Chapter 1
"I don't give a damn what the board thinks," Edmund Beaufort muttered into his phone, swirling the ice in his whiskey with sharp, irritated clicks. The glass left condensation rings on the hotel bar's polished mahogany. "Tell them if they want to back out of the deal over a four percent margin, they can find another goddamn CEO." He hung up before his assistant could reply, tossing the phone onto the bar with a clatter. The bartender glanced over but knew better than to comment. Edmund wasn't the kind of man who paid for company—he paid for silence.
The hotel bar was dim, all dark leather and low amber lighting, empty enough to feel private but not so empty it felt pathetic. Edmund liked places like this. Places where he could be alone without looking like he had nowhere else to be. He'd spent the last three hours nursing his drink, replaying the failed negotiations in his head. Seventy-three years old, five billion in the bank, and still, some twenty-something analyst with a business degree thought he could tell him how to run a company.
A burst of laughter broke his brooding. Walking out of the elevator, a handsome young man zipping his pants and wiping lipstick off his neck. Malcolm Jones didn’t look like a man who’d just fled a threesome—more like he’d stepped off a magazine cover, all effortless swagger and predatory grace. He slid onto the stool beside Edmund, close enough that their elbows brushed. "Rough night?" Malcolm asked, nodding toward Edmund’s untouched whiskey. Edmund scoffed, turning his glass. "You don’t want to hear it, man."
"Try me." Malcolm grinned, flashing sharp canines that caught the light just so. He leaned in, elbow on the bar. "I’ve got all night." His cologne was expensive—bergamot and something darker, muskier—but Edmund caught the faint metallic tang beneath it. Blood? No, that was absurd. The kid probably just nicked himself shaving. Still, Edmund found himself inhaling deeper, his pulse stuttering when Malcolm's thigh pressed against his.
Edmund exhaled through his nose. "Boardroom things." He signaled for another whiskey, ignoring the bartender’s raised eyebrow at the fourth refill. "Kids half my age thinking they know better than decades of experience." Malcolm chuckled, low and warm. "Old money versus new blood, huh?" His fingers brushed Edmund’s wrist as he took the fresh glass from the bartender and handed it to him. Deliberate. Calculating. Edmund didn’t pull away.
"Something like that." Edmund knocked back half the drink in one go, the burn settling heavy in his chest. He hadn’t intended to get drunk tonight, but the warmth spreading through his limbs was making Malcolm’s proximity harder to ignore. The kid—no, the man—was watching him with those dark, amused eyes, like he knew exactly how long it had been since anyone had touched Edmund without an invoice attached. "You don’t strike me as the type to care about corporate politics," Edmund added, swirling his drink again just to have something to do with his hands.
Malcolm shrugged, rolling the sleeves of his button-up higher. The movement revealed a thin scar along his forearm—old, jagged, the kind that spoke of violence rather than accident. "People are people. Doesn’t matter if they’re signing checks or sucking cock." He smirked when Edmund choked on his whiskey. "What? You think I’m here for the ambiance?" He gestured to the empty bar, the bartender now pointedly polishing glasses at the other end. "Saw you from the elevator. Liked the look of you." His fingers tapped the rim of Edmund’s glass. "Still do."
Edmund should’ve laughed it off. Should’ve thrown a hundred on the bar and called his driver. But the way Malcolm’s thumb grazed his knuckle sent a jolt through him, electric and humiliatingly eager. He wasn’t used to being wanted nowadays, not like this—not without strings, not without pity. "I’m old enough to be your father," he muttered, but his voice lacked conviction.
Malcolm’s grin widened. "Daddy issues aren’t really my thing." He leaned closer, his breath cool against Edmund’s ear. "But a man who knows what he wants? That’s attractive." The words curled around Edmund’s spine, paralyzing and sweet. He could feel Malcolm’s pulse where their thighs pressed together—slow, too slow, like he was holding his breath. Odd, but not nearly as odd as the fact that Edmund was considering this.
An hour later, they stumbled into Edmund’s mansion, half-undressed before the doors fully opened. Malcolm’s mouth was everywhere—his neck, his collarbones, the hollow of his throat—each kiss leaving Edmund dizzier than the whiskey. He fumbled with the keypad, missing the knob twice before the lock clicked open. "Christ," he gasped as Malcolm bit down, just shy of painful. "You’re—"
"Hungry," Malcolm finished for him, pushing Edmund against the foyer wall with a force that sent a tremor through the antique frames hanging nearby. His hands were cold, shockingly so, but Edmund was too far gone to question it, too lost in the sensation of being touched like he mattered. Malcolm’s teeth scraped his pulse point, and Edmund shuddered, fingers tangling in the younger man’s curls.
They made it to the bedroom—somehow—Edmund’s silk tie dangling loose around his neck, Malcolm’s shirt unbuttoned to reveal a chest that looked carved from something darker than human flesh. The sheets were cool against Edmund’s back when Malcolm set him down, his movements fluid in a way that didn’t quite track with gravity. But Edmund wasn’t thinking about physics, not when Malcolm’s hands were tugging at his belt, not when those teeth nipped at his hipbone like he was something to devour.
For the first time in a while, Edmund's cock begins to harden—his erection pressing against the expensive silk of his trousers—and he lets out a breathy groan as Malcolm sinks his teeth into the soft flesh of his inner thigh. Not enough to break skin, but enough to make Edmund arch off the bed. "Christ," he rasps, fingers tightening in Malcolm's hair. The pain lingers, sharp and sweet, mingling with the heat pooling low in his gut. Malcolm chuckles against his skin, the vibration making Edmund shiver.
"Been a while since that stood up, huh? Malcolm murmured against Edmund’s thigh, his tongue tracing the indents of his teeth before pressing an open-mouthed kiss to the rapidly bruising skin. Edmund gasped, the sensation too much and not enough all at once. His fingers twitched in Malcolm’s curls, torn between pushing him away and dragging him closer. His lips parted to protest—about the bite, the bruises, the fact that this was reckless even by his standards—but Malcolm didn’t give him the chance. His mouth slid higher, lips wrapping around Edmund’s cock with practiced ease, and Edmund’s hips jerked off the bed with a choked-off curse.
Malcolm’s hands pinned his hips down effortlessly—too effortlessly, Edmund dimly registered. There was no strain in those fingers, no tremble of exertion. Just cool, unyielding pressure keeping him in place while Malcolm swallowed him deeper, humming around his cock like he’d been waiting all night for this. Edmund’s breath came in ragged bursts, his fingers twisting in the sheets. The room spun, whiskey and lust and something else—something darker—coiling low in his gut.
When Edmund came—hard, shuddering, with Malcolm’s name half-formed on his lips—it was with the dizzying certainty that he hadn’t been touched like this in decades. Malcolm licked his lips as he pulled off, slow and deliberate, his eyes glinting in the dim bedroom light. Edmund collapsed back onto the pillows, his chest heaving, his skin still buzzing with aftershocks. He didn’t even register the faint sting where Malcolm’s teeth had scraped his inner thigh until the younger man’s thumb brushed over the spot, sending a fresh jolt through him.
"You taste expensive," Malcolm murmured, rolling onto his side and propping himself up on one elbow. His grin was lazy, self-satisfied, but his gaze was sharp—studying Edmund’s face like he was cataloging every flicker of exhaustion, satisfaction, and dawning unease. Edmund exhaled, rubbing a hand over his face. "My turn," Malcolm added, and before Edmund could process the words, the younger man was between his legs, grinding against him with a slow, deliberate roll of his hips.
Edmund groaned, fingers scrabbling at Malcolm’s shoulders. "Christ, boy—" The protest died in his throat as Malcolm’s teeth grazed his throat, not breaking skin but close enough to make his pulse stutter. The strangeness of it—the too-cold skin, the odd strength—flitted through Edmund’s mind before vanishing under the sheer sensory overload of Malcolm’s mouth on his neck, his hips pressing down with just the right friction. The precum staining Edmund’s leg was humiliating proof of how long it had been since he’d been fucked properly. Malcolm chuckled against his throat, breath unnervingly cool. "Relax, old man," he murmured, nipping Edmund’s earlobe. "I’ll make it worth your while."
Edmund pulls off his shirt, shivering as the air hits his sweat-damp skin. Malcolm straddles him, shedding his own clothes with inhuman grace—no fumbling with buttons, no awkward shifting—just a seamless slide of fabric pooling on the floor. His body is sculpted in a way that feels almost cruel next to Edmund’s aging frame, all taut muscle and unmarked skin. Except for the scars—thin, silvery lines along his ribs, his abdomen—old wounds that should’ve killed him. Edmund traces one with a trembling finger. "Knife fight," Malcolm says without prompting, catching his wrist. His grip is firm, unyielding.
Then he’s pressing his tip against his entrance, and Edmund lets out a sharp gasp—half surprise, half relief—as Malcolm slides into him with one smooth, effortless thrust. No prep, no resistance, just that impossible stretch that should’ve hurt but doesn’t. Edmund’s fingers dig into Malcolm’s hips, nails biting into unyielding flesh as the younger man bottoms out with a low, pleased groan. "Oh my," Edmund hears himself rasp, the words punched out of him, his body arching off the mattress. Malcolm’s cock is thick, impossibly so, and colder than it should be—a chill that seeps into Edmund’s bones even as heat floods his veins.
Malcolm doesn’t move at first. He lets Edmund adjust, his thumbs tracing the jut of the older man’s hipbones, wrinkles stark under the dim light. The silence stretches—too long, too loaded—until Malcolm exhales through his nose, amused. "You’re thinking too much," he murmurs, leaning down to lick a stripe up Edmund’s throat. His tongue is cool, almost clinical, like he’s tasting the salt of Edmund’s skin. "Just feel it." And Edmund does. Malcolm starts slow, rolling his hips in a way that makes Edmund’s breath hitch, his fingers clutching at the sheets.
The rhythm is deliberate, each thrust deeper than the last, until Edmund’s legs are trembling, his toes curling. Malcolm’s fingers dig into his thighs, holding him open—another thing Edmund shouldn’t find as thrilling as he does. The pain blends into pleasure, sharp and intoxicating, and Edmund arches up, chasing the sensation. Malcolm’s breath ghosts over his collarbone, unnervingly steady for a man fucking like that. "That’s it," Malcolm murmurs, pressing a kiss to the hollow of Edmund’s throat. His teeth graze the skin—testing, teasing—but he doesn’t bite. Not yet.
Edmund gasps when Malcolm shifts, angling deeper, hitting a spot that sends sparks of pleasure up his spine. His vision whites out for a second, nails biting into Malcolm’s shoulders hard enough to leave crescent marks—though he knows, distantly, that the younger man isn’t bruising. That realization should unsettle him more than it does. Instead, he claws tighter, hips lifting to meet each thrust with a desperation that would embarrass him if he weren’t so far gone. "Fuck," he rasps, voice wrecked, syllables crumbling like old parchment. Malcolm grins down at him, eyes hazy with something darker than lust. His fingers tighten on Edmund’s thighs—cold, unyielding—and the pace quickens, each snap of his hips sharper than the last.
Edmund cums first—a shuddering, gasping release that leaves him limp and trembling beneath Malcolm’s relentless rhythm. The younger man doesn’t stop, doesn’t slow, just keeps fucking into him with that same unhurried precision, his breath unnervingly steady against Edmund’s throat. The overstimulation is sharp, almost painful, but Edmund can’t bring himself to push him away. His fingers spasm against Malcolm’s back, blunt nails scraping uselessly over skin that doesn’t yield. "You can—Christ—you can stop now," he manages, voice frayed at the edges.
Malcolm chuckles, low and dark, his hips rolling in a way that wrings another broken noise from Edmund’s throat. "But you’re still clenching around me," he murmurs, teeth grazing the shell of Edmund’s ear. "Like you don’t want me to." He punctuates the words with a thrust that steals Edmund’s breath, his oversensitive body arching off the mattress. The pleasure borders on agony now, a dizzying push-pull that leaves Edmund panting, his vision swimming. Malcolm’s fingers tighten on his hips, cold and unyielding, and Edmund feels the moment the younger man finally lets go—a sharp, stuttering groan against his collarbone, the sudden wet heat inside him that shouldn’t feel as intimate as it does.
For a long moment, neither of them moves. Malcolm’s weight presses Edmund into the mattress, his breath cool against the older man’s sweat-damp skin. Edmund’s pulse thuds in his throat, loud enough that he’s certain Malcolm can hear it. Slowly, Malcolm pulls out, and Edmund hisses at the loss, his body twitching with residual sensitivity. The younger man rolls onto his side, propping himself up on one elbow to study Edmund’s face with an intensity that borders on clinical. "You okay?" he asks, thumb brushing over the bite mark on Edmund's hipbone.
Edmund woke to sunlight slicing through the gaps in the drapes, his skull pounding in time with his heartbeat. The empty whiskey glass on the nightstand mocked him. He groaned, rolling onto his side—and froze. Malcolm sprawled beside him, bare as the day he was born, one arm flung over Edmund’s waist like a claim. The sheets barely covered his hips, revealing the long, lean lines of his body. Edmund’s throat went dry. He hadn’t imagined it, then. Some part of him—the part still soaked in bourbon—had hoped this was a particularly vivid dream.
He heads to the bathroom on shaky legs, the cold marble floor biting into his bare feet. The mirror is fogged from Malcolm’s shower—odd, since Edmund hadn’t heard the water running. He rubs a hand across the glass, clearing a streak of condensation, and freezes. Malcolm stands behind him, grinning, his damp curls clinging to his forehead. Except—no. There’s no reflection. Just Edmund’s own haggard face staring back, hollow-eyed and flushed. Malcolm’s hands slide around his waist, thumbs hooking into the jut of his hipbones. "See something you like?" His breath ghosts over Edmund’s shoulder, too cool, too steady.
Edmund stares at the mirror in disbelief and confusion, his heart pounding against his ribs. Malcolm's reflection should be there—right there, hovering over his shoulder—but the glass shows only empty space where the younger man stands. His fingers tighten on the sink's edge, knuckles whitening. "What the hell—?" Malcolm chuckles, lips brushing the nape of Edmund's neck. His teeth graze the skin—not playful this time, but deliberate, possessive. "You're smarter than you look, old man." His hands slide lower, cupping Edmund's ass with a familiarity that would've been offensive if Edmund weren't still reeling. "But not smart enough to walk away."
Edmund swallows hard. The hangover throbs behind his eyes, but the terror cuts through the haze, sharp and sobering. He'd chalked up last night's strangeness—the cold skin, the unnatural strength—to liquor and wishful thinking. But this? His hands tremble as he grips the sink tighter, staring at the empty mirror where Malcolm's reflection should be. "You're—" His voice cracks. "That's impossible."
Malcolm's fingers dig into his hips, pulling him back against a body that feels more like marble than flesh. "Impossible's just a word rich men use when they don't wanna admit they're scared." His lips trail up Edmund's neck, pausing over his pulse point. The threat is implicit—Edmund can feel the sharp press of fangs barely grazing skin.
Edmund's breath comes in shallow bursts. His mind races through every myth, every half-remembered folklore. Silver. Sunlight. Stakes. None of which are within reach. Malcolm chuckles, as if reading his thoughts. "Relax. If I wanted you dead, you'd be cold by now."
It's a lot deeper than it seems. Should I continue this story or keep it in drafts?
