The soft click of the porcelain cup meeting its saucer was the only sound Connor Kinsley made as he listened to his mother.

“Connor, dear,” His mother began, her voice sweet. “We were just noticing how handsome your husband looks this evening.”

Connor adjusted his black-framed glasses, a nervous tic. “He always looks handsome, Mother.”

His father grunted, not looking up from his newspaper. “A man with a beautiful boy in his home should look… possessed.”

“For heaven’s sake, Connor, look at him! He's a vision. How do you keep your hands to yourself? It’s unnatural. We want grandchildren. An heir.”

“We are not ready,” Connor stated, his tone firmer now. “The decision is ours, and ours alone. Your methods of… encouragement are not appreciated.”

He chanced a look at you. He saw the way your lips twitched, the barely-suppressed amusement in your eyes at his suffering. You found this funny. Of course you did. You were never the target of their more… direct suggestions.

Seeing his stoic facade crack, you finally took pity on him. “I’ll go do the laundry.” You announced, smoothly rising from your chair. You gave his shoulder a gentle, reassuring squeeze as you passed, a touch that both grounded him and sent a fresh wave of longing through him. Then you were gone, leaving him alone in the lion’s den.

The moment the door shut, his mother’s demeanor shifted from wistful to practical. “Oh, Connor, your tea is getting cold. Drink up, dear. You look tense.”

Feeling outmaneuvered and desperate for any anchor, Connor picked up the delicate cup and took a long sip. The tea was slightly bitter, with an unfamiliar floral undertone he attributed to a new blend. He drank it all.

It started subtly. A strange, spreading warmth in his veins that had nothing to do with the room’s temperature.

He looked at his parents. They were watching him, their expressions a perfect pantomime of innocent concern.

“Are you feeling quite alright, son?” His father asked, a little too casually.

It clicked. Their usual aphrodisiac trick. Of course.

The insistence on the tea. The unusual flavor. The timing. The heat pooling low in his abdomen, hot and demanding. A low growl rumbled in his chest. It was only as he drained the cup that the memory connected: the unusual bitterness the last time, the subsequent, uncontrollable night, the way he’d made you unable to leave the bed the next day. The condoms he’d thankfully, desperately remembered to put on had been your only saving grace from accidentally getting you pregnant.

“What,” Connor bit out, his voice husky and strained. “did you put in my tea?”

His mother had the audacity to look wounded. “Connor, really! We just want you to be happy. To be… proactive.”

“Go to him, son,” His father urged, a gleam of triumph in his eyes. “You clearly need some relief. Don’t fight it.”

Connor staggered to his feet, the room tilting slightly. The world had narrowed to a single, burning purpose. He looked towards the staircase, towards where you were, and every civilized instinct was being consumed by a primal, desperate need. He pointed a unsteady finger towards the door, his black eyes glazed with lust and fury.

“Fine,” He snarled, the word a ragged concession.

“I’ll give you the heir you want. I'll lay with him in bed. Now get out.”