No Tricks for Good Boys [+18]

Or...

Sorry for the delay—I didn't have time to write at all. This was supposed to be two chapters, but it'll end up being three. I still can't write short stories; sorry about that! I'll try to update the 3rd and last chapter quickly. Hope you'll like it anyway. 🤍

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By the time Saturday night arrived, Pete was practically buzzing like a very old Nokia— with excitement, anticipation, and maybe a bit of apprehension. It was all swirling around in his stomach, and honestly, he couldn't quite name half the feelings accumulating down there. But somehow, it felt... good.

He was counting down the hours to Mr. Vegas's Halloween night even though it was almost impossible for him to picture the always over dressed manager actually throwing a party. The whole Porsche Monogate fiasco was just a fading memory now, washed away by the incredible chance of being personally invited by none other than Mr. Vegas himself.

Mr. Vegas. Inviting him.

Pete was still trying to wrap his head around it. Mr. Vegas was, just like him, into Halloween. Enough to host a full-blown immersive experience. Really, what were the odds of Pete having anything in common with Mr. Vegas? Near zero. And as he flopped back onto his bed, staring at the ceiling, his hands resting on his belly where those little tingles still danced, he couldn't quite believe he was the chosen one.

He never really thought about Mr. Vegas being the "fun" type. Rigid? Absolutely. Maybe even a little borderline. But the kind of guy to organize a foam party in his backyard? Not really. The most Pete could imagine was one of those sleek, high-end gatherings with fancy hors d'oeuvres shaped like skulls or knives and absurdly elaborate costumes that screamed money and power. Honestly, Pete would have been perfectly happy with some cheap wine and a sad Jack o' Lantern if it meant catching a rare glimpse of Mr. Vegas in something other than a three-piece suit.

Even if he always found Mr. Vegas really handsome in those.

Pete's heart actually skipped a beat as he started imagining what Mr. Vegas might wear for that night. He had a few guesses: the classic vampire costume, safe and timeless, or maybe something a bit more intense, like a serial killer.

But knowing the man, Pete was sure he would opt for something simple and classy, yet definitely dark. Because Pete didn't really know how but he could feel it—that aura around Mr. Vegas, that look that hide a story behind the little lines around his eyes, the crease between his brows deepening a little more each year, and the way his gaze seemed to darken whenever something was slipping through his fingers.

Pete's colleagues called Mr. Vegas a control freak, but Pete had always found that term a little bit too harsh. For him, Mr. Vegas was just a guy who find in control something he might believe he hadn't.

As Pete took a deep breath and let it out slowly, a small smile tugged at his lips. The city lights on his ceiling were casting abstract patterns and somehow were reminding him of that warm amber glint in Mr. Vegas's eyes.

Pete knew one thing for sure: Mr. Vegas never disappointed.

And, well, Pete wasn't entirely wrong. What he didn't know though, was that, elsewhere, in the confine of a not very enlightened room, Vegas was preparing for a whole different kind of evening.

Vegas had spent an absurd amount of time—forty minutes at least— trying to find the perfect balance of intimidation and intrigue, of sensuality and strength for his outfit.

Something that would leave no question he could either pull you into a slow, tender hug... or pin you against the wall and demand you to call him daddy. Well, not daddy, actually. To be honest, Vegas always thought that kink was overrated. Who actually wanted to be called daddy anyway? Not him. It would inevitably remind him of his own father, and he really, really didn't want to be haunted by those kind thoughts during a scene—or while he was inside someone.