I let out a long sigh as I lazily wipe the cum off my stomach. Damn, that was a good one. I re-watched my first shoot with Rebel, and it had me spurting all over myself. Hot damn. That guy not only has a perfect cock, but he can work it, too. He fucked me into next week in our shoot, and my ass hurt for a few days after, but I’d do it again in a heartbeat if he’d let me.

Fat chance of that, though, now that the guy has gone all lovey-dovey with his boyfriend. Not that I can blame him. Troy is fucking gorgeous, and the two of them pretty much set the room on fire every time they are together. It’s kinda nauseating, really.

I drop the tissue on the floor, where they join an empty pizza box, a few days’ worth of microwave meals, and a stack of unidentified trash. I really need to clean up a little, if only because I promised Mason we could hang out later today. Poor kid has no idea of the total pig that I am, and while I’m sure he’ll discover soon enough, I can leave him blissfully naive a little longer. I don’t, like, go all out domestic before he comes, but I do take out the trash at least.

A forceful knock on my door has my heart skipping a beat. Oh, fucking hell. I don’t need to see who it is. I know. The number of people who have my address is limited, and the number of people who will show up unannounced is even less. Someone must’ve let him in downstairs…

Mr. Stone. It has been three whole weeks since the last house visit, and the guy obviously takes his job highly serious, so I guess I was due another visit. Well, he’s in for a treat considering the state of my apartment.   

I pull my boxers up and debate throwing on a shirt, then decide against it. Any chance I get to rile the man, I’ll take it. And so I throw open the door, wearing nothing but the tight, pink boxers I did a shoot for last week. They look damn good on me, stretching tight around my ass and my package. Let’s see if Mr. Stone agrees…

“Hello, Mr. Stone,” I say, my voice a tad huskier than usual.

His dark green eyes drop down for just a second before they’re firmly focused on my face again. I can’t suppress my smile. That’s more of a reaction than I’ve gotten out of him so far. He’s a little ice cube, Mr. Stone, but I’ll manage to melt him someday.

“Gunner,” he says, his face all cool and detached again.

God, it’s so strange to hear my official first name out of someone’s mouth. Very few people call me that anymore, except for him, of course. And the people at my work. No, not the Ballsy Boys. My other work, the one I have to show up at every Saturday for at least another six months.

I put a hand on my hip and tighten my abdominal muscles. Trust me, I know how to work this body. “I assume you wanna come in and hang out?”

His face remains carefully blank, but his eyes give him away. They flicker downward, to my cock and then back up again, and his Adam’s apple bobs as he swallows. Oh, Mr. Stone likes what he sees.

“I’d prefer you put on some clothes first.”

Ha! I knew it. This guy is totally gay. I suspected from the moment we met since his eyes widened ever so slightly when he saw me, but so far, he’s been damn hard to read. This statement says a lot, though.

I lean back against the door post, stretch my arms above my head and take my time to yawn. “Does it bother you that I’m not wearing much?”

I look at him from underneath my lashes, but his face doesn’t show a reaction. It seems he has himself in a tight grip again.

“I figured you’d be more comfortable inviting me in if you were wearing clothes.”

My grin broadens because he just painted himself into a corner. “Dude, I fuck guys for a living. This doesn’t bother me at all, so come on in.”

I throw the door wide open and turn around, leaving him little choice but follow me inside. I cringe a little as I witness the state of my studio but hide my discomfort quickly. This is not a guy I want to be too honest and vulnerable with. I sweep a pile of clothes off the couch onto the floor so Stone has a place to sit, and then I drop down on my bed again, with my back against the wall.

Stone carefully closes the door behind him, his face hardening as he sees the mess.

“The maid called in sick,” I say.

He grimaces, though I’m not sure if that’s because of the chaos or my spectacularly lame joke, and steps over all kinds of shit to lower himself on the couch. “Do you have any guns or illegal substances on the premises?”

I scoff. “Premises? It’s a studio, dude. Where the fuck would I hide anything?”

He sighs and folds his hands, sitting ramrod straight on the couch. “Gunner, we’ve talked about this before. You need to address me as ‘Mr. Stone’. Your lack of respect for my position as shown in your state of undress and your language is disconcerting and doesn’t reflect well on your attitude toward your rehabilitation. If I were you, I would try and curb your affinity for curse words. They won’t help you with reintegrating into society.”

Mr. Stone. If there ever was a man aptly named, it’s him. He’s a living, breathing piece of stone. Unflappable. Emotionless. Unmoving. What I wouldn’t give to see this guy lose his composure for a second. God, it would be worth all the trouble I’d get into, seriously.

“At my current job, fuck is a perfectly acceptable word. As a matter of fact, it’s the one-word summary of my job description. How’s that for reintegration and rehabilitation?”

Another sigh. “I’ve expressed my displeasure with your chosen profession on previous occasions. Holding company with people like that will not help you find a respectable place in society, Gunner.”

I jump up from the bed before realizing it, my fists clenched. “You do not get to judge them, you hear me? Not when I was turned down for every single job I applied for because of my record. They’re the ones who took me in, accepted me. Hell, they’re my friends, and you do not get to spew your sanctimonious, judgmental shit all over them!”

For the first time, there’s emotion on his face, but it’s not what I was expecting. There’s a hint of a smile on his lips, and for the life of me, I don’t understand why. He should be furious with me, so why is he amused?

“There’s that infamous temper I was warned about. I was wondering what I’d have to do to get you to drop the cool act and show me your true colors.”

My mouth drops slightly open. “You were baiting me? Why the fuck would you do that?”

“Isn’t that what you’ve been doing to me from the first time we met? Provoking me with your attitude, your words, and even your sexuality? Hell, you’re walking around in your damn underwear, hoping to get a rise out of me.”

I blink. It’s like Stone has been replaced with another guy that looks exactly the same but acts completely different. What the hell? Has he been playing me this whole time? Why?

“I’m… I don’t know what you mean,” I offer lamely.

He scoffs. “Don’t play dumb now. You’re better than that.”

“All right, I was baiting you, okay?” I grab a shirt from the pile of clothes on the floor and pull it on, then drag on a pair of shorts. “There, happy now?”

The man’s expression is unreadable. “Happy is still a ways off, but you being dressed is a good start.” He leans forward on the couch, his eyes piercing. “Look, you’re gonna be stuck with me for a whole year…and even more if I don’t sign off on your successful reentry into society. The longer you resist my efforts to help you, the longer this process will take. Your parole does not end until I say so.”

“I thought it was for a definitive period of one year,” I mumble.

“Not if I advise against ending it. And I will if you don’t start working with me instead of goading me and resisting my every effort to help you.”

He’s got me by the balls, and we both know it. The thing is, as much as I bitch to myself about him, Stone isn’t that bad. I could do worse. A lot worse. I only have to think back to some of the guards to remind myself how much worse things could get.

“What do you want from me?” I ask.

He leans back in the couch, his face surprisingly friendly. “Tell me about your week. What did you do?”