Part 1: The Temptation
Graham Whitaker prided himself on control. At fifty-five, running one of the most successful design firms in the city, power dripped from his voice, his posture, his presence. He was the man everyone deferred to, the one who ended conversations with a single glance.
But Juck? Juck never played by those rules.
Juck was twenty-four, sharp, confident, with dark eyes that never broke contact. He’d been working for Graham for a year, and from day one, he had made it clear — through lingering looks, subtle touches, and that cocky little smirk — that he wanted his boss. But not to be dominated. To take control. To make this alpha man his.
Graham pretended not to notice, but every touch burned under his skin. Every time Juck looked at him like prey, something inside him shivered. He wasn’t used to being pursued. Certainly not by a younger man with no fear.
The young man’s confidence was maddening. Every meeting, every presentation, he held Graham’s gaze too long, his smile laced with challenge. He called him boss in a tone that made Graham’s cock twitch — not out of command, but submission he’d never admitted he craved.
Weeks passed like this: smirks, casual brushes of fingertips, close whispers. Until one late night at the office.
Graham had sent everyone home after a marathon project was completed. Only Juck lingered. The silence between them was heavy.
You should celebrate," Juck said, leaning against the doorframe, arms crossed, his t-shirt stretched over a lean, strong chest.
"I don’t celebrate until the next challenge starts," Graham said, his voice rough.
Juck’s lips curved into a smile. "You ever let someone take care of you, boss?"
Graham raised an eyebrow. "I take care of myself."
Juck stepped forward slowly. "That’s the problem."
You need to relax," Juck said, stepping too close.
Graham’s breath caught. "I’m fine."
"No, you’re not." Juck’s hand touched his tie, toying with it. "You’re wound up. Stuck in that perfect, alpha shell."
Before Graham could react, Juck was in front of him, fingertips brushing along his jawline. "Let me." His voice was low, velvet-smooth, but full of authority.
Graham’s breath hitched.
Graham’s heart pounded.
"Let me help," Juck whispered, lips almost grazing his ear.
The older man stiffened, desire and panic clashing. "That’s not... appropriate."
Juck smiled slowly, dark eyes burning. He leaned in as if about to kiss him — lips millimeters away — but then stopped.
"I can wait," Juck breathed, and then turned and walked out, leaving Graham rock hard, breathless, and furious.
That night, Graham couldn’t sleep. His cock ached, but jerking off felt humiliating. He was the dominant one — wasn’t he? But he couldn’t shake Juck’s gaze, the feel of almost being kissed and denied.
Days passed. He avoided Juck, but the young man’s presence lingered like a hand around his throat. Every meeting became torture. Every accidental touch sent fire through his veins. He caught himself staring at Juck’s strong hands, his mouth, imagining them on him, in him.
He hated it. Loved it.
He doubled down on his authority. Barked orders. Took control. But Juck only smirked — knowing, patient.
A month later, the firm planned a week-long business trip — just Graham and Juck, meeting clients in Chicago. The moment they boarded the plane, the air between them crackled.
At the hotel, Graham tried to stay professional. Dinner was tense. Juck was polite. Too polite. No teasing, no seduction — just calm confidence.
Graham wanted to scream.
That night, he lay in bed, hard and aching, thinking of Juck. Imagining being pinned down, taken apart. He gritted his teeth, refusing to touch himself.
The next night, after a long meeting, Juck finally broke the silence.
"You keep running," he said quietly, back in Graham’s hotel room.
"I’m your boss," Graham whispered, his voice hoarse.
"And I’m the man who’s going to make you beg," Juck murmured.
Graham’s cock throbbed painfully.
"Not yet," Juck said, reading his body, his voice gentle but firm. He kissed Graham’s cheek — soft, almost tender — and left.
Graham collapsed onto the bed, groaning in frustration, harder than he’d ever been in his life.
The following week back at the office was pure torment. Graham found excuses to summon Juck, trying to regain control, but every interaction left him weak.
Finally, Friday night. The office empty again.
Juck entered without knocking.
"You’re ready," he said simply.
Graham opened his mouth to argue — but stopped. He nodded.
"Good boy," Juck whispered.
The words shattered him.
Juck took his hand and led him to his car, driving to his house — modern, minimal, with huge windows and a soft king-sized bed waiting.
"Strip," Juck commanded, his voice low but gentle.
Graham obeyed.
Juck kissed him slowly, deeply, letting the tension melt. "You’ve waited long enough. Now I’m going to take care of you."
Graham whimpered as Juck laid him back on the bed, worshiping his body with lips and tongue, taking his time, making the powerful man shudder and moan.
When Juck finally slid inside him, it was slow, tender, overwhelming. Graham clung to him, panting, feeling cherished and owned at once.
They made love for hours. Slow. Intense. Juck whispered praise into his ear: Good boy… so beautiful… taking me so well.
When Graham finally came, screaming Juck’s name, he felt weightless.
But Juck wasn’t done.
He rolled him onto his stomach, grabbed a small camera from the nightstand.
"Look at the camera," he commanded.
Graham obeyed.
"Tell them who owns you."
"You do," Graham whispered.
"Say it louder."
"You own me, Juck."
Juck pounded into him hard now, rough and fast, one hand around his throat. Graham came again, untouched, shaking.
For the next hour, Juck used him, filming every thrust, every moan, every broken cry.
"You’re mine," Juck growled, filling him one last time.
Graham collapsed, used and euphoric.
And then Juck whispered: "You think this was intense? Wait until next week in Miami."
To be continued…
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