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The Gold Pad is as advertised: shiny gold on most surfaces so colored lights reflect and flash across the dance floor and low VIP booths. The floors are a rich brown, perfectly waxed wood throughout the place, which is best for maintenance to keep clean from spilled drinks, sweat, and other fluids. Like blood, which spatters around the VIP area when a fight breaks out.
Loud music pumps through the speaker system, but Jared is louder when he rises from his place on the U-shaped couch in VIP. He commands the space with his height and broad shoulders, not to mention his booming voice shouting for them to stop. The fight pauses with a guy on the ground with one leg up in defense, and the attacker poised over him, his arm cocked to fire another hit. The music continues to pound, but the dance floor is frozen as well, watching Jared approach the melee. Jared huffs when he recognizes the guy on the ground: Stewart, his accountant. One of his own getting beat in his club isn’t a good look.
With narrowed eyes and gritted teeth, Jared takes in the attacker: big, burly, and bald. Sweaty as hell, too, as he huffs with the exertion of getting a few punches in before this interruption. Jared reaches for Baldy’s throat and squeezes, smirking when the guy doesn’t dare to struggle. With a swift kick to the back of Baldy’s knee, Jared shoves him to the ground and stands over him.
“Get up,” he sneers at Stewart. “You’re getting blood all over my floor.” Before Stewart can get far, Jared grabs at the man’s jaw to aim a harsh glare at him then shoves him towards the bodyguards hovering around. “Get him cleaned up and out of here.”
Stewart starts arguing–with the bodyguards, Jared, anyone in the vicinity–but Jared doesn’t have patience for this shit. Not in his club, and not when he’s here to celebrate.
“You know what you just did?” Jared asks as he crouches down to Baldy’s level with a twisted smile. “You picked a fight with my accountant, you fuckhead. You proud of yourself?” When Baldy doesn’t answer, Jared slaps him across the face and grins with the crowd’s audible gasps. He slaps him again, harder, and there’s no reaction other than taking the hit. He hates bullies like this guy and isn’t afraid to teach him a lesson. “You know who I am?”
With the subtlest of moves, Baldy shakes his head.
“I’m the Pad in The Gold Pad,” he says reverently. He grabs hold of the man’s throat again, tucking his thumb and fingers up under his jaw with growing pressure. “You came into my club and knocked around my people right in front of me. And on my fucking birthday.”
Baldy winces, finally a correct response to the pile of shit he’s gotten himself into.
Jared nods, smug and mad all in one. “Yeah, that’s right. You’ve gotten yourself well and truly fucked.” He glances up to his brother, who is even taller than Jared’s six and a half feet, and also head of Jared’s security team. With a brief nod, Jeff knows what to do with this shithead and Jared can keep his hands clean.
Well, except for the quick punch Jared aims at Baldy’s temple. Just to teach him a lesson, along with everyone else around here. No one brings their drama to his club. And never on his birthday.
He considers giving the guy thirty-nine punches—one for each year. Maybe another for good luck, just to make the point. But after five, he feels a crack in his hand and he pulls back with a huff.
Jeff and the security team pounce when Jared stands and marches away. Baldy is dragged down a side hallway where he’ll be taken care of and reminded why he should never set foot inside The Gold Pad again.
Jared strides to the stairwell leading up to his office, grabbing a fresh drink offered by his assistant, and only stutters when he catches his consigliere on the top landing.
Leaning over the railing, Jensen must’ve had a bird’s eye view of what just happened, and Jared’s stomach spins with heat and wanting for the lines of Jensen’s body, of his presence. Jensen’s perfectly tailored suit and sharp black dress shirt compliments that beautiful face, even if it’s currently glaring down at Jared. They share a look as Jared pauses at the bottom of the stairs where he is offered ice wrapped in a towel for his hand. He waves the bartender off and Jensen goes back to watching the crowd wind itself back into the night with the DJ spinning them into a new beat.
By the time Jared reaches the top, the landing is empty. No patrons, no staff, and definitely no Jensen. Up here, he can take a moment to look over his club with a small smile that everything seems to have returned to normal already. He can also wince and flex his hand without anyone seeing him like this.
Jared truly doesn’t like getting his hands dirty, and while he didn’t break skin and there’s no blood, he can feel his knuckles swelling and tightening up.
A few more steps and he’s entering his office for a moment of peace—as peaceful as the club can be on a Saturday night. He breathes deep and closes his eyes, bad hand gripping the doorknob with some effort.
“Was that really necessary?” is muttered from the shadows.
Even though Jared expected this, it startles him for a moment, sets his heart racing, and makes his breath catch.
A light flicks on next to where Jensen’s seated in the far corner. “You have Jeff for a reason.”
Jared wants to roll his eyes at being second-guessed, especially in Jensen’s irritated tone. But he’s used to it by now. They both are.
“If I didn’t teach him—” Jared sighs when he’s immediately talked over.
“A security force like yours, and you still have to beat your chest in front of everyone.”
The annoyance is well-practiced, as is Jensen’s harsh stare, his smooth move to cross one knee over the other, and the long sip and swallow of whiskey. Probably the good stuff from Jared’s desk. Jensen puts the crystal glass down on the side table, the small lamp haloing the drink. “Shut the door,” Jensen commands.
Closing his eyes, Jared takes a deep breath and does as told, the lock barely heard over the muffled music of the club still pounding away downstairs. He walks further into the office until Jensen holds up a hand, halting Jared at the desk. Jared feels his spine and shoulders stiffen while a spark starts in his belly. He’s the boss: the owner of the club and the heavy hammer that tells people what to do out on the streets in order to bring money into the organization. Yet, behind closed doors, he relinquishes all power when Jensen speaks.
It's been like this long enough that they both know their roles, though Jared still holds the hard façade and keeps his defiance at the surface. Even when he knows that what comes next is needed, wanted, to reinforce his power everywhere else.
Jensen puts his glass down, and the slow ease with which he rises exudes confidence. This is a man who knows his own clout in Jared’s life. He nears Jared with a lazy assessment from head to toe until he stands in front of him.
Jared looks his fill as well and sees how those fine Italian pants are tented, Jensen already aroused by the fight downstairs and Jared’s coming submission. The thought spirals through Jared’s brain and he’s lightheaded until Jensen leads Jared back to sit at the edge of the desk. Now Jensen’s the one towering over him, and Jared curls his fingers around the desktop with anticipation, grimacing from the pain in his hand.
“You hurt yourself,” Jensen murmurs as he once again looks over Jared. Like he’s a piece of meat waiting to be devoured.
“It’s nothing,” Jared replies. He bites the inside of his cheek as he feels the heat between them and can read the dark intensity in Jensen’s eyes.
Jensen picks up Jared’s hand to inspect, humming with thought before putting it down over Jared’s groin. “Guess you’ll have to be more careful,” he says as he pushes it deeper.
Jared releases a mix of a groan and whimper when the pressure on his cock gets the blood pumping; however, it does no favors for the knuckles that probably need some attention.
Leaning in close, Jensen licks his lips as he watches Jared’s eyes widen with every rough stroke Jensen forces over his dick. “It’s nothing,” Jensen parrots, partly questioning, mostly chiding.
“It’s fine,” Jared grits out. His body is quickly reacting, even with the pain. Because of the pain. Heat crawls across his skin and sweat breaks out along his hairline as he starts a subtle rhythm of his hips and their hands. “It’s good,” he corrects with more confidence. This time, it’s the boil of his need that makes his voice shake.
“Just good?” Jensen asks, closely watching Jared’s face, his hand more insistent against Jared’s. “Can’t have just good, can we?”
He huffs, before one of Jensen’s sharp eyebrows makes Jared swallow and shakes his head. “No, we can’t.”
Jensen’s expression softens with a pleased smirk and he grabs Jared’s face, fingers digging into his cheeks just a sliver on the painful side. But Jared doesn’t complain because this is how Jensen expresses what’s burrowing beneath the surface: with a slow, deep kiss that he leads with a wandering tongue.
Jared quickly falls into it and uses his good hand to reach for Jensen’s shoulder. A whimper escapes from Jared when Jensen steps closer and moves their hands out of the way so they press together from chest to waist. Instant bliss and warmth, comfort, when they cling to one another, and Jared can control the kiss with his hand wrapped around Jensen’s neck to keep him in place.
It’s over too quickly when Jensen backs off and orders Jared to undress.
A long moment passes as Jared shifts his weight and worry and shame creep up his spine. Sure, this isn’t the first time they’ve fucked in his office, not the fifth or tenth, but it’s always been after hours. Not with a full club and his whole crew just seconds away from interrupting.
Jensen’s arched eyebrow questions Jared’s hesitation.
A few decades of street instincts tell Jared to defy, yet Jensen’s hard stare overrules them, so Jared does as told. Meanwhile, he enjoys the show of Jensen slowly peeling out of his long, black, designer jacket, untucking and opening his dress shirt, and undoing his belt then letting it hang from slim belt loops. For his part, Jared is efficient in getting down to skin, completely bare in his office while patrons continue to party just below them.
Jensen takes his time gazing upon every inch of Jared’s body. Jared swears there’s a small hitch in Jensen’s chest; it’s gone in an instant when Jensen’s next command comes. “Over the desk. Get yourself ready.”
Jared’s eyebrows go high as the filthy image forms of himself on display for Jensen, in his own office, with the full club downstairs.
It doesn’t seem to read the same way for Jensen, because his face darkens and he demands, “Fuck yourself open. Now.”
Jared doesn’t wait to be told again, rounding the desk for the lower drawer where he keeps supplies for just this kind of moment. When he’s back in place in front of Jensen, he spreads his legs and leans down on the desk, one elbow keeping him up as he spreads lube down his crack and presses at his hole.
“Your other hand,” Jensen orders, causing Jared to startle and look over his shoulder.
The only response is a cool tip of Jensen’s head. As asked, Jared takes a deep breath, repositions himself, and ducks his head so his wince isn’t obvious when he sets his bad hand to his ass. He goes slowly, trying to ease himself through the pain of the injury, and to give Jensen exactly what he wants until told otherwise.
Jared feels off kilter in this position, with his ass fully on display, beginning to drip sweat onto his grand, mahogany desk, and he swears he can feel the thunderous bass of the club come up through the floor, this desk, and into his chest. Still, there’s a fiery thrill racing through his body to follow directions and have Jensen behind him. His trusted advisor in so many ways.
Jensen had first joined the sacred inner circle as Jared’s business lawyer, helping secure land leases for a number of Jared’s properties, including the Gold Pad. His no-nonsense style rubbed plenty the wrong way, even Jared. Often enough that one day, Jared tried to teach him a lesson in humility that ended with Jared on his knees, taking Jensen’s cock down to the base. Jensen quickly found the switch well below the surface that none had unearthed before.
More of a surprise, Jared realized he rather enjoyed being on this side of domination, but Jensen is the only one Jared allows to dominate him.
Over time, Jensen became his consigliere, advising Jared in all sorts of matters. Most importantly, Jensen’s in charge when it comes to the bedroom, while Jared maintains control in all other ways.
When put in these scenarios and under Jensen’s command, Jared tries to hold onto some semblance of discipline and confidence. Yet he often fails, like now, when he feels wanton and messy as he ruts back on his swelling, sore fingers. Moaning and needy, impatient and wanting, eager for Jensen to take over.
“Look at you,” Jensen murmurs as he leans over Jared. He runs a hand up the back of Jared’s thigh until it covers Jared’s working hand and pushes harder, faster. “You’d do anything I tell you,” he says, low and demanding, yet Jared thinks he hears a sliver of wonder there.
“Yes,” Jared breathes out, pressing his forehead against the desk when he hears Jensen’s zipper open. They’re so close; his air catches in his throat as he waits for Jensen to take him. His chest is burning with the breath he’s holding as seconds tick by until he finally feels the warmth of Jensen’s thighs slotting against his and then the force of Jensen’s cock at his hole.
“Gonna take it hard,” Jensen insists. “Just like you deserve.” Before Jared can reply, Jensen pushes in, nearly shoving Jared up onto the desk. He slides out just as quickly before pressing right back in. “Look at that,” Jensen reveres. “Your ass will do anything I say, too.”
“Anything,” he agrees, panting hard when Jensen shoves into him again.
It’s the last word spoken between them until they’re done, but Jared’s too dick-drunk to care. Jensen always seems to know exactly what Jared needs, and tonight it’s the heated fervor of breaking down every sharp edge Jared puts on for the public, tearing him apart from the inside with the rapid pace hitting him deep and hard.
Jared puts his hands on his desk for leverage and holds steady to Jensen’s brutal rhythm. Even with the continued bass lines of the club’s music, Jared’s ears are full of the steady pounding of Jensen’s hips against his ass and the breathy whimpers he’s no longer afraid to hide, because Jensen is hammering him without abandon and it’s precisely what he needs right now. To lose control, free fall off a cliff, before landing in the right hands that know exactly how to help him land.
Jensen’s fingers take a bruising hold of Jared’s hips to tug him back on his dick, rough and swift, not bothering to pause for a moment to check in. Surely, Jensen is chasing his own needs to dominate Jared and teach him who rules the ruler.
As if Jared didn’t learn that lesson the first time he sank to his knees and sucked Jensen off like was starving for lunch money.
Every time Jensen fucks him, a new fire of need to release burns deep inside. And Jensen knows it; he’s learned his own lessons about exactly how far he can push and prod, how fast he can jackhammer Jared’s ass and jack him off, like he does now to finally make Jared break.
The flames rise through Jared’s belly and up into his chest as he feels his orgasm boiling to the surface and he shouts his release.
Jensen’s rhythm stutters until he gets a better hold around Jared’s waist, arms wrapped tight, and he fucks Jared through the waning shudders. Soon enough, Jensen’s the one yelling as he comes, and then he falls on Jared’s back, trapping him against the desk.
Jared turns his head with his sweaty cheek sticking to a memo pad so he can hear Jensen’s weathered breathing. He swears he can feel the thump of Jensen’s heart against his back and the slowing pulse of Jensen’s cock buried deep inside, and he thinks this might be heaven. Especially when Jensen finally shifts enough to press a kiss between Jared’s shoulder blades. A split second of care before pulling out and away.
They clean up together, handing over towels and clothes, but they’re otherwise quiet as Jared puts himself back together. Literally and figuratively.
Once Jared is back in order—the desk, too—he heads out to the club without a second glance behind him.
On the landing outside his office, Jensen yanks on Jared’s arm to spin him back around. Jared roughly shrugs off the touch because they’re in view of hundreds of eyes now, until Jensen adjusts Jared’s collar and ensures Jared is in tip-top shape before rejoining the party. There’s a brief flicker of warmth in Jensen’s eyes and Jared feels it sink into his chest.
Jensen’s perfect eyebrow arches high, and Jared reads it a bit differently this time as there’s also a tiny curl of Jensen’s plush lips. Amusement probably. Maybe respect. Quite possibly care, because no one takes care of Jared the way Jensen does, even if he only shows it in these brief moments.
As if Jensen can read Jared’s mind, he takes Jared’s injured hand again. Surely, it’s difficult to see in the dim lighting of the club, especially here in the shadows of the balcony, but Jensen looks anyway.
Jared knows people can see them so he keeps his expression flat and clenches his jaw against the pain.
“Get some ice on this,” Jensen says.
Jared grumbles as he walks away, but he does as he’s told. It’s Jensen, after all. He always has Jared’s best interests at heart.