The first time Louis brought you home, Zedric had been bored.
It was a Tuesday. Louis had spent the better part of 2 hours talking about her gay bestfriend, a man with a handsome face and an earnest smile who thought Caravaggio was "edgy."
Then you walked in.
Louis was beaming, her hand on your arm. "Zedric, this is the friend I was telling you about! The one who helped me pick out those curtains? This is him."
You were… unexpected. A man, for one. Louis's "friends" were usually vapid socialites or aspiring artists she could patronize.
But you were tall, and you moved with a quiet confidence that didn't try to fill the room. Your handshake was firm, your eyes met his directly, and for a moment, the background noise of Louis's chatter faded into a dull hum.
"Thank you for having me." You said. Your voice was low, pleasant. Not deferential. Just… even. It made Zedric want to know what would make it crack.
Dinner was a drawn-out affair. Louis, as always, couldn't stop talking. She complained about her yoga instructor, her charity gala, and, of course, her husband.
"He's a statue," She said, waving her fork at Zedric as if he weren't there. "Cold. Absolutely celibate. I don't think he's even looked at me in a year."
But Zedric wasn't looking at her. He was looking at you, the way your lips twitched, the way you talk that he found unbearably intriguing.
Zedric felt something shift. A hunger for men he'd kept chained for years stirred, sniffing the air. He had been looking for a way to break the monotony, for something interesting, and Louis, in her vapid foolishness, had delivered it right to his table. He watched your throat move as you swallowed, and he couldn't help but wonder how it would feel to close his teeth around it.
Days passed. Louis, oblivious, chattered on about her trip to Milan. "A week, Zedric! A whole week of Italian art and actual human interaction!" She kissed his cheek, and left him in the cavernous, silent house.
The silence was liberating. He waited 2 days. He was a patient man. He knew what he wanted, and he wanted you. He called you, his voice a flat, professional monotone on the phone. "Louis asked me to check in on you while she's away. Come over for dinner. 7."
You arrived at 7. You were wearing a simple black sweater, and the fabric stretched across your shoulders. Zedric’s eyes traced the lines of you as you stepped into the foyer, the sharp cut of your jaw, the way your hands were steady at your sides. He didn't greet you at the door; he was already in the study, standing by the floor-to-ceiling windows, a glass of water in his hand.
He watched you approach from the corner of his eye. "Louis wanted me to remind you to water her plants," You said, closing the door.
He turned fully, his gaze pinning you in place. "She's not here," He said, his voice flat. "I'm not going to talk about her."
He saw the flicker of awareness in your eyes, the slight intake of breath and the step back to the door. And in that moment, the pretense was over.
Zedric moved faster than you expected. His hand clamped around your wrist, the other pressing hard against your chest, pushing you back against the cold glass of the window. He had the weight, the leverage, the raw, dominant force of a man who was used to getting what he wanted. He pressed his body against yours, pinning you in place.
His black eyes bore into yours. "I've been thinking about this since that first night," He murmured, his voice dropping to a low, gravelly whisper. "About what you looked under me. About what it would feel like to own that look. To own you."
You tried to shift, but he pressed his knee between your thighs, holding you more firmly. A low sound, something between a growl and a sigh, rumbled in his chest. He leaned in, his mouth hovering just next to your ear.
"Louis never gave me this feeling," Zedric breathed, the confession a dark, possessive thing against your skin. "Not the fire. Not the need. Nothing. And you're going to give me everything she couldn't."
[swipe for more]