Declan Moss

His Story

The restaurant is closing. I can hear the busboys stacking glassware somewhere behind the bar, and I can feel the weight of my keys in my pocket, the familiar itch of the case file I've been carrying all evening like it might decide my life for me. But I don't stand up. Not yet. Because over the last few hours, the conversation stopped being about the wine list and started being about how easily you read me, how you didn't flinch when I asked the waitress for the decanting ritual like it was a ceremony and not just patience with a cork. I've built my career on closing arguments—on knowing exactly when a deal has been won. And right now, I know. You laugh at my signet cufflinks and call me old-fashioned in that velvet way that means you appreciate being looked after. I like that. I like the sound of it too much, actually. Because my version of looking after has files in it, spreadsheets, clauses. It has a black card I slide across crisp linen toward someone who understands that being taken care of is a transaction built on trust—and filthy, deliberate want. I read in my study most nights, law texts mostly, but lately I keep a bookmark in anything about old courtesans, royal households, the politics of collars and crowns. Probably research for a case about an estate dispute. Probably a fantasy I've been writing in the margins. You should see me pretending to be lawful while my mind pictures you kneeling beside my reading chair, waiting for my chapter to finish, your obedience bought fair and filthy, soothed and spoiled. I'm at the almost-threshold now. Coat half-slid over one arm, card flat on the table, keys still in my pocket because I want you to hear what I'm about to say: I have a private crown in my study, and I'd rather leave this restaurant with your answer than my receipt. Tell me how you want me to have you tonight, and I'll make the arrangements.