This is my first full length story, so I hope you enjoy it! Please email me ([email protected]) any feedback. Enjoy!
All characters are entirely fictional besides Byron, whom has given me his express permission to include later in the book. Please follow him on Instagram (@byronrosekelly)!
The Temptation
The Chapel was alive, the low hum of conversation blending with the occasional clink of glasses and the warm glow of dim overhead lights. The pub had settled into its usual Thursday evening rhythm, the after-work crowd transitioning into the more leisurely night patrons, creating that perfect atmosphere of comfortable sociability without excessive crowding.
Harry sat beside Max at the bar, radiating confidence, his bright magenta T-shirt stretched taut over his colossal pecs, practically painted onto his torso. Nothing about his appearance suggested subtlety or restraint—the eye-catching color was deliberate, designed to draw attention to what was already impossible to ignore. Paired with stone-washed denim shorts, cut dangerously tight, they clung to his huge thighs, the fabric straining with every shift of his body, like it had been molded to his massive development rather than merely worn. The seams along the sides seemed to be engaged in a constant battle against the extraordinary mass they contained, visibly stressed with each subtle movement.
If Harry was a walking advertisement for being looked at, then Max was the refined version—less flashy but equally impossible to ignore. His jet-black polo shirt hugged his upper body with the desperate determination of fabric that knew it was outmatched, the sleeves gripping his massive biceps like tourniquets, the material stretched over his broad chest so completely that it revealed rather than concealed. The fabric dipped slightly where his pecs forced the material outward, creating shadows that only emphasized their extraordinary volume. His dark grey jeans fit too well to be standard off-the-rack items, shaped by thick thighs and an undeniably powerful lower body, proving that even without neon colors, he could command attention through sheer physical presence alone.
And Ethan?
Ethan had made a habit of touching Harry.
It had started off subtle.
A fleeting brush of fingers. A casual pass behind him, the smallest graze of contact that could be dismissed as accidental in the confined space behind the bar.
But now?
Now it was deliberate.
Every time Ethan walked past, his hand lingered longer, squeezing, brushing, gripping just enough that it couldn't be called an accident by any reasonable observer. The touches had purpose, intent, a clear pattern of escalation that might have been alarming if not for one crucial factor:
Harry loved every second of it.
He never acknowledged it out loud, never made a scene, but inside, he was thriving on this new, bold attention. The secret thrill of being handled without asking, of someone taking liberties with his body that would have earned others a swift rejection, created an intoxicating undercurrent to his evening.
It was a weekly ritual now. Ethan wasn't shy about it, and Harry wasn't stopping him. The understanding between them remained unspoken but mutually acknowledged, a private game playing out in public space.
But tonight?
Tonight, Harry wasn't the only one getting Ethan's attention.
As Ethan moved behind the bar, wiping down the counter with practiced efficiency, he glanced over at Max.
And then—
A ghost of a kiss.
Barely there. A quick, almost invisible flicker of movement, a subtle pucker of lips directed exclusively toward Max. It happened so fast it might have been imagined, yet its intention was unmistakable.
But Harry saw it.
And so did Max.
The reaction was instant—but not from Harry.
Max's fingers tightened around his pint glass, the pressure turning his knuckles white. His jaw flexed, the muscles along the side of his face contracting visibly. A flicker of tension ran through his broad shoulders, a momentary stiffening that betrayed his composure more eloquently than words could have.
Harry turned slightly, glancing between them with growing curiosity.
Ethan, as always, just kept moving. Unfazed. Confident. Knowing exactly what he was doing and precisely what effect it would have.
But Max?
Max was flustered.
Completely thrown.
Harry stared at his dad for a long moment, his lips curling slightly around his glass.
Tiny, unimposing, student bartender Ethan...
Had just rattled Max fucking Schett.
Harry took a slow sip of his drink, hiding his growing grin behind the glass. The implications were too fascinating to ignore, too intriguing to dismiss.
This?
This was going to be fun.
The Shop — The Next Day
The day was non-stop.
Max had barely stopped moving, caught between serving customers, managing stock, and answering staff questions. The constant activity had kept him physically engaged and mentally distracted, which, in a way, was a blessing.
At least it meant he didn't have to think about last night.
He'd been too flustered, too thrown off by Ethan's tiny, harmless, insignificant little gesture—
"Mad one today."
Max looked up from the inventory list he'd been reviewing.
George.
He was leaning on the counter, arms crossed, watching Max with that casual, knowing smirk that suggested he'd been observing longer than Max had realized.
Max exhaled, rolling his shoulders to release some of the tension that had accumulated there. "Yeah. Barely had time to breathe," he replied, attempting to maintain his usual composed professionalism despite the chaotic day.
George glanced around the shop, taking in the relative quiet of the current lull. "You got time to talk, or shall I piss off?" The question was direct but carried the easy familiarity of long acquaintance.
Max hesitated.
Then—
"There's something I wouldn't mind your advice on," he admitted, the words emerging before he'd fully committed to sharing.
George's smirk widened into something more genuine. "That so?" Interest sparked in his eyes, recognizing the rarity of Max seeking counsel.
Max nodded, closing the inventory binder. "Man to man. Coffee?"
George shrugged, already moving toward the door. "Yeah, alright."
Bean & Brew — 20 Minutes Later
Max pressed send.
He felt sick.
The simple action of tapping a glass screen shouldn't have generated such physical discomfort, such visceral anxiety, yet his stomach clenched as though he'd done something irreversible, something that might alter the course of his carefully structured life.
George grinned, watching him with undisguised amusement. "See? That wasn't so hard," he observed, leaning back in his chair with the satisfaction of someone whose advice had been followed despite reluctance.
Max exhaled, setting his phone down on the table like it had suddenly become radioactive, dangerous to touch. The seconds that followed stretched into eternity, each moment of waiting for a response extending beyond normal temporal boundaries.
Then, with startling immediacy, the reply came.
Ethan: Well, well. Took you long enough. Good to hear from you, Maxy Muscle Boy x
Max stared at the message.
At the words.
Maxy Muscle Boy.
Boy.
The term reverberated through his system with unexpected force. He was anything but a boy. He was huge, dominant, undeniable—a fully grown man who commanded respect through sheer physical presence alone.
But Ethan had called him that.
Had made his name sound diminutive, submissive, yet still highlighted his muscular development, still made it about his body, creating a strange contradiction of power and subservience in three simple words.
Max swallowed, a complex mixture of emotions churning inside him. There was something about the casualness of it, the assumption of intimate familiarity, that both unsettled and excited him in ways he couldn't immediately articulate.
George smirked, tapping his coffee cup against Max's in a gesture of congratulation.
"See? That was easy."
Max barely heard him.
His attention remained fixed on the message, on those three words that somehow managed to reduce his imposing physicality to something manageable, something that could be owned or controlled rather than merely admired from a distance.
He was locked in.
And he was desperate for more.
