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 Trap is Set
Harry had planned for a quiet leg day.
The gym was his sanctuary—a place where the clang of weights and the scent of iron grounded him in the physical reality he'd spent years perfecting. He'd arrived early, determined to focus solely on training the colossal pillars that supported his extraordinary frame. But concentration had become impossible the moment Dylan appeared beside him mid-set, leaning casually against the squat rack with that signature cocky grin that transformed his handsome face. His arms folded across a chest so developed it created its own geography beneath his sleeveless hoodie, the fabric surrendering to the impossible mass it struggled to contain.
"Mate," Dylan started, shaking his head with a half-laugh that carried across the busy gym floor. "You should've been there the other night."
Harry racked his weights, the bar settling with a metallic clang that echoed his frustration at the interruption. He exhaled sharply before turning his attention to Dylan, sweat glistening along the deep valley between his pectoral masses. "Where?"
Dylan scoffed, as if Harry was somehow out of touch for not knowing. "The Chapel. The Kiss-o-Gram night."
Harry raised an eyebrow, using his forearm to wipe the sweat from his brow, the motion causing his bicep to swell dramatically beneath his skin. "That was a real thing? I thought Jase was taking the piss."
Dylan smirked, stretching his arms out in a movement that sent ripples of definition across his torso. The display wasn't accidental—nothing about Dylan's physicality ever was. "Oh, it was real. And guess who was front and center?"
Harry looked at him with deliberate blankness, playing along despite already knowing the answer.
Dylan pointed to himself, the gesture unnecessarily theatrical.
"You?" Harry's voice carried the perfect mixture of skepticism and amusement.
Dylan nodded, his golden-brown hair catching the overhead lighting as he shifted his weight, his compression shorts creaking in protest at containing the massive development of his thighs. "Me. Jase had me up there, being felt up, kissed, massaged, and—get this—used as a human bar."
Harry's smirk widened, though somewhere deep inside, a spark of curiosity ignited. "Bollocks."
"Swear to god." Dylan leaned in closer, his voice dropping to something almost conspiratorial, his enormous frame casting shadows across Harry's equally impressive physique. "Flat on my back, right on the bar. Drinks placed on my pecs, my thighs, my abs. People touching, licking up the spills. Everyone had their hands on me. Men. Women. Didn't matter."
Harry felt a sudden, unexpected surge of heat coursing through his system, settling low in his abdomen with unmistakable weight. The image Dylan painted was vivid, almost cinematically clear—a crowd of hands exploring the extraordinary landscape of Dylan's physique, treating him like an object, a thing to be used rather than a person to be respected. The thought should have repulsed him. Instead, it sent electrical currents racing along pathways he hadn't known existed.
Dylan saw it in his face—the flicker of something primal and unguarded. His eyes tracked Harry's response with the precision of a predator noting weakness.
"The tips were good, too," Dylan added with calculated nonchalance. "Not that I got any of them."
Harry frowned, momentarily confused. "Jase?"
Dylan chuckled, the sound surprisingly genuine despite the context. "Obviously. Said it was his commission for organizing it."
Harry shook his head, amused but not surprised by his best friend's entrepreneurial approach to Dylan's exhibition.
Dylan tilted his head, studying Harry with unexpected intensity. "You should do it."
Harry blinked, momentarily caught off guard. "What?"
"Do a Kiss-o-Gram night," Dylan said with the casual confidence of someone suggesting a routine change in workout split rather than public objectification. "Mate, you'd make a fortune. Plus, you love being touched."
The observation was so direct, so nakedly honest, that Harry found himself hesitating. A heat crept up his neck—not embarrassment exactly, but the uncomfortable sensation of having a secret desire acknowledged aloud. "Yeah, but... at The Chapel? My dad drinks there."
Dylan shrugged massive shoulders, the movement causing his hoodie to strain across his upper back. "So?"
Harry shot him a look that conveyed volumes about the awkwardness of such a proposal.
Dylan sighed dramatically, his expression suggesting he'd anticipated this resistance. "Look, I get it. Just think about it, mate."
Harry hesitated, his mind already racing through possibilities despite his outward reluctance. The thought of dozens of hands exploring his body, of being the center of that kind of attention—it wasn't repulsive. It was intoxicating.
Dylan pressed his advantage, his hand moving forward to brush from Harry's colossal thigh up to his monumental pecs in a touch too deliberate to be casual. "You're legend, and that crowd? You'll be treated like a god."
Harry rubbed the back of his neck, a gesture of uncertainty that contradicted the interest flickering behind his eyes. "I dunno..."
Dylan grinned. He already knew he had him. The seed was planted.
"Think about it," he said, his tone suggesting the decision was already made.
That evening, Harry sat at the bar of The Chapel, a pint in front of him, his broad shoulders dominating the space. His fitted navy button-up strained across his chest with each breath, the buttons engaged in a perpetual battle against the extraordinary development beneath. His black trousers, perfectly tailored to showcase his massive thighs while maintaining a semblance of professional appearance, clung to him with devoted attention. The fabric stretched taut across his glutes as he shifted on the barstool, the wooden seat groaning softly under his substantial weight.
Jase arrived right on time, sliding onto the stool beside him with practiced ease. He clinked his own pint against Harry's in greeting, the glass seeming almost delicate in his grip.
"Alright, mate?" Jase said, exuding the easy confidence of someone comfortable in their own skin.
Harry nodded, taking a measured sip from his glass. "Yeah. Had a chat with Dylan today."
Jase grinned inwardly, though his external expression remained neutral. "Oh yeah?"
Harry exhaled through his nose, the sound carrying a mixture of amusement and disbelief. "He told me about that Kiss-o-Gram night."
Jase took a slow sip, maintaining his facade of casual innocence. "Did he, now?"
Harry shot him a knowing look that suggested he wasn't fooled for a moment. "I know you made bank off him."
Jase chuckled, entirely unapologetic about his entrepreneurial exploitation. "Course I did. It was my idea. Of course, there was nothing in it for me."
Harry rolled his eyes, though his amusement was evident in the slight curl of his lips. Jase had always been like this—opportunistic in the most entertaining way.
Jase leaned in slightly, voice dropping to a more intimate register. "And you? You thinking about doing it?" His excitement bubbled over, impossible to contain. "Oh my god, Haz, you'd be incredible. Do it! Do it!"
Harry sighed, swirling his pint contemplatively. The amber liquid caught the pub's warm lighting as it moved. "Dylan reckons it'd be fun. But mate, my dad drinks here, you know I love the attention but that's a bit much, even by my standards."
Jase nodded thoughtfully, as if mulling over this perfectly reasonable objection—though in reality, this was exactly the response he'd anticipated. He'd been playing chess while Harry thought they were discussing checkers.
"Why don't I ask about doing it at The Velvet Stag instead?" Jase offered, the solution emerging with suspicious readiness. "Less... complicated that way. I kinda know Mick, the owner, so could drop him a DM."
Harry glanced at him, interest visibly sparking despite his attempt at casual indifference. "You think Mick would be up for it?"
Jase smirked, the expression suggesting absolute certainty. "Mate, Mick would be over the moon."
Harry exhaled, staring into his pint as though the golden liquid might contain the answer to his internal debate. "Dylan's up for it, too. Said he'd join me for moral support."
Jase grinned, the final piece of his plan falling perfectly into place. He raised his glass slightly. "To using Harry 'The Hunk' Schett."
The word hit Harry like a physical blow.
Using.
He hadn't heard it before—not like that. Not referring to him.
But as soon as Jase said it, it sent a bolt of heat through him, shooting straight to his core with devastating accuracy. The sensation was so intense, so unexpected, that Harry's grip tightened around his glass, the outline of his knuckles visible beneath the skin as his fingers tensed.
Something flipped inside him. Something fundamental shifted, realigning his understanding of his own desires.
Jase noticed. He saw the way Harry's breath hitched, the subtle change in his posture, the almost imperceptible darkening of his pupils. The flash of recognition that passed across his face before he could suppress it.
And Jase smirked, knowing this was it—the moment Harry stepped over the edge.
This was his fall.
And Jase was going to keep pushing him.
