Page 1 of On Your Knees

ONE

Ethan

What a fucking spectacle. I knew it would be. I’m dressed for it in my tux. I’m pretending to enjoy it. I’m pretending a lot of things.

The difficulty varies in intensity. It’s pretty fucking intense right now with her on stage.

That’s why I’m here—because she is. She doesn’t get to do shit like this, be applauded, be fawned over, without looking at my face. She probably can’t see me right now though. It’s the cocktail hour before the charity dinner, and she’s on stage welcoming everyone while I’m at the back of the room near the bar.

She’s so pleased we’re here to do good—and my, my, don’t we look good doing it? Cue two hundred chuckles and a practiced smile from Ruby. It’s so practiced that it’s almost natural, like a reflex, like something Pavlovian.

She’s wearing angelic white with gold detailing. Her dark brown hair is in a sleek updo, though one section has been coiled at her left temple like a rosette. To me, though, it looks like a snake. If there’s any gray in her hair, it’s well covered. Ruby knows the value of appearances.

I decide to save my energy for the dinner, so I keep my body turned toward her but I mentally disengage. No one will notice as long as I clap when everyone else does.

With one hand elegantly in my pocket, I sip my gin and tonic. I’m as practiced as she is. I’m just as expensive—and just as terrible.

My glass is soon nothing but ice and garnish. I’m going through them too fast. It frustrates me because I’m here to rattle her, not to let her rattle me.

“Can I take that, sir?”

My eyes drift disinterestedly to the server—then they lock.

The background blurs and recedes, becoming mere shadow and shape, leaving only him in focus. It’s not just that he’s beautiful. I can dismiss that. I’m beautiful. Ruby is beautiful. Lots of disgusting people here are beautiful. But this one… he’s not wearing it like we are, like it’s part of a costume. He doesn’t even know it’s there.

He can’t be that innocent, can he? Not in this cesspool of a ballroom. Not in this city.

But that’s what’s caught my eye, the question of it. He looks innocent, with his dark blond hair slicked back to bare all the striking angles of his face. He looks angelic in a way that Ruby could never be, no matter how much white she wears, in a way that I could never be.

“Um… sir?”

Ooh, he’s submissive. I can hear it in his voice. I can feel it in my balls. He’s submissive—and I’m cruel.

I’m so, so cruel.

I hold his eyes with mine as I set my glass on the edge of his empty silver tray. Focused on me, he doesn’t see what’s coming, doesn’t shift the tray to compensate.

Unbalanced, the tray flips off his hand. The silver catches the light as it falls, beautiful for half a second before it clatters to the floor and the glass shatters.

His terror is exquisite. There’s no anger in it, no recognition that I’ve done this to him. It’s pure. I don’t know if I want to capture it on canvas, to paint every stroke of wide-eyed horror, or to fuck him until that terror peaks and breaks into bliss.

But I would have to hold him still for either of those things, and I don’t have that power right now. He’s not mine, not yet.

So, unguided, uncontrolled, he panics. He dives down and snatches at the broken glass like the blunder can be undone.

I dive down after him and snatch his wrist. That wrist is bare because his sleeve is too short, so I feel the heat of his skin and the bones beneath. I grip so hard that his hand releases the shard of blood-smeared crystal.

“Careful,” I hiss. This isn’t what I wanted, him getting hurt, but this is a problem of mine. I don’t always think about the consequences of my actions.

He’s muttering under his breath. It sounds like fuck, fuck, fuck. Beyond that, he’s frozen in my grip. With my other hand, I carefully pick up the larger pieces of broken glass, putting them on the tray.

There’s a ring of silence around us. We’ve become a sideshow of the circus. The way he’s shaking tells me that he’s as aware of that fact as I am, and less used to the attention.

One of the other servers arrives with a dustpan and apologies, but I don’t hear a word. All I hear is fuck, fuck, fuck. All I see is that my beautiful submissive is bleeding on the floor. I stand, pulling him up with me, and tug him through the crowd. He doesn’t fight me. Maybe he thinks he’s in trouble. Maybe he thinks he deserves this.

Goddamn it. I usually go for brats. Brats know their worth. This one doesn’t.

When we reach the hallway, he starts to pull back. He’s realized that I’m not taking him to his manager.