Chapter 63
The hotel was not the Lodge.
It was bigger. Colder. A private penthouse suite at the top of the resort in Whitefish, all glass and steel and black marble, with a view of the lake that Brett didn't see because his eyes were squeezed shut, his head bowed, his hands clutching the white silk robe closed over his ruined lingerie.
Richard didn't speak in the elevator. He just stood behind Brett, one large hand possessive on the back of Brett's neck, his thumb stroking over the white satin choker with slutty tramp in cursive, reminding Brett with every step who he belonged to for the next twenty-three hours.
The door to the penthouse clicked shut behind them, the lock turning with a final sound.
Brett stood frozen in the middle of the black marble floor in his white Louboutins, in his garter belt and stockings, in his push-up bra that was holding up breasts he no longer wanted, trembling so hard his teeth chattered.
Richard walked a slow circle around him, like he was inspecting a purchase. He took his time. He let the silence stretch until Brett thought he might scream from it.
Then he stopped in front of Brett, reached out, and with one finger, hooked the tie of the white silk robe and pulled.
The robe fell open.
Brett gasped and tried to catch it, his hands flying up, but Richard caught both his wrists in one easy grip and held them gently away from his body.
"Don't," Richard said softly. "Let me look at you."
Brett stood exposed in the white wedding lingerie — the push-up bra lifting his shrinking breasts high, the garter straps biting into thighs that were losing their softness, the sheer panties he'd had to pull back up after... after. His spray-tanned skin glowed amber in the low light. His makeup was ruined, his hair was mussed, his lips were swollen.
He looked like a bride the morning after a wedding night gone wrong.
Richard's blue eyes dropped to Brett's chest. To the breasts Brett had been so self-conscious about for weeks, the "girl parts" that felt foreign and wrong without estrogen, the tissue that ached and felt heavy and fake.
"Beautiful," Richard murmured, and for once there was no mockery in his voice, just a dark, possessive appreciation. "Even falling apart, you're still beautiful, pet."
Brett shook his head frantically, tears spilling fresh. "No, please, don't, they're not... they don't feel right anymore, I don't want—"
Richard didn't listen. He released Brett's wrists and cupped Brett's breast through the white lace bra, his large hand warm and heavy, his thumb stroking slowly over the lace.
Brett whimpered, his whole body jerking at the touch. It was too much. Too intimate. Too confusing.
"Shhh," Richard soothed, like Brett was a skittish animal. "Let me."
He leaned down, and Brett felt his breath first — warm through the lace — and then his mouth.
Richard kissed him.
Right through the white push-up bra, right over the swell of breast tissue Brett hated, Richard pressed an open-mouthed kiss to the top of his breast, then another, then another, his lips soft and hot and reverent.
Brett's knees buckled. He grabbed at Richard's shoulders to stay upright, his Louboutins wobbling on the marble.
"Richard— Sir— please—" Brett gasped, his voice breaking, low and male and terrified.
Richard didn't stop. He teased the edge of the lace with his teeth, tugging it down just enough to expose skin, and then his tongue found Brett's skin, hot and wet, tracing slow circles that made Brett's breath catch in his throat.
It was delicious.
It was horrid.
Brett's body, starved for touch for weeks — because he'd been pushing Lance away, because he hadn't wanted to be touched in this body that felt wrong — arched into the touch without permission, a broken moan tearing out of him.
"No," Brett sobbed, even as his back bowed, even as his hands fisted in Richard's silver hair. "No, it feels— it feels wrong, I don't—"
"Does it?" Richard murmured against his skin, his voice vibrating straight through Brett's chest. "Feels pretty right to me, pet."
Then his mouth closed over Brett's breast, over the lace and the skin and the tender tissue underneath, and he sucked.
Brett cried out — a sharp, shocked sound that echoed off the glass walls of the penthouse — his head falling back, his whole body shaking. The sensation was electric and awful and perfect all at once, shooting straight down through his stomach to somewhere low and deep and male, somewhere that hadn't woken up in weeks without hormones.
His breasts were supposed to be fake. They were supposed to be "girl parts" he was ashamed of. He was supposed to be turning back into Brett, into a man who didn't want this.
So why did it feel so good? Why was his body responding like this? Why were his hips rocking forward, why were his hands holding Richard's head to his chest instead of pushing him away?
Richard sucked harder, his hand coming up to cup Brett's other breast, kneading it through the lace, claiming it, and Brett sobbed his name — not Richard, not Sir, but a broken, confused "please, please, please" that meant nothing and everything.
When Richard finally pulled back, Brett's breast was wet through the white lace, his skin marked red from Richard's mouth, his chest heaving, his whole body trembling on the edge of something he didn't understand.
Richard looked up at him from his knees — Richard Sullivan, billionaire, on his knees for his son's wife — his lips wet, his blue eyes blazing with triumph.
"Mine," Richard said softly, his voice absolute, his hand still possessive on Brett's breast. "For the next twenty-three hours, this body is mine. Every inch of it. These breasts you hate, this mouth, this throat, everything between your legs that you're so ashamed of. Mine."
He stood slowly, towering over Brett, and pulled Brett's shaking body against his chest, one arm banded tight around Brett's waist, the other hand fisted in his hair, forcing Brett's ruined face up to his.
"Say it," Richard commanded, his lips brushing Brett's ear. "Say 'I'm yours, Sir.'"
Brett sobbed once, hard, his forehead dropping to Richard's shoulder, his white Louboutins finally giving out and leaving him barefoot on the cold marble, small and broken in Richard's arms.
He thought of Lance, asleep in their bed in Kalispell, believing his wife was safe.
He thought of the empty hormone vial, of his mind going male, of his body betraying him by feeling pleasure in the very places he was most ashamed of.
He opened his mouth, his voice hoarse and wrecked and barely a whisper.
"I'm... I'm yours, Sir."
Richard smiled against his hair, his hand sliding down to grip Brett's hip through the garter belt, holding him close.
"Good pet," he whispered. "Now let's go to bed. We have twenty-three hours to make sure you never forget who you belong to."
He scooped Brett up — easily, like a bride — and carried him toward the black silk sheets of the penthouse bedroom, Brett's white stockings flashing, his choker glinting, his tears falling silently onto Richard's expensive suit.
The door closed behind them.
Twenty-three hours to go...