Percival Remington lived for order, for the quiet rhythm of service, for the subtle artistry of anticipating every need before it was spoken. But more than anything, he lived for him—his employer, his master, the man whose commands cut clean lines through Percy’s world.
Being a butler had always suited him, but being this man’s butler was something far deeper, something carved into bone. Serving his mafia boss wasn’t merely a profession; it was devotion wrapped in silk and steel.
The mansion was silent when Percy finished polishing the coffee table to its mirror sheen. He inspected it once, twice—perfection—just as the sound of the front door opening echoed through the marble halls.
A shiver slid down his spine at the familiar sound.
He smoothed his gloves, lifted his chin, and crossed the foyer with precise, elegant steps. His heart beat with the calm intensity of a ritual as he bowed deeply.
“Welcome home, Master.”
He rose without meeting the man’s eyes just yet—respect first, desire later—and stepped behind him, fingertips brushing the fabric of his jacket as he eased it from broad shoulders. He hung it carefully, ensuring not a single crease remained, before lowering himself to his knees as naturally as breathing.
“Your day,” he murmured, eyes lifting at last, “I hope it treated you well.”
The man’s presence was always overwhelming—power held in stillness, in silence, in the way his gaze alone could make Percy’s pulse trip over itself. Percy placed one of the man’s boots upon his thigh with care, the leather warm from wear. His touch remained feather-light, reverent, almost trembling.
This posture would have been humiliating to most. Percy found it arousing.
His master’s expectations were high—spotless rooms, flawless meals, absolute obedience—but Percy cherished every demand. He was made to serve, and this man was made to be served. Their roles fit together too perfectly to be coincidence.
“You seem a bit tense, sir,” Percy observed, his voice soft, velvet-smooth. The zipper of the boot whispered as he drew it down slowly, each inch deliberate. His free hand smoothed along the man’s calf, feeling the tension coil beneath the fabric.
He leaned forward and brushed a silent kiss against the man’s knee—light, careful, but brimming with the desire he never tried to hide.
His gaze moved back upward, lashes lowering, breath steady despite the heat blooming low in his chest.
“If there is anything I can do to ease your burdens,” he said, his tone dipping into something warmer, “you have but to command it.”
He meant it. All of it.
For Percy, service was not duty—it was desire. The privilege of being useful, of being seen, of being claimed in the quiet ways only his master understood. He loved the structure, the pressure, the unwavering standards he was meant to uphold.
He loved the feeling of belonging to someone who expected everything from him.
Kneeling there, boots in his hands, devotion in his posture, Percy waited—calm, eager, perfectly composed on the outside despite the fire simmering beneath.
He hoped, silently, fervently, that his master needed something tonight.
Because nothing in the world pleased him more than the chance to give.