No Tricks for Good Boys [+18]

Treats - Part 2

Here goes the last chapter! Enjoy! 🤍

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Vegas stepped back, his gaze sweeping over Pete. He didn't say anything, he just made his way to the armchair positioned perfectly in front of the bed. He sat and he leaned back spreading his legs, wide, with control and confidence, his arms resting casually on the chair's armrests. His eyes were dark, heavy-lidded, burning, literally drinking Pete in, locked on him like a predator sizing up its prey.

Pete shouldn't like that this much. But here he was, already sweating and feeling like he was about to pass out.

The room was beautiful but minimal, dimly lit, the soft amber glow of a bedside lamp casting shadows that danced across the walls. Pete watched, those abstract patterns dancing on the walls remembering him those on his bedroom ceiling, the same one he looked at night, alone, when he couldn't find sleep.

"Take off your clothes," Mr Vegas' voice broke the silence and Pete's reverie. It wasn't a suggestion; it was a command, leaving no room for hesitation, no time for Pete to question himself even if he knew he should.

So, Pete did. He paused for only a second, just enough time to process the words, his hands fumbling with the hem of his shirt as he started, or most likely tried, to lift it up above his head. Mr Vegas tilted his head slightly, watching each movement, each nervous twitch of Pete's fingers, with a dark and growing satisfaction. But also with a little bit of confusion, it seemed. Pete frowned, his eyes lifting up just enough to catch Mr Vegas' smirk.

"The cape," he said eventually, his finger tracing the outline of his own bottom lip "You need to remove your cape first."

Pete's eyes widened, the realization crashing over him. Right, that stupid cape. Of course. Standing there in front of a ridiculously hot, very commanding man wasn't exactly helping his memory. He cleared his throat and fumbled even more awkwardly, looking like he was just discovering how his fingers were working as they tugged at the ribbon around his neck. The cape finally slide off his shoulders and fall behind him in a soft, dramatic puddle on the floor.

Vegas was watching—watching everything. Not a single moment of Pete's very private striptease escaped him. The nervousness? Oh, he noticed that. The way Pete's hands shook ever so slightly, betraying every emotion that Vegas himself was feeling—and yes, enjoying: the excitement, the anticipation, the arousal. Maybe even a little bit of apprehension.

Vegas loved it. He loved the sight of Pete on edge, trembling, uncertain, not knowing a single damn thing of what he what he was doing and yet completely willing to give it a shot. Vegas wanted to savor this version of Pete. The longer he could. Every. Single. Second.

"Slower," Vegas let out casually as his eyes darkened. "I want to enjoy this, Pete. And so should you."

Pete's cheeks turned to an adorable shade of pink as he looked down, suddenly a little more self conscious. He nodded, biting his lower lip like he was literally about to choke out of embarrassment on the spot. But he obeyed. Once more.

This time, he grabbed the hem of his shirt with a little more focus, a little more conviction, his pace intentionally and painfully slow. Inch by inch, the fabric inched upward, revealing more and more of his skin. Vegas drank in every detail: the little swell of Pete's belly, that cute belly button, the faint outline of his ribs. Those soft, pastel-pink nipples that made Vegas's mouth go dry.

Pete might've been mortified, but Vegas? He was mesmerized.

"Good," he purred when Pete finally slid the shirt off, letting it fall to the floor with a soft flutter. "Now, your pants. Start with the belt. Same pace."