Learning Curve - Disciplinary Action #2 - Ch. 6 (Patreon)

Unbeta'd/Unedited.

“Have you ever seen him smile this much?” Baxter asked.

“Not in all the years I’ve known him,” Julian said, staring at him with something akin to wonder.

Evander did his best to ignore them. He stared down at his phone, at Matteo’s profile photo. An unsmiling shot where it was clear he’d been trying for sexy and had ended up looking more pouty instead. It was adorable. And sexy. But Evander was biased. He thought everything Matteo did was sexy. Even when he looked like he was seconds away from biting someone. Especially then.

“Imagine looking happy at the prospect of losing two million dollars to that diabolical little brat,” Baxter muttered. “But I suppose it’s better than the alternative, which is handing him a billion-dollar company.”

Evander rolled his eyes, but he couldn’t wipe the smile from his face. “You two are being so dramatic right now.”

“You’re grinning like the Cheshire cat over enslaving your childhood crush, but we’re dramatic?” Julian countered.

“Nothing you say today is going to upset me,” Evander promised. 

And it was true. He felt oddly unshakeable, like everything had finally clicked into the only configuration that ever would have worked.

Today was move-in day. Today was the day his Matteo came home and started his new life. It had taken two weeks to finally sign the paperwork. Two weeks of attorneys—paid for by Evander—haggling over every subsection and stipulation of the legitimate contract. Via text, both Evander and Matteo had set hard limits around the mundane issues in the contract, but surprisingly few about their other contract.

The non-legally binding one.

What constituted walking away? Leaving for a period greater than seven days, or leaving without express written permission. Who determined whether Matteo had met the terms of the contract? A neutral third party—someone with no attachment to either of them. Someone Matteo had insisted on, his distrust bleeding through every clause.

On and on it went for fourteen days, Matteo and Evander duking it out without ever setting eyes on each other. Every message from Matteo had been razor-sharp, stripped of pleasantries, fury packed into short sentences and deliberate silences. Evander had read them all with the same steady calm. Anger was expected. Resistance was normal. He could carry that weight for both of them.

“You know we’re going to need to get ahead of this in the press,” Baxter said. “You’ll never be able to quietly move Matteo Cruz into your home without the world knowing. And when the world finds out, so does his family.”

“Issue a press release,” Evander said, waving his hand. “What do I care?”

“Saying what?” Baxter asked. “That you’ve contracted the grandson of the richest man in the world to be your sugar baby until such time that he becomes your fiancé?”

Evander fixed him with a flat stare. “Or… you could just say we’re dating.”

“Ten weeks ago he was caught in a scandal making out with a random stranger in a nightclub hallway. Now you’ve moved in together?” Julian said. “That’s going to look suspicious as hell. To anyone.”

“You forget I don’t care what people think,” Evander said. He had survived worse scrutiny than gossip blogs and thinly veiled speculation.

Julian gave him an exasperated look. “You forget that the board does.”

Evander shot him a baleful look. “What? The board gets to dictate who I date now? I don’t recall seeing that in the contract.”

Julian huffed. “The board—”

Baxter raised a hand, cutting Julian off. “Has it not occurred to you that the press will eat Matteo alive?”

“Of course it has,” Evander said. “But it can’t be helped. He brought it on himself. If he wants to repair his reputation, he’ll have the means to do so. If not, then the experiment has failed, and I can’t help him anyway.”

“Experiment?” Julian croaked. “You said you loved him.”

This time it was Evander who sighed, turning his chair toward the two of them. The movement was unhurried, deliberate, as if he’d been expecting this question all along. “I said he’s mine. And he is. We haven’t seen each other in years. I loved the sad, neglected boy who hid behind his sharp tongue. But a tragic backstory will only get you so far. It’s up to him whether he takes the opportunity to better himself or whether he decides to continue playing this same vapid, shallow creature he’s always pretended to be.”

“Are you sure he’s pretending?” Baxter muttered.

“Sure enough to bet everything on it?” Julian added.

That was the thing about Evander. He didn’t waver. He didn’t doubt. He never failed to trust his own instincts, and because of that, he never missed. Nobody was going to change his mind about Matteo. Nobody. He’d tell them whatever they needed to hear, but Matteo would blossom under Evander’s unwavering attention. He’d make sure of it. Anger could be redirected. Defiance could be refined. Pain could be repurposed.

And when he was done with Matteo, he’d be everything he was meant to be.

His perfect mate. 

His perfect husband. 

His perfect submissive.

Perfect.

For him.

“Well, this has been fascinating,” Evander said, standing, “but Matteo is due at the penthouse in about forty-five minutes, and you know traffic. I don’t want to leave him alone with no guidance.” 

Or time to spiral. 

Or time to run.

“Yes, we wouldn’t want that,” Baxter said drily.

Evander ignored him, grabbing his phone and the bag hanging on the coat hook just inside his massive office.

The ride in the car was far more tedious than usual. He tried to fill the time by working but kept going back to the picture of Matteo, tracing his thumb across full, pouty lips and sad eyes. The screen warmed under his touch, the gesture absentminded and proprietary. How did the world not see how broken he was? How could nobody else see what Evander saw? It was written all over Matteo’s face. The tension in his mouth. The way his eyes dared people to underestimate him.

When he pulled up outside the building, he spotted Matteo slumped against it, with only the luggage Evander had given him. He looked sullen, arms crossed over his silky black shirt patterned with tiny, colorful flowers. Baxter claimed Evander knew nothing of fashion, but he’d picked every piece he’d given Matteo, and Matteo looked perfect. Beautiful. Like something carefully curated and just barely contained.

Evander was halfway to him when he noticed the man with the camera. It was far too large to be a civilian, which meant someone had already tipped off the press. Somehow.

Matteo glanced up, making eye contact as he glowered at him, striding forward, bag in tow, clearly prepared to give him a piece of his mind. The fury in his posture was unmistakable–tight shoulders, clenched jaw, every step a challenge.

Evander intercepted him easily with a smile, wrapping an arm around him and pulling him into a hug.

“The press is watching,” he murmured near Matteo’s ear, his grip firm but careful, “so try not to look like you want to kill me.”

“Wh–what?” Matteo managed.

“There’s a man with a camera,” Evander murmured. “He’s recording you. Well—us. Do your best to look like you love me, or things are going to get very awkward for both of us very quickly. Now,” he added softly, “kiss me.”

When Evander stepped back, Matteo surged up on tiptoe, pressing their lips together in a chaste kiss. It was sharp and sudden, more collision than affection, and Evander felt the tension in it immediately–, anger barely leashed.

When Matteo pulled back, Evander cupped his face. “Sorry if I kept you waiting.”

Matteo’s mouth twisted into a pout. “You did.”

Evander couldn’t help himself. He kissed the pout right off Matteo’s lips, quick and decisive. “Let’s go inside. We have a lot to go over.”

“Oh, good,” Matteo muttered grumpily. The word sounded like a threat.

Evander couldn’t wipe the smile from his face.

Inside the building, he retrieved Matteo’s key and handed it over. Matteo shot hostile looks at the security guards, both of whom were openly watching him with curiosity. Evander didn’t blame them. He’d rarely had people over in the few months he’d lived there, and now Matteo was moving in after a single visit. Speculation was inevitable.

Once inside the penthouse, Evander took Matteo’s bag and led him down the hall to the room across from his own. He opened the door and gestured for him to enter. Matteo hesitated, eyes flicking from Evander to the room before he finally crossed the threshold. Like he expected the door to lock behind him.

“This is your room for now,” Evander said. “I want to give you time to adjust before we move on to more… rigorous tasks and punishments.”

“What does that mean?” Matteo mumbled, shoulders tight.

Evander didn’t answer.

“For now, your morning starts at seven,” Evander continued evenly. “I expect you to be showered and dressed by seven-thirty. I will choose your clothing the evening before when I put you to bed.”

“When you what—”

“You’ll have my coffee ready and on the table. Cream and two sugars. Failure to do this properly will result in a punishment of my choosing.”

Matteo stared at him, mouth agape. The silence stretched, thick with disbelief and dawning fury. Something about his shock sent a bolt of heat through Evander—not arousal so much as satisfaction, the confirmation that Matteo was listening.

“You will have breakfast with me,” Evander continued. “I will cook. For now.”

“Why,” Matteo snapped, “do you think I’m gonna poison your food?”

Evander gave him a baleful look. “Can you cook?”

He had the distinct pleasure of watching Matteo’s face turn pink. “No,” he muttered.

“I will cook,” Evander reiterated. “Until I can ensure your food is edible. You will learn to cook. You will not bring your phone to the table.”

“What?” Matteo gasped. “Why?”

Evander moved on without answering. “After breakfast, you’ll clean the kitchen—to my standards. Do the laundry—yours and household items like towels and bedding. You’ll make sure our beds are made. Again, to my standards.”

“Is that all, your highness?” Matteo grumped, crossing his arms over his chest. The defiance was there, but it rang hollow, too fast, too reactive.

“No,” Evander said calmly. “You’ll eat lunch at twelve-thirty. I’ll have it delivered. You don’t get to choose your meals yet. You will eat what I send. You will not throw it away. You will not order from anywhere else. If you aren’t hungry, you can put it in the refrigerator and eat it tomorrow.”

Matteo’s jaw tightened, anger finally settling into something colder. More dangerous.

“I don’t even get to pick my own food?” Matteo shot back. “What if I hate what you send?”

“From one to four,” Evander continued calmly, “you’ll tidy the house, go work out, write in your journal—which I will review daily—and ensure all chores are completed as assigned.”

“Journaling?” Matteo yelped. “I didn’t agree to that.”

“You agreed to improving yourself,” Evander said mildly. “This is how we’ll track progress. Patterns. Setbacks.” He didn’t slow. “You will do some kind of workout daily. If you don’t, you’ll work out with me when I get home, and I promise you, my workout for you won’t be nearly as pleasant.”

Matteo’s hands curled into fists at his sides.

“Dinner is at six-thirty,” Evander went on. “You’ll help me prepare it, and you’ll clean up afterward. Seven-thirty will be a review of your day, and also when punishments and/or maintenance discipline will be given. After that, you’re free to do what you like—as long as it’s within my line of sight. Ten o’clock is lights out. No exceptions.” He paused. “Any questions?”

“Several,” Matteo snapped, his voice sharp and brittle. The word cracked like it was holding something back.

“That was rhetorical,” Evander said breezily. “Go ahead and unpack your things. I won’t have you living out of a suitcase like some kind of nomad.” Like someone temporary. “I’ll make us something to eat. I’m sure you’re hungry.”

He could feel Matteo seething beside him, the anger almost physical–heat radiating off him, restless and furious, looking for somewhere to land. But this was necessary. Matteo didn’t know it yet, but structure was the only thing that had ever worked for people like him. People who burned too fast, too bright.

Evander was nearly to the door when he turned back.

“Your outfit is a bit impractical for doing chores,” he added, eyes flicking briefly over the silky black shirt. “Get changed into something you don’t mind getting dirty.”

Matteo’s jaw tightened. The silence that followed wasn’t obedience–it was calculation, Evander could already see the wheels turning in his head. He was trying to figure out just how to wiggle his way out of his chores.

Oh well. That was Matteo’s problem. Evander had lunch to make.

By the time Matteo joined him, he’d changed into a sleeveless T-shirt and a pair of loose sweatpants from the same designer who did all of Evander’s workout clothes. The sight of Matteo’s bare arms–slim muscle, restless energy contained under soft fabric–hit Evander harder than it should have. He filed the reaction away with everything else he was deliberately not indulging. He didn’t rush the meal. There was no reason to. Matteo needed to learn that schedules weren’t punishments–they were stabilizers.

He moved through the kitchen with practiced efficiency, setting out ingredients, washing his hands, selecting a knife. He was aware of Matteo behind him the entire time, a restless presence that never quite settled. It was impossible not to feel him. He was a charged wire humming just out of reach.

Matteo hovered at the edge of the island, then leaned back against it, then drifted toward the window, then returned again. His footsteps were light but constant, a circuit Evander clocked without comment. Too close. Then too far. Testing distance without knowing he was doing it.

“So,” Matteo said eventually, voice too casual, “what are you making?”

“Chicken. Rice. Vegetables.” Evander didn’t look up as he trimmed fat from the meat.

“What kind of vegetables?” Matteo asked, peeking over his shoulder. 

Evander paused, then glanced at him. “Does it matter?”

Matteo lifted one shoulder. “What if I don’t like it?” he asked, almost child-like in his calculation.

Evander hummed noncommittally and returned to his work. Matteo watched for a few more seconds before sighing dramatically.

“Are you just going to ignore all my questions?” Matteo asked, irritation creeping into his tone.

Once more Evander stopped to give him a patient look. “The nonsensical ones, yes.”

“How is me thinking I might potentially not like something nonsense?” Matteo asked. “Especially if I have to eat it or I get punished.”

“You’ll like it,” Evander said.

“Oh, well if you insist,” Matteo mocked. “Isn’t forcing someone to eat food they don’t like torture or something?”

When Evander didn’t answer, Matteo made another track around the kitchen, his nervous energy enough to power a small country. The scent of his soap drifted closer, clean and distracting, and Evander’s grip tightened on the knife. When Matteo wandered close enough, Evander snagged him by the waist, reeling him in.

Matteo’s breath caught, eyes going wide. The sharp inhale went straight through Evander, lighting something low and dangerous in his gut.

Evander set the knife aside and picked him up, setting him on the counter. “Stay.”

Matteo’s expression was somehow both bewildered and mutinous. His thighs tensed reflexively around Evander’s hips before he seemed to realize what he was doing, color rising fast in his cheeks. Evander could feel Matteo’s gaze on him as he returned to chopping vegetables and began dropping them into the hot pan. Once the food was heating, he washed the rice and put it into the rice cooker, closing it and hitting a button.

It took conscious effort not to turn back. Not to crowd him. Not to touch him again just to prove he could.

“You’re very…intense about this,” Matteo said finally, legs swinging, his shoulders impossibly tense. His voice was lighter than he felt, Evander was certain. Everything about him was wound too tight.

Evander’s lips quirked into a smile. “About feeding you?”

“About everything.” Matteo gestured vaguely, encompassing the kitchen, the penthouse, the day, his entire life maybe. “Don’t you have people for this kind of thing?”

“For feeding you?” Evander asked, amusement creeping into his voice. “No, I don’t have time to interview a pet sitter.”

Matteo glowered at him. “Is that what I am? Your pet?”

Evander crossed the kitchen to stand before him, gently gripping his chin to force his gaze down to his. The muscle there jumped under his fingers. He felt it. Felt Matteo go still, caught between defiance and something dangerously close to want.

“For now,” Evander said quietly, his thumb lingering a second longer than necessary, “yes.”

Matteo’s nostrils flared, his chest rising and falling faster. “Do you know how fucked up that is?”

“Which part?” Evander asked. “The part where I called you my pet or the part where it turned you on?”

Matteo slapped his hand away, but Evander snatched his wrist. “You don’t get to reject my touch. I can do what I want with you. Remember?” He let his gaze drag slowly over him, before returning to meet his eyes. “Anything I want.”

Heat crawled up Matteo’s neck to his cheeks, all the way to his hairline, his pupils blown wide. His breath stuttered, the defiance in his posture betraying him completely. Evander couldn’t hide his chuckle.

“Don’t laugh at me,” Matteo snapped.

Evander’s brows rose at the heat behind his words. He dropped his hand, but cupped his face. “Poor thing. You can’t decide if you’re coming or going, can you?” 

His thumb brushed the corner of Matteo’s mouth, a touch so light it was almost a test…of both of them. 

Matteo’s jaw tensed, his expression hostile, but his skin was on fire, the outline of his nipples obvious through the thin material of his shirt. He wasn’t mad that Evander had called him his pet. He was mad that he liked it. Mad that his body reacted faster than his pride ever could. Evander hid his smug satisfaction. Matteo would do beautifully. Evander was certain of it.

Certain enough that it took effort not to prove it to him.

Matteo stood there, every muscle rigid, until Evander released him, returning to the stove to stir the ingredients before adding soy sauce. Putting space between them felt like stepping back from a ledge. Necessary. Agonizing.

“Do you always make lists?” Matteo asked suddenly.

Evander glanced up to see him looking at the list beneath the simple round magnet on the fridge.

“Lists are efficient,” Evander said. “Lists leave little room for ambiguity.”

“They’re also stressful,” Matteo mumbled.

Evander finally turned, leaning back against the counter. “Why?”

Matteo opened his mouth, then shut it. His fingers worried at the hem of his shirt. The bravado slipped for half a second, replaced by something smaller. “They’re just… a lot. That’s all.”

Evander studied him. The agitation didn’t surprise him. People like Matteo bristled at structure until they realized how much easier it made things. How much safer. “You’ll adjust.”

Matteo snorted softly. “You say that like it’s a guarantee.”

Evander shrugged. “It is, if you try.”

That earned him a sharp look. “I am trying.”

Evander raised an eyebrow but didn’t argue. He turned back to the stove, letting the moment pass. He didn’t trust himself to say more without touching him again.

“Okay, but hypothetically,” Matteo said, “like, what if I do the kitchen and you don’t like how it looks?”

“Then you’ll redo it.”

Matteo sucked his teeth. “And if I redo it and it’s still wrong?”

“Then you’ll redo it again,” Evander said calmly.

“That’s insane,” Matteo said, sounding stunned.

Evander hid his smile, focusing on the food as he said, “No, that’s learning.”

Matteo didn’t speak again until Evander turned to look at him. Matteo stared, lips parted like he wanted to say something else, then scoffed. “Normal people don’t live like this.”

Evander’s lips turned upwards as he shook his head. “Normal people aren’t you.”

The words landed harder than he’d intended. Matteo went very still. For a moment, Evander thought he might push back.

But instead Matteo laughed, short and brittle. “Right. Of course.”

The sound scraped against something in Evander’s chest. Not doubt–never doubt–but a flicker of something uncomfortably close to tenderness.

There were a million emotions swirling behind those three words, but Evander let them go… for now. He didn’t need to win every battle immediately. Control worked best when it was inevitable, not rushed. He plated the food, then brought it to the table.

Matteo sat perched on the edge of his chair like he might bolt at any moment. Too tense. Too aware. He poked at the food, inspecting it with exaggerated suspicion.

“You’re not eating,” Evander observed.

“I am.” Matteo nudged a piece of chicken. “I’m pacing myself.”

Evander watched him take a cautious bite, chew, swallow. Matteo’s shoulders loosened a fraction despite himself. The reaction was small but telling, his body betraying him before his mouth ever would.

“It’s fine,” Matteo said quickly, as if daring Evander to comment. “Not poisoned. Congratulations.”

Evander ignored the jab. “Eat.”

Matteo did as he was told, but slowly, methodically, eyes flicking up every few seconds like he expected correction, like he expected Evander to get angry over his malicious compliance. The vigilance was almost erotic in its intensity. When he finally seemed to decide Evander wasn’t going to fly off the handle, the questions started.

Too many questions.

“When you say ‘to your standards,’ what does that actually mean?”

“You’ll learn.”

Matteo gave another bratty huff. “How clean is clean enough?”

“When I say it is.”

An eye roll. “Do you want the laundry sorted by color or fabric?”

“Both.”

Matteo gaped at him like he’d told him he’d be carting his clothes to the river on his back and beating them against a rock. “What if something shrinks?”

“Then it will come out of your allowance.”

“What if I break something?”

Evander gave him a mellow smile. “Then it will come out of your allowance.”

“What if it’s really expensive? More expensive than I can afford?” Matteo asked, chin going up stubbornly, eyes glinting in challenge. The defiance was brittle, held together by bravado rather than confidence.

Evander set down his fork and rose, moving around to Matteo’s side. He crouched to eye level, unable to stop himself from caressing his jaw. The contact was deliberate, grounding, and far more intimate than the words that followed.

“I need you to hear me when I say this, hatchling,” Evander said quietly. “Feigning ignorance won’t save you. Malicious compliance won’t save you. Weaponized incompetence won’t save you.”

Matteo’s lips parted, but he said nothing, swallowing audibly. His breath was shallow now, eyes dark, fixed.

“If you break something, you’ll pay for it. If you break it again, you’ll pay for it again. If it keeps happening, we’ll move on to more severe corrective measures.”

He let his thumb trace Matteo’s lower lip. The faintest tremor answered the touch, and Evander felt it like a live wire under his skin.

“As for payment,” Evander continued, voice low, even, “if you can’t afford to pay for it with money, you’ll pay for it with your body.”

“Wh–what does that mean?” Matteo asked, breath hitching.

“Whatever I want it to mean,” Evander murmured, forcing himself not to close the distance any further, fascinated by Matteo’s visceral reaction to his touch and how it directly contradicted his anger. “As your owner, it’s my right to train you however I see fit. Right?”

Matteo’s breathing grew heavy again, jaw so tight Evander swore he could hear his teeth grinding. This wasn’t fury. This was surrender…battling against panic.

Fascinating.

“Right?” Evander prompted again, pinching his chin and forcing his unfocused gaze to his.

“Right,” Matteo muttered.

“Who do you belong to?” Evander asked suddenly.

Matteo seethed, glowering at him with barely contained anger. “I think we already established that it’s you,” he snapped. “I get it. You own me. I’m your pet. You can do whatever you want to me, whenever you want to. You win.”

The words came out sharp, but they rang hollow; a surrender Matteo hadn’t meant to give, one he likely didn’t realize he’d given.

Evander sighed. “You don’t get it. Not yet. But you will. I have faith in you.”

“You’d be the first,” Matteo spat without thinking, eyes going wide as soon as the words left his mouth.

The admission hung between them, raw and unguarded, and for the first time since Matteo had appeared back in his life, Evander felt something twist painfully in his chest.

But he couldn’t waver. 

He brushed his cheek softly once more, then stood, returning to his side of the table, picking up his fork and taking a bite. If he stayed any closer, he’d give in to the urge to fix things too quickly. To soften what needed structure.

“Eat,” Evander prompted, when he noticed Matteo was just sitting there, staring blankly at the wall.

Matteo opened his mouth, then snapped it shut. His gaze dropped to his plate. He pushed the rice around, appetite visibly fading. “I’m not hungry.”

“You were ten minutes ago.”

Matteo’s jaw tightened. “Guess that changed.”

Evander considered pushing, then decided against it. Control didn’t require constant enforcement, just consistency. “Put it in the refrigerator, then.”

Matteo stood too quickly, chair legs scraping. He took his plate to the kitchen, movements jerky, and Evander watched him from the table. Watched the way Matteo stared at the refrigerator a second too long before opening it. Watched the way his hands shook–just slightly–as he slid the plate inside.

Not defiance. Not manipulation. Panic.

Fear, Evander decided. 

Of accountability. Of being expected to follow through.

It would pass.

Everything did, eventually.

“I have some work to do, but I’ll be right here,” Evander said. “Take a few minutes to get familiar with the house, with the layout, where everything goes. You have free reign. Everywhere except my bedroom. You will not enter there unless invited.”

“Do I get the same courtesy?” Matteo snapped. “Or are you the only one entitled to privacy?”

Evander sighed, once more moving to stand before him. He kept his hands to himself this time, even though every instinct urged him to ground Matteo physically. “I understand this is a lot for you. That having any kind of accountability is new. But you agreed to this. You could have just taken the money I offered and tried to make it on your own, but you didn’t. And we both know why.”

“Because I’m stupid,” Matteo muttered, staring at his feet.

Evander forced him to look at him. “You are a lot of things, Matteo. Coddled. Spoiled. Bratty. But you were never stupid.”

“Shows how much you know,” Matteo said, every word choked with emotion.

The anger had burned out of him, leaving only something small and exhausted in its wake.

Evander knew he shouldn’t baby him, but it was impossible to see him stewing in his own self-loathing. He pressed his lips to his forehead. The gesture was brief, controlled, an anchor, not an indulgence. “I know you don’t believe me. But I’m doing all of this for your own good. Trust me, just a little, and I promise you, I’ll give you everything you’ve ever wanted.”

Matteo didn’t pull away, but he shrank in on himself like he needed space. “As long as I abide by your rules, your terms, your wants and needs.” His voice wavered despite his best efforts. “What about me? Doesn’t anyone care what I want? What I need?”

“Nobody knows what you need more than me,” Evander said. “Nobody knows you–the real you–better than me. You’ll see.” The certainty in his voice wasn’t arrogance; it was belief, unyielding and absolute. He stepped back, giving Matteo space. “Look around a bit, straighten up the kitchen, then put your things away. After that, come find me, and I’ll make sure everything is done to my standards.”

Matteo scoffed. “Whatever.”

Evander’s hand was in his hair before Matteo could take another breath, fingers threading in tight, unyielding. He tightened his grip until Matteo hissed in pain, forcing his gaze up to meet his. The shift was immediate, warmth gone, authority snapping into place like a lock.

“When I ask you to do something,” Evander said coolly, “the only response I want to hear from you is ‘yes, sir.’ Do you understand?”

Matteo blinked up at him rapidly, mouth opening and closing as he struggled to process the sudden change in Evander’s energy. His body betrayed him again–knees softening, breath hitching, instinct overriding outrage. “I–I–yes,” he managed sullenly. “Y-yes, sir.”

Evander relaxed his hold but didn’t let go, pressing him back against the counter. He could feel Matteo trembling now, the fight draining out of him, leaving something raw and receptive in its wake. He captured Matteo’s mouth in a slow, deep kiss that had his blood singing.

Matteo, for his part, let Evander take what he wanted, mouth opening easily, a tiny noise escaping as his tongue slid inside. There was no resistance now, only response, immediate and devastating.

After a moment, Evander forced himself to pull away. It took more restraint than he cared to admit. He pressed two chaste kisses to Matteo’s swollen mouth before murmuring, “Good boy.”