Tanned Leather & White Lace [+18]

8

Funny how it hurt. That punch. It hurt like hell, Vegas' face colliding with it, making him see stars for a good three seconds as he stumbled back, nearly crashing to the ground.

Funny how he saw it coming. How he provoked it. He knew he was evil. A sociopath, a lunatic. And until now, he didn't give a flying fuck.

There wasn't much fun in it. Being that guy, the guy everyone wanted as an ally and kept at arm's length, never too close. It never brought any kind of joy. Sure, there was a fleeting rush every time he walked into a room, every time all eyes landed on him. With those whispers, those glances, and those hushed conversations at tables where the fate of others was being decided. The gasps of terror, the eyes darting away, the stuttering voices, and the beads of sweat as soon as he stepped foot somewhere.

Being the one causing the chaos, triggering the fight or flight response, without even trying, just by existing.

"What the hell do you think you're doing?"

For what it's worth, that feeling never lasted. Every night, he couldn't shake off the urge to shed that disguise, feeling like a total impostor, a fraud. Caught between his true self and his ego. Somewhere lost between his own dreams and his late father's expectations.

When he walked into that meeting room that day, he sensed something he couldn't quite put his finger on, gnawing at him beneath the surface of that tragic waste of skin he wore every morning since he was a teenager.

An unease, an unsettling feeling brewed inside him, something threatening to spill everywhere against his will, boiling and ravaging him as he walked into that space. It was the territory of that pretty man who had once placed his trust in him for a fleeting moment, now gazing at him with pain, agony, and rage etched on his face, tears glistening like diamonds on the edge of his long, delicate lashes, pearly white teeth worrying the inside of his mouth until it tasted and smelled like rust.

"Just because I let you fight next to me once doesn't mean you can touch me and start making demands. Who the hell do you think you are?"

Vegas found it beautiful. Beautiful in its own messed-up way—that moment, Pete's fury, even drowned in the tears that he was trying so hard to hold back. And despite being the cause, Vegas wished he could wipe them away.

In this room, where expensive cologne mingled with testosterone, cigarette smoke, and leather, there was that unique scent Vegas couldn't ignore. It grabbed him, even if he tried to resist, filling his nose and soul. The sweet aroma of cookies and almonds, of sweet orange and vanilla. Uplifting, sugary and delicate, wrapping around him in a captivating and tender embrace.

It was the scent of that beautiful man before him, his cold fingers gripping Vegas's wrist with a mix of strength and tenderness. The memory of his touch. The taste of candy apple. The memory of his moans. Of that heart that skipped a beat.

"I didn't leave you behind that night out of the goodness of my heart. I was just trying to save my own skin."

For what it's worth to be Vegas Kornwit Theerapanyakun. Heir to the second family. The one never faithful, the one never to trust. A psycho. A monster.

"You're just a dog, what's your name again anyway?"

For all that, a man who had his face break. And his heart too.

—

A few days before

To be completely honest with himself, Vegas was very much aware that his brain frequently takes a vacation from its usual residence in his skull and heads south to his nether regions, leaving him with the intellectual capacity of a particularly aroused goldfish.