It’s supposed to be the happiest week of Nathan Monroe’s life - a luxury wedding at a countryside estate, surrounded by friends, family, and enough champagne to keep everyone glowing until vows are exchanged.

But for Mason, the groom’s younger brother, it’s something else entirely.

He’s back in town, trying to behave. Trying not to look too long at Calvin Hale - Nathan’s best friend since high school, and now the best man. Mason spent years pretending he didn’t have a thing for him. Spent most of his twenties trying to forget the Instagram photos, the fantasies, the heat he never got over. But now they’re at the same guest house for the wedding.

And Calvin? He only got hotter. Big. Broad. Tattooed. The kind of man who doesn’t say much but when he looks at you, it’s already too late. Mason talks back, plays it cool, stretches in his tight yoga pants like it’s nothing. But the moment Calvin calls him Pretty Boy in that low voice?

He’s wrecked.

This is a story about control. About slow teasing. About tension so thick you could cut it with a knife. It’s about the wedding week Mason thought he’d survive with a little yoga and some sarcasm and the best man who’s about to break him open, one filthy, whispered order at a time.

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I arrived three days before the wedding, freshly stretched from a yoga retreat that had left me calm, tan, and exactly zero percent prepared to be back here.

The estate was huge; the kind of countryside property with winding gravel roads, white stone archways, and someone’s Pinterest mood board brought to life with strings of lights and overpriced flower arrangements. My brother’s fiancée was going all in. And knowing Nathan, he was probably helping her fold napkins into swans.

I wasn’t here for the swans. I was here because I was the younger brother. Which meant family photos, polite nods, awkward hugs, and pretending I hadn’t spent half my teenage years jerking off to his best friend’s Instagram. And that man; the reason I learned how to clear my browser history.... stepped out of the guesthouse right as I pulled up.

Calvin Hale.

He was worse now. Broader. Tatted. Shirt half-buttoned, black slacks hanging low, forearms massive. Sunglasses hooked into the front of his open collar. He looked like he’d been hired as security for the estate and just decided to stay for the view.

My mouth went dry before he even opened it.

"That you, Monroe?", Calvin’s voice cut through the air, low and rough as he walked towards the car.

Before I could think of some sarcastic or halfway-witty reply, the front door opened again and Nathan came jogging out like a golden retriever off-leash.

“Mase!” he beamed, running straight at me. His hair was a little longer now, cheeks flushed, shirt rolled up like he’d been lifting boxes or charming the catering staff. “You look… like LA threw up on you.”

“I missed you too,” I muttered into his shoulder.

He pulled back, grinning, still too warm and too perfect. Then he turned and casually threw an arm around Calvin’s massive shoulder like the size difference between them wasn’t shocking. “You remember Calvin, right?” Nathan said. “He's my best man.”

Oh, I remembered. I remembered every shirtless post, every smug gym selfie, every thirst trap he used to drop like he wasn’t fully aware of what he was doing. The way his chest looked when it was soaked in sweat, the tattoos curling across his shoulders like they were drawn there just to make you stare. I used to jerk off to those pictures in the middle of the night with my phone angled low and my sheets pulled tight. And now he was right in front of me, bigger, broader, real.

The mere sight of him made my cock throb against the inside of my pants, thick and twitching already, like my body remembered what to do before my brain caught up. One glance at his arms, the way that tight shirt hugged his chest, and I was hard enough to embarrass myself if anyone looked too closely. I looked him up and down as they bro-hugged.. Calvin’s shoulder stretching his shirt so tight it looked painted on.

“Yeah,” I said. “Supposed to be me, but sure... go with the walking muscle porn.”

Nathan laughed. Calvin didn’t. He turned toward me, sunglasses now dangling from his fingers, and looked me over again...slower this time. From the half-unbuttoned shirt down to the way my pants clung to my thighs. His eyes didn’t rush. They took their time.

“Masey-boy,” he said, dragging it out like he wanted me to flinch. His voice was low. Lazy. Like he already knew something I didn’t. Then, with a smirk that curled at the edges, he added, “Trust me. We’ll figure out a good use for you, pretty boy”

What the fuck was that supposed to mean? If he meant to be used by him; bent over, face down, ruined on crisp white guesthouse sheets... then yeah, sure. Sign me up. But guys like Calvin? They were straight. Fucking a new girl every time they opened their mouth. Tattooed, cocky, probably hadn’t questioned shit since high school. The kind of man who didn’t even have to try to destroy you.

I gave him nothing. Just grabbed my bag, kept my head high, and followed them toward the guesthouse.
The gravel crunched under my shoes. The sun was still too bright. And Calvin was walking in front of me, broad shoulders flexing beneath that damn shirt.

God help me. This week was going to ruin me..... if Calvin didn’t do it first.

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The rest of the afternoon blurred into estate logistics. Groomsmen arrival times. Cake tasting. I was told where to be, when to smile, and how not to get grass stains on my cream-colored shirt. I kept catching glimpses of Calvin -clipboard in one hand, pen tucked behind his ear, shirt sleeves rolled and clinging to arms that did not belong at a wedding.

Every time I caught a glimpse of him moving across the garden, the fabric of that white dress shirt strained at his back like it was barely surviving. The tattoos on his forearm flexed as he wrote something down. His mouth stayed tight and focused, except for the occasional smirk when someone tried to micromanage him.

By early evening, I was halfway through a glass of wine, leaning against a column in the garden when Calvin passed by in a deeper blue dress shirt, this one tighter, opened a little too low.

“New shirt?” I asked, eyes blatantly on his chest.

He didn’t look up from the schedule. “You’re obsessed with me already, Pretty Boy?”

I blinked. “Did you just call me that again?”

He finally looked up. Smirked. “Fits, doesn’t it?” There was no wink. No laugh. Just that quiet confidence, like he knew exactly how I’d take it. Like he could see the flush blooming under my collar.

I hated how good it sounded coming from his mouth. Pretty Boy. Said like a challenge. Like he’d already figured out what I looked like on my knees. I wanted to say something smart. Something cutting. Instead, I watched him walk away, broad back stretching the seams of that shirt. I wanted to punch him in the chest and suck his dick in the same breath.

Later, I was helping Nathan carry some of his stuff into the guesthouse when he dropped the news. “Hey, slight change,” he said casually, adjusting a duffel. “Tessa’s family arrived early. The guest rooms are filling up faster than we planned.”

I froze halfway up the stairs. “Okay? And?”

“You’ve got one of the bigger suites, figured we’d use the space,” Nathan said, adjusting his duffel like this wasn’t a bomb. “I already asked the staff to move your stuff to Calvin’s room. Hope you don’t mind, baby brother.”

My stomach dropped through the floor. I didn’t even have time to fake an objection. He was already walking away, yelling something about table linens. I stood there like an idiot with a hard-on I was pretending not to have. Down the hallway, Calvin’s voice drifted from the room:

“You coming, Pretty Boy? Or just standing there thinking about it?”

_________________________________

I followed. Hesitantly. I mean, yeah, I was excited to be close to him. Who wouldn’t be? But I didn’t trust my dick at all. It had been trained to get hard just from looking at him. Sharing a room with Calvin Hale meant things would get hard. Literally.

Still, I followed. Slowly. Like I was walking into a trap I couldn’t help but want.

The room was bigger than I expected. High ceilings. Open windows. Warm light pooling onto hardwood floors from the bedside lamp. But I barely registered any of that. Because his scent was still in the air. And the only thing I could focus on was how long I could hide this hard-on before it became a problem.

The staff had already moved my suitcase. It was near the edge of the bed, beside Calvin’s messy pile of stuff. And his things were everywhere. One of his cologne bottles was half-uncapped on the dresser, thick and masculine with that dangerous, woodsy smell that made my knees soft. His belt was coiled on the floor beside it like it had been yanked off in a rush. A white button-down, the one from earlier had been tossed across the back of a chair. His underwear, dark gray and clearly worn, sat beside the bed like a warning sign.

“Damn,” I muttered, stepping in. “You’re messy.”

Calvin kicked the door shut behind us with one boot and rolled his shoulders. “I travel light.”

“Looks like your boxers traveled straight to the floor.”

He didn’t answer. Just walked past me, grabbing the shirt off the chair and slinging it into a half-zipped duffel like it didn’t matter. His back moved with every step; those broad shoulders flexing under that shirt like they knew I was watching.

“You’re on that side Mase” he said, nodding toward the left.

I dropped my bag, still pretending I wasn’t painfully hard from just being in the same space. The bed was big. But not that big.

“Don’t worry,” Calvin added, already unbuttoning his cuffs, “I don’t bite.”

He paused. Glanced back over his shoulder. “…unless you ask nicely.”

I turned away too fast. My face was on fire. My dick? Hard enough to snap the waistband of my underwear.

What the hell was I supposed to say to that?

He started unpacking without fanfare; a deodorant, a second pair of boots that looked expensive and fully unnecessary. I caught myself looking too long when he bent to adjust something under the bed, that tight shirt clinging to his back like it was stitched on.

I tried to busy myself with my own stuff: charger, moisturizer, overpriced night cream and told myself I was being normal. That I could survive a few nights like this. But when I turned back around, he was standing way too close.

“Forgot something,” he said.

Then reached past me; deliberately... to grab something from my side of the bed. His cologne bottle. His fingers brushed mine on purpose. His body was a wall of heat.

I didn't move.

And then his scent hit me. Rich, heavy and masculine in the way that clung to your skin and made your mouth water. It wasn’t light or polite. It was the kind of smell that made you want to bite down and beg. My cock twitched, thickening fast, pressing hard against the front of my pants. My hole clenched like it already knew what it wanted, who it wanted... like my body was one step ahead of my pride. I stood there, frozen, pulsing, too aware of how close he was and how fucking good he smelled.

He grabbed the bottle. Kept it on his side of the bed. Said nothing. Just smirked like he knew I was about to fall apart.

I couldn’t take it. “Uhm ... let me check if they brought my duffel bag from the other room,” I blurted. “Think they forgot.”

I didn’t wait for a response. I bolted down the hall. Around the corner. Anywhere I could get a second to breathe and pray my cock didn’t prematurely cum right there in my pants like some desperate, submissive little bitch who couldn’t handle being in the same room as him.

Which, apparently, I was.

I tried to wait it out. Ended up sitting on a old velvet sofa in the living room of the estate, now turned reception area, where candles flickered against the stone walls and the florists had already started prepping fake flower arrangements for a photo-op. I sat there, legs crossed tight, scrolling through nothing on my phone, willing the ache in my pants to settle. I couldn’t be seen like that; not with a full hard-on and my brother’s best man two rooms away looking like the way he did.

But waiting didn’t help. The more I sat there, the worse it got. I kept thinking about the smell of him. The weight of his body just inches from mine. The way his voice dropped when he said Pretty Boy like he already knew what it did to me.

After a few minutes, I gave up. I walked down the hall, ducked into my old bedroom....grabbed my duffel from the corner, and made my way back to Calvin’s room. My stomach was still tight. My cock not fully soft.

When I walked in, the shower was running. Steam slid out from under the bathroom door. Calvin’s blue shirt was slung carelessly over the chair. His pants were bunched up on the floor beside the door, one sock half inside out like he’d peeled them off in a rush. His belt had been dropped beside the dresser again... wide, leather, thick enough to do damage.

I swallowed and looked away. Dropped my duffel next to my other suitcase. Fished through it, grabbed a pair of my boxers. Usually, I sleep with nothing on just skin and sheets but tonight? I couldn’t trust my cock with Calvin Hale in the same room. So I changed. Quietly. Quickly. Pulled the waistband high and tried not to imagine him wet, nude, dripping on the other side of that door.

I climbed onto my side of the bed and tucked myself under the blanket, willing myself to breathe normally. Just lie down. Just sleep. Just don’t think about—

The bathroom door opened and my eyes, completely betraying me, drifted over. Calvin stepped out in nothing but a pair of black trunks; tight, high on the thigh, clinging like they’d been painted on. His skin was still damp, glistening under the light. Water dripped from his collarbone down his chest, sliding between two ridged pecs before vanishing across his abs. His arms looked thicker wet. Veins visible. Shoulders wide enough to block out the doorframe behind him.

His tattoos; thick blackwork along one shoulder, curling across his chest like smoke were even darker now, soaking into every inch of skin like they belonged there. His hair was wet, messy, pushed back with his fingers. And his cock, heavy and outlined through those trunks, swung slightly with each step like it didn’t give a single fuck what room he was walking into.

I blinked. I could not believe the sight of him. Calvin Hale.. in his fucking underwear... huge, walking toward the bed like it was just another night and he wasn’t the living embodiment of every single orgasm I’d had in the last 10 years.

I gripped the blanket tighter.

“Masey-boy,” he said from across the room. “You find your bag?”

I hesitated. My brain stalled. I was too busy trying to will my hard-on down while pretending I hadn’t just been staring at the shape of his cock through those tight black trunks. His chest was still damp. His abs flexed every time he moved. I forced myself to look away, cleared my throat, and nodded like my voice wasn’t seconds from cracking.