Pushing Boundaries

*Elliott*

The woman staring back at me from across the desk wore the kind of polished smile that made my skin crawl. The kind you see at press junkets or high-end car dealerships--shiny, practiced, and full of lies.

Great. One of those.

Fucking Spencer.

If I'd known that jackass planted a talent scout at the open mic, I would've walked out the second she said, "We'd love to talk." But now here I was, trapped in a "chic," modern office while she looked at me like I was something to catalog and sell.

"Mister Martin--"

"Elliott," I cut her off, tight but automatic. "Just... call me Elliott."

"Elliott," she repeated, like we were already friends. "Your cover of Wicked Game was absolutely breathtaking. The bridge? It felt like it was your song, not Chris Isaak's."

A flicker of pride hit me before I could choke it down. I buried it with a shrug.

"It's been picking up on socials," I said, aiming for nonchalant. It felt hollow.

Her eyes lit up, a predatory gleam creeping in around the corners. "Have you considered reaching out to any of your former bandmates?"

My jaw clenched. There it was.

I leaned back in my chair, arms crossing tight across my chest. "Absolutely not."

She didn't flinch. "We'd be happy to mediate on your behalf--"

"I said no."

A pause. Her hand flicked through the folder in front of her--probably a glossy little pitch kit Spencer's nameless, faceless goon had sent over, complete with charts and timelines and god knows what else.

"All the media outlets said the disbanding was amicable," she said, like she was reading from a script. "See? Matt Norick tweeted--"

"I know what he said," I snapped. "And I know what really happened."

She blinked, but the smile didn't budge.

I leaned in, voice low and flat. "They don't like me because I'm gay."

Her polite expression cracked--just a hair.

"Elliott, I don't think anyone in this building would doubt your sexuality."

I stared at her. Was that a compliment? An insult? A warning? Whatever it was, I didn't have time to unpack it, because her phone buzzed. She checked the screen, her mouth twitching into something tighter than a smile.

"Excuse me," she said, pressing the call through. "Savannah Pearson--No, I don't think we'll be needing him after all--No, do not send him up. Alex--!"

*Knock knock knock.*

Too late.

And I knew. Deep in my gut, I fucking knew.

"Miss Pearson," I said, barely keeping my voice even. "Is that Matt?"

Her eyes darted to the door like it had just grown fangs.

"My answer depends on how mad you're going to be."

I laughed--sharp and bitter.

"Are you fucking serious right now?" I muttered, rising from my chair like it might explode under me.

She winced. "Matt's doing well on the charts with Quiet Suffering. He was open to discussing a collaboration--thought it might help get your name back out there."

"And nobody thought to ask if I wanted that?"

Her lips pressed into a thin, rehearsed smile. The door creaked open. And then--

Enter motherfucking Matt Norick.

The man who used to riff beside me on stage. The man who once said we were brothers. The man who couldn't look me in the eye when the press found out I had a boyfriend. I knew that cologne before I saw him. Cheap. Loud. Try-hard. Like him.

He stepped into the room all confidence and false humility, like this was a reunion special and not a trap.

"Elliott!" he grinned, arms out like we were about to hug it out.

I didn't blink.

"Uh oh." His voice was light, joking. "You're not still salty, are you?"

Salty.

Salty???

If I had a dollar for every time someone minimized what he did to me, I'd be able to fund my own tour.

I turned slowly, expression carefully controlled. "I think we're done here."

The words came out flat. Tired. Like I couldn't even summon the energy to be furious anymore.

"Wait a sec, Ell--"

God. That old nickname in his mouth made my skin crawl.

"What do you want?" I snapped, not bothering to hide the venom.

Matt exhaled--an actual sigh, like I was the one being difficult. I swear I saw Savannah wince.

"Still holding a grudge, huh?" he asked, like that was the same as still liking a band he hated.

He stepped closer and placed a hand on my shoulder.

I shook him off so hard I nearly knocked over the damn chair. "Don't touch me."

His smile faltered. "Listen, man, I'm sorry, okay? Is that what you want to hear?"

"No," I said coldly. "Not if it's a lie."

He hesitated. "C'mon. It's been six years. Isn't it time to move on?"

I stared at him, dumbfounded. Then laughed. A halting bark. "You crashed my career, 'man.' Until very fucking recently I worked at a Home Depot, 'man'."

He had the audacity to look smug. Arrogant, posturing bastard. Just like the guy who told me to "keep it discreet" if I wanted the band to stay together.

"Look, you went through a hard time. Got sick--"

That stopped me cold.

I blinked. "Got sick? Is that what you think being gay is?"

His smile wavered. "No, I just meant--"

"No. Don't." My voice shook. "Don't backpedal now."

He opened his mouth. Probably to dig the hole deeper. I didn't let him.

"No," I said again, firmer. "You listen. If a comeback means working with you again? I'll take my rainbow-shitting ass back to retail."

And I left. Didn't wait for a response. Didn't look back. Didn't fucking breathe. I shoved past both of them, throat tight, hands shaking. I didn't realize how bad until I got to the curb and nearly dropped my phone trying to unlock it. Spencer picked up on the first ring.

"Did you know?" I snapped, skipping hello, teeth grinding from how hard I was clenching my jaw.

"About what? Your meeting?"

"About them trying to stick me with fucking Matt Norick?"

A beat of silence.

"Who?"

It sounded genuine. Either he was a world-class liar, or he truly had no clue.

"Matt Norick," I hissed. "One of my old bandmates."

"You've never told me anything about your old band."

"You can Google, can't you?"

A pause.

"I take it, we don't like Matt."

I let out a hard breath. The kind that sounded suspiciously close to a sob. "No."

Spencer must've heard it--the fracture in my voice I didn't mean to show.

"I've got lunch in a few minutes. Come by the office? Shouldn't be far."

I didn't answer right away. Just stared at my reflection in a car window--too pale, too wired, too much.

"Yeah," I muttered. "Text me the address."

"Will do."

He hung up. I stood on the sidewalk a second longer, debating whether I wanted to scream, disappear, or drive off into traffic. Thirty seconds later, his text came through--complete with directions, a parking pin, and a reminder to tell reception I was expected. Typical Spencer. Efficient as fuck. I followed the directions, paid to park, and walked up to the kind of building that looked like it charged you for oxygen.

Reception was a museum of capitalism--polished marble floors, towering white columns, and a goddamn chandelier hanging over the front desk. I walked in and instantly felt like a walking disaster in boots. Piercings, messy hair, tattoos--I wasn't exactly broadcasting "welcome." Behind the desk, a woman with cheekbones sharp enough to cut glass and nails to match clocked me with the kind of judgment that would've gotten her killed in a mosh pit. She didn't speak right away--just clacked at her keyboard like it owed her money.

"Can I help you?" she finally asked, voice as flat as drywall.

"Yeah. I'm here to see Spencer."

Her brow lifted maybe a millimeter. "Spencer."

"Spencer Briggs," I clarified, keeping my tone even. "He told me to come by. For lunch."

Her lips barely moved. "Mr. Briggs is about to take his lunch."

"Exactly," I said. "That's why I'm here."

She frowned like I'd just asked for the Wi-Fi password to heaven, then hit a button on the phone and set it to speaker. It rang twice before Spencer's voice rolled through--calm, polished, in charge.

"Go ahead."

"Mr. Briggs, there's a gentleman here--" she paused just long enough to make it personal, "--to see you."

"Is it Elliott?"

She blinked, visibly stunned.

I didn't bother hiding my smirk. "Yeah," I said, leaning in just enough to rattle her. "It's me, Spence."

Spencer's voice warmed like someone had flipped a switch. "You can send him up."

"Yes, sir," she replied, now moving slower, and the line went dead.

She didn't look at me as she slid over a visitor card. "Top floor. Last office at the end of the hall. You can't miss it."

I took the card without a word and walked off, fully aware she was already filing me under Spencer's mistake. Let her. Instead of heading straight for the elevator, I ducked into the nearest restroom. I just needed a second. One breath. Maybe I was here to see Spencer--but this was still his world. Suits. Stock portfolios. People who'd take one look at me and wonder what the hell he was doing slumming it.

And Spencer? He wouldn't care. Never had. But I did. Or--maybe not care, exactly--but I didn't want him catching flak just because he liked kissing someone who didn't own a belt without studs on it. I stared at my reflection: messy hair, piercings, tattoos that didn't exactly scream "lunch with a CEO." I adjusted my collar, tried to smooth the piece of hair that always fell in my eyes. I'd gotten it cut recently. Regretted it immediately. Now it just stuck up in weird directions and made me look like I'd rolled out of bed angry. I considered taking the piercings out--but between the ears, eyebrow, and nose, I'd be here all day. Besides, why the fuck should I hide who I am?

I settled for rolling my sleeves down over the heavier ink on my arms. My hands were a lost cause--full sleeves, knuckles, fingers. Tattoos were basically my handshake. The outfit wasn't bad. Button-down tucked into black pants, boots. A little punk, sure, but clean enough to pass. Spencer liked it. Said I looked "badass." Might've said "fuckable," too--but that was another conversation.

By the time I stepped into the elevator, I was half-hyped, half-horrified. My reflection in the chrome doors looked like a guy trying not to bolt. The old woman beside me didn't help--she glared at me over her glasses and wheeled her mail cart like it was some kind of barricade. I resisted the urge to flash her a smile full of teeth.

When the elevator dinged, I stepped out, heart drumming. The hallway was all dark trim and ambient lighting. Sleek. Quiet. Expensive. At the end of it: a black door with a brushed metal placard that read:

S. P. Briggs -- Chief Executive Officer

Because of course it did.

I hesitated. Did I knock? Wait? Pretend to be cool? Before I could do anything, the door swung open.

"I thought I heard the elevator," Spencer said, all smooth confidence and unfairly warm tones. And Jesus fuck, the man was devastating. Dark gray custom suit, silk tie, perfectly tailored like he'd been poured into it by angels with good taste. He looked tall as hell in those polished loafers--brogue heel, naturally. As if six-foot-three needed backup.

I tilted my head up to meet those icy blue eyes, and he was smiling like he already knew he'd won. He pulled me into his office without hesitation, mouth finding mine like he'd been starving. The door slammed behind me, and I was pinned against it--hard, solid wood at my back, and all of Spencer at my front. Normally I might've told him to cool it--reminded him we were in his office. But not today. Today I made a sound I didn't recognize. Helpless. Needy. His mouth swallowed it before I could be embarrassed. My arms looped around his neck without permission. Just instinct. Just need. Like he was gravity, and I was already falling.

"Took you long enough," he growled into my mouth.

"Five blocks. Lunch rush," I panted.

He laughed softly, like that was cute--like I was cute. Then he sank his teeth into my neck and I gasped, clutching at him like he was the only solid thing in the world. Which--for now-- he was. My fingers mapped his body on muscle memory, palms greedy, dragging over his back and hips. He felt like something carved. Like a weapon disguised as a man. He shifted, and the next thing I knew, my feet left the floor.

Then I was on his desk.

Everything scattered--papers, pens, maybe even my dignity--but it didn't matter, because he was between my legs, pressing in like he meant to leave bruises on my bones.

"You--brought me here to fuck me?" I gasped, barely able to breathe between kisses.

He held my jaw like he owned it. Like he was about to crack me open.

"Don't sound so offended," he murmured, brushing his lips over mine, coaxing me into stillness. "We'll get lunch. I just need to fuck you first."

The words short-circuited something in me. God. God, what was wrong with me?

I looked at his desk, at the closed blinds, at the very expensive furniture--and felt my cock twitch like it was answering for me.

"But this is your--your office."

"Exactly." His hands were already under my shirt, untucking it like he'd practiced. Like he'd done this a thousand times. "My office. My company."

Then--lower.

"My pet."

My spine locked.

"You said I could have this ass whenever I wanted," he said, his voice low, amused, and utterly terrifying. His hands cupped my ass like he had the deed to it.

"Shit," I gasped, hips jerking forward. "Here?" I tried again, already breathless.

"Do you have a problem with that?"

"I--won't people hear--?"

He leaned in, mouth hovering just behind my ear. His hand slid into my hair, the other clamped around my neck.

"They might hear you scream."

I whimpered. Couldn't help it. Then he stepped back and began undoing his belt.

"Turn around."

My body moved before my brain could catch up. I braced myself against the desk. Bent over like a fucking offering. A sharp slap rang out, and I jolted, breath catching. Another, through my briefs. My knees shook. My cock was already dripping.

"This ass is mine, isn't it, pet?" he purred, voice molten, dangerous.

The word hit me like a shockwave. I swallowed it. Choked on it.

"Yours," I whispered, ashamed of how true it was.

"What was that?"

He grabbed a fistful of my hair and yanked. My back arched. My throat bared.

"Yours," I hissed, right as another slap landed and sent fire racing through me.

"Always." His voice was thick with pride.

Then he shoved my shirt up and peeled down my briefs, slow enough to make me shiver. I heard the crinkle of a wrapper. The snap of a lube cap. Then his fingers--slick and fast--worked into me without mercy. My body clenched, desperate and frantic. There wasn't a fucking second wasted. Suddenly, the head of his cock pressed against me, thick and hot and unrelenting.

"Fuck, Spence--" I started, but then he was inside, and I couldn't speak.

I couldn't do anything but gasp and claw at the desk as he sank deeper and deeper, every inch dragging fire through my spine. Then he started to move. Not sweet. Not slow. Just hard. Unapologetic.

He grabbed my jaw and kissed me sideways, filthy and punishing, then shoved me flat so I had no leverage, no control. Only him. Only this. His thrusts hit deep. Sharp. Relentless. Like he wanted to brand me with his cock. The desk shook. My hands slipped. I was drooling into my arm and too far gone to care.

Every sound he made--those low, gritted groans, the muttered curses--poured into my bloodstream like a drug. My vision frayed at the edges. My thighs trembled. My body was a live wire. He angled his hips and hit something inside me that made my entire soul claw for purchase. I sobbed.

"Fuck, Spence--fuck--I'm--"

"Don't," he snapped, pounding into me harder.

I bit my arm and screamed. Then he fisted my hair, yanked my head back, and that pain--that pleasure--shattered me. I came so hard I almost blacked out. Spencer cursed, thrusting wild and desperate until he groaned into my shoulder, teeth biting down hard enough to leave a mark no shirt could cover. He stayed like that, locked to me. Breathing heavy. Arms around me like I might disappear.

And I almost did.

My pulse was still pounding in my ears, breath coming in shallow, shaking gasps. My body had gone soft--boneless--but Spencer hadn't let go. He was still inside me.

Still hard.

Still fucking hard.

"Jesus," I whimpered. "You--how--"

"Don't move," he murmured. Voice low. Calm. Like I hadn't just come harder than I had in my life. Like he didn't just wreck me against his desk in the middle of a Tuesday.

My hands scrambled for the edge of the wood, the only thing tethering me to reality. Spencer's hands smoothed down my back, almost gentle now, like he was soothing me just enough to keep me pliant. His cock twitched inside me. I made a wrecked sound--somewhere between a sob and a moan.

"You can take more," he whispered. "I know you can."

I shook my head, useless. "Spence--"

"Shh."

His hands gripped my waist, and the next thrust was slower. Deeper. Measured in a way that made me see stars. The edge of the desk pressed into my hips. Bruising. My skin was hypersensitive. Every drag of his cock lit me up all over again.

"You feel that?" he murmured, rocking his hips again.

"Yes," I was practically crying now. My voice was wrecked.

"That's your body begging. You're still open for me. Still aching for it."

I whimpered. "I came--"

"And I'm not done."

The words were a vice around my ribs. I couldn't breathe. Didn't want to. My brain was static. I wasn't sure who I was anymore. Just that I was his. He shifted again, pulling almost all the way out before slamming back in. I saw white.

"Fuck--fuck, Spencer--please--"

"What do you need?" he asked, breath hot against my neck. "Tell me."

"I--I don't know," I moaned. "You--please--anything--"

"That's better," he growled. "My pretty boy doesn't have to think. Just feel."

God, I was so far gone. Every word made my cock twitch again. I didn't even care how overstimulated I was. I needed him. Deeper. Rougher. Everything.

"I love watching you fall apart," he whispered, lips dragging along my spine. "Every time you break for me. Every time you come and still beg for more."

I gasped, a full-body shiver wracking through me.

"You want to come again?" he asked. His voice was close to cruel. Close to kind. "I'll let you. But you'll have to ask nicely."

"Please," I choked out, humiliatingly fast. "Please, Spence--I need it, I need--"

His thrusts picked up, deliberate again. Focused. Like he was fucking the words out of me.

"Say you're mine."

"I'm yours," I gasped, raw and desperate.

"Again."

"Yours--fuck--Spencer--please, I'm yours--"

"That's my boy," he murmured, right before he hit the perfect angle again.

And this time, I screamed.

The second orgasm hit me like a freight train, full-body and bone-deep. My vision shattered. My legs buckled. Spencer held me through it, groaning against my shoulder as he followed, his grip bruising, mouth open on my skin. And then--

Silence.

Our breath. The sound of my pulse crashing in my ears. The wreckage of what we were. I didn't move. Couldn't. And even if I could... I wouldn't have dared.

"Holy fuck," I whispered. Or maybe I just thought it. My voice barely worked. My mouth was dry, lips swollen. My body wasn't mine anymore--it was a puppet strung together with overstimulated nerves and loose limbs. Spencer chuckled behind me, smug and sated. His fingers swept the damp hair from my forehead like I was something fragile. Precious.

"Are you alive?" he asked, the question low and amused.

I shook my head, leaning all my weight against him. My legs were jelly, my spine liquid. "No. You've killed me."

That earned a pleased, satisfied laugh--low and genuine--and then his arms tightened. One second I was draped over his desk, the next I was in the air, dazed and weightless as he carried me to the leather couch. I landed with a graceless thud, limbs folding awkwardly beneath me. I didn't even try to move. Couldn't. I lay there blinking at the ceiling, wrecked in every way that counted--heart racing, muscles trembling, breath shallow. I felt ruined. Used. Cherished. Somehow all three.