steve follows his orders. With shaky hands, he begins to unbutton his shirt, each little red dot taking too long to slide through its accompanied opening, but Eddie enjoys the show well enough. Slowly, a thin undershirt is revealed, a thicket of dark hair curling over the top of the lightweight cotton. The shirt is opened, pulled out from Steve’s pants, and slid down the boy’s arms. His skin is tanned a warm hue, and Eddie wonders if he lays out in the sun to get that color or if perhaps it’s just the way he is. All rich, saturated shades.
The undershirt is next. The boy has no tattoos, no scars — just pure, soft skin, only broken up by the occasional mole or freckle. Steve hesitates for a moment with his hands on his belt buckle, looking at Eddie like he thinks Eddie might start laughing and declare the whole thing a joke — just a bit of razzing, but Eddie keeps his gaze intent and expectant and that look alone is enough for Steve to swallow thickly and continue. The belt slides out of its loops. The zipper of his slacks inches down. One leg — warm skin, thick dark hair — slides out of the fabric, and then the other. Then, he toes off his shoes. Then, he hooks a finger into the elastic of his socks and slips them off. Then, with another swallow, audible across the room, the boy pulls down his tight boxer briefs and stands there.
His cock is hard. A respectable size, nicely proportioned, a deep red color as it juts out of his pelvis. Steve closes his eyes when he notices Eddie staring at his groin, but he doesn’t hide himself. He keeps his hands by his side, closed into fists.
“Absolutely perfect,” Eddie tells him. Steve blows out a stream of air like he had been holding his breath waiting for his review. It sounds a bit relieved. He opens his eyes once more. “Come here.”
Eddie opens his legs into a wide vee as soon as Steve starts talking small, colt-ish steps toward him. “Knees,” he commands when Steve makes it within touching distance. Eddie sips his drink while Steve lowers himself down. Eddie has a plush carpet on the ground in front of his couch, perfect for pretty boys to kneel on. It doesn’t erase all the discomfort from Steve’s eyes.
“Nervous, baby?” Eddie asks, running a hand through Steve’s hair — which is surprisingly silky despite the product that he obviously uses to give it such body.
“I just don’t want to screw up,” Steve whispers, closing his eyes with a brief look of satisfaction as Eddie scratches a bit at his scalp as one might do for a beloved dog.
“You won’t,” Eddie says — another command. “You’ll do exactly as you are told and then there is no possible way for you to mess anything up.”
“What do I call you?” Steve looks up with those big eyes, pupils blown wide with the thrum of lust that is underneath the boy’s skin. Oh, how lucky could Eddie be? A boy made to do his bidding, but one who will truly relish in it.
“I like it when you use my name.”
“Eddie?”
Eddie’s hand in the boy’s hair goes from petting to grabbing the second the name comes out of Steve’s mouth. It’s not cruel, but the force of it is undeniable. “No baby,” he says in a darker tone. “No. Boys like you don’t get to use my first name like that. Do you think you’re on your knees for no reason? You are down there because that is where you belong. Do you think boys who belong on the ground just get to throw around real men’s names like that?”
His eyes avert themselves, focusing on Eddie’s knees instead of his face, but Eddie can see the glimmer of shame there — and acceptance. “Oh, I see — um, I understand. I call you Mr. Munson?”
Eddie returns to petting and some of the tension that had hardened in Steve’s shoulders goes soft again. He sighs, almost like he is thankful. “Not quite as stupid as you seem.” Steve seems to purr as if this were a real compliment.
“I want you to grab the contract and follow me up to my bedroom,” Eddie orders, letting go of Steve’s hair. When the boy nods and starts to climb to his feet, however, Eddie grabs hold of him once more — by the upper arm now — and yanks him back down, a soft thud sounding when Steve lands. “Did I say you belong on the ground, baby? You will stay on your knees. I want you to crawl.”
“I’m sorry, Mr. Munson,” Steve says automatically, without a thought of resistance. “But how — I don’t understand, how do I carry the contract?”
“You’ve got a mouth, don’t you, sweetheart? It must be good for something.” Steve shudders, but he doesn’t even try to argue. Slowly, he backs out of the vee of Eddie’s legs and falls down onto his hands, inching his way over to where the contract is sitting in its envelope on the coffee table. Carefully, he grabs a corner of it with his teeth and backs up until it dangles from his mouth like the favorite stuffed animal of the family dog. “God, you’re a good boy, aren’t you? Follow orders like a dream,” Eddie says, getting back a sweet look of gratitude from Steve and a dribble of precum leaking out of the boy’s cock.
It seems a delicate balance of humiliation and praise is the magic spell for Steve — and isn’t that just a birthday wish come true?
Steve follows Eddie through the house, up a long set of stairs, and finally to the master bedroom. He crawls without so much as a whimper of complaint, his hips swaying side to side as he moves, his shoulder undulating with each step forward. Eddie debates pulling out his phone and filming it in action, but with all the celebrity hacks that happen these days, he decides not to risk it. He should hunt down an old-school video camera, keep a VCR around just for nights like this.
Eddie stops the boy a few feet away from the bed, letting him sit back on his ankles and taking the envelope from his mouth, tossing it thoughtlessly toward a chair he has tucked in the corner of the room. He leaves the boy there, disappearing into his walk-in closet, to the back where he keeps the collection of toys that will make this night even more satisfying. He takes his time picking out each item, leaving Steve out in the bedroom to think — to imagine, just like Eddie told him not to, but it would be impossible to follow that command — of all the things that are going to be done to him.
When Eddie returns, he squats down in front of the naked boy, taking him in. Sitting on his heels, hands on his thighs, eyes pointed down except for the few glances up to Eddie’s face he can’t stop. For a moment, Eddie has a flash of desire to be sweet to this good boy, so he leans forward and offers him a kiss. Firm and controlling, but tender as well, and the boy melts into it, a desperate whine sounding from his throat. Eddie gives him this — for just a few moments, and Steve swallows all of the softness down.
“Have you ever used these before?” Eddie asks as soon as the kiss is broken, standing back up and picking up a pair of nipple clamps to show Steve. The two rubber-tipped clamps are connected by a thin silver chain. Eddie has that chain draped over his pointer finger, letting the clamps dangle in front of Steve’s face, swaying a bit. His eyes follow them like he is watching the pendulum of a clock.
“No, Mr. Munson, I — um, no —”
“That’s all right. They’ll hurt a bit, not as much as some of the other ones I could use on you, but still. You’ll be good though, won’t you? You can handle a little pain for me?”
Steve nods, determined. “Yes, I can — whatever you want.”
The boy keeps his hands on his thighs as Eddie attaches them — the little pink buds of the boy’s nipple already erect with arousal, now squeezed between the clamps. He hisses as they go on, his face contorting a little, but he doesn’t move. His hands stay where they are. He looks up, waiting to be told if he did all right. Eddie smiles at him, but it is just wicked enough to be difficult to interpret. “Crawl up on the bed now, boy. Hands and knees, face the headboard.”
Eddie works in silence as soon as Steve has gotten himself in the right position. Without explanation, he maneuvers the boy until every limb, every vertebra, is exactly where Eddie wants. Steve allows it all, not arguing, not asking questions — not even when Eddie attaches the spreader bar between his knees, locking his legs open enough to reveal the pink hole between his cheeks and not even when Eddie takes his wrists and pulls them forward, knocking him down to his chest making the clamps roll and press and abuse his already sore nipples, and uses a hard set of metal handcuffs to tie him to the bedframe.
Once Eddie is done, Steve is still on his knees, his ass still angled up, and his spine is long and curved with his chest against the mattress, his arms held straight in front of his head. “I’d ask if you were comfortable,” Eddie says, climbing behind the boy on the bed where there is no chance of Steve being able to see him. For this moment, Eddie is just a disembodied voice with complete control. “But it doesn’t really matter. You’re my toy for the night and I get to play with you exactly as I like. Whether you like it or not doesn’t matter. Though, I’m curious — do you like it? Do you like it, Steve? Reduced to a plaything. A pawn in the dealings of more important people. You’re like a gift basket, delivered right to my door. Do you like it, baby?”
Something close to a sob escapes Steve’s mouth. His whole body is shivering, strained in its forced position. He whimpers, but he says, “Yes, Mr. Munson. I like it.”
“Why is that?”
“Means I’m good for something,” Steve whispers, the shame in his voice keeping him from speaking with any conviction. He means it though. The boy just wants to be useful.
“You’re very good,” Eddie tells him. As he speaks, throwing out more mindless praise, he uncaps a bottle of lubes and pours a dollop on two of his fingers. “You are doing exactly what I want, listening very well to your orders. You should feel accomplished, baby. Not everyone can satisfy me like this. You are, you can, because you are a good, obedient boy.” Two fingers slide into the boy’s hole at once, punching out a gasp. Eddie wonders how often the boy does this; if he does it at all — but it seems all too easy for it to be his first time. Eddie wouldn’t mind it, though, wouldn’t mind being the first thing sliding inside this boy’s body, forcing it to make room just for Eddie, opened and stretched in a way it didn’t even know it could be.
He’s tight. Terribly, terribly tight — too tight for two fingers. It must burn, but besides a few hisses and a few flinches, Steve doesn’t fight. Slowly, he even forces himself to relax and that’s when Eddie adds a third, getting a low, pained groan. He pumps — in and out — just a few times and quickly replaces his fingers with a long, bulbous plug. Steve shakes around the intrusion, his ass flexing as he tries to adjust to the way it simply stays inside him, unyielding. Eddie reaches down between the boy’s legs, stroking his cock until the boy moans in a broken, desperate way and then he stops.
He climbs off the bed. The warmth of his body is removed from behind Steve, leaving him alone in the middle of the bed — trapped.
“I should really look over that contract one more time,” Eddie says, ignoring the whimpers. “After all, I can’t sign it if I don’t check it’s in my best interest. Stay there, baby. If you move a muscle, all of this will have been a waste of time.”
Eddie does, actually, read the contract. He figures however long it takes him to drag himself through it will be long enough to properly test the boy. After the first page, he pulls out a little remote he had placed in his pocket and presses a button. Two sounds fill the room immediately — the buzzing of a vibrator and the yelp of a desperate boy. But he doesn’t move. From the chair in the corner, Eddie watches — the boy doesn’t move. Not then, not when Eddie turns up the device a few minutes later. His body is shaking so bad it is almost like it is vibrating itself, but he doesn’t move. His whimpers turn to cries, but he doesn’t move.
It is twenty minutes, at least, before Eddie returns to the bed, running a hand up Steve’s spine. “Mr. Munson,” the boy says, voice thick with clouded need and distress. “Please — I don’ — wanna be good, please, I —”
“Shh,” Eddie says. “Shh, have you come, baby?”
Steve nods, burying his face in the crook of his shoulder. Eddie looks between the boy’s legs and finds that there is, in fact, a dark, wet spot on his comforter under Steve’s raised hips. His cock is still hard, though, having recovered quickly under the relentless sensation of the plug inside him.
“Does anything hurt?” Eddie asks.
“My — my nipples, Mr. Munson. It hurts. I —”
“Okay, shh, you’re being so good. Sometimes toys get hurt when they are played with. That’s part of being a good toy, isn’t it? Letting your owner play with you as hard as they like.”
“Yes. Yes, I — you’re right. I’m a good toy.”
“You are, sweet thing. We’re almost done. I just need to come inside you.”
Steve nods, agreeing like it is a foregone conclusion.
The boy reacts, when Eddie slides inside of him in a single hard push, like he hadn’t been stretched out for the last half hour. He shouts at the intrusion like nothing has ever been inside him. Maybe it is the one that Eddie’s hips force his body forward, dragging his throbbing nipples across the comforter — no matter how high the thread count is, the fabric must feel like burlap to him. But Eddie doesn’t slow or reduce the force, pumping inside Steve with all the strength he can muster, getting a delicious scream with every thrust. It must seem endless to the boy, but to Eddie, his time inside this ass is going by far too quickly.
He has been hard since Steve first knelt between his thighs and even with the prolonged build-up, he lasts a while. As long as he can. He wants to memorize the squeeze of Steve’s muscles around him. He wants to take every whimper and squeal and cry and have it etched into his temporal lobe. But — of course, his orgasm builds. He ends up draped over Steve’s back, jackhammering with little, rhythmless thrusts as it comes up on him, his hand wrapped a hair too tightly around Steve’s cock, pulling on it until he is actually crying. Wet sobs come out of the boy, his cheeks shiny with tears. When Steve comes for the second time — he goes completely silent. His jaw is held wide open in pained ecstasy, overwhelmed and so enraptured he’s not even pretty anymore. It’s enough. Eddie spills into him, pumping his way through it.
Eddie waits until he is soft until he pulls out of Steve, looking down quickly so he can stare at the globs of cum leaking out the red, swollen hole like it’s a masterpiece in oils. He gives himself that — like he has given himself this entire night — a few minutes to take in the boy’s abused body.
The clean-up is efficient. Eddie helps Steve stretch out his stiff muscles, sore from being frozen for so long. He kisses the boy’s head when he sobs anew as the clamps are removed, his cock twitching at the refreshed throb agony. He rubs lotion into his chaffed wrists. He tells him honestly, his hands held on either side of Steve’s cheek and forcing his eyes to meet Eddie’s, “You did a wonderful job, tonight, Steve. You were perfect. I’m very happy with your work.”
“Thank you, Mr. Munson,” Steve says, the words made a little pathetic by the way he sniffles between them.
The contract has been left at the little side table next to Eddie’s chair. He strides over to it, picking up a pen from the table’s drawer and placing the neat swirl of his signature on the last page, along with all the necessary initials next to all the necessary sections. He offers the contract to Steve, who stares at it like he isn’t quite sure what could possibly be written on all those clean, white pages.
“You can take that to your boss now, sweetheart. Or if you are too tired, you can stay here tonight.”
“I — I’m tired, Mr. Munson, but Mr. Sampson said that he wanted to the contract tonight.”
“Oh, don’t worry about that. I can text him, let him know that I’ll be needing your services for the entire night and you’ll bring him the signed contract in the morning.”
“Okay, but — um, I’m — Mr. Munson, I really am tired. I don’t know if I can —”
“Shh, just for sleep, baby. You’ve earned it. I’ll run you a nice bath and then you can just go to sleep here next to me. Would you like that?”
Those big, dewy eyes — all the formality of that glass office stripped from them, leaving only want and exhaustion and hope and something sweetly hurt. “Okay. I’d like that. Thank you, Mr. Munson.”