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It’s an afterparty for the public announcement of the acquisition. Swathes of people, all gathered in their own clusters, are dotted around the floor of the reception room. Siobhan is off on her own, rightfully so. She’s been woefully distant, but she and Tom have shared their communicative glances. The situation between them is reparable. It will take some time.
Tom finds himself inundated with people congratulating him on his new position, people repeating the painfully unfunny joke that they should remove ‘Roy’ from the company name, people asking him how it feels. It feels gross, but he doesn’t say anything to that effect. “Sure, the stock might take a hit,” he tells one group, “but a Swede isn’t as bad as a Russian. We’ll be fine.” It earns a few chuckles, so he continues. “Not the first time I’ve had to deal with public scrutiny.”
Someone must have been waiting for him, because as soon as the conversation is over, he feels a large, disapproving hand on his shoulder. Too firm to be Greg. “Tom.” He can hear the forced smile in Matsson’s voice. “Can I talk to you for a second?”
Tom turns to see Matsson looking at him tensely. “Not without my lawyer present.” He chuckles at his own joke, but Matsson doesn’t oblige. “Yes,” he capitulates. Matsson may be a lowlife fuck, but he’s devastatingly bright and can be threatening as all hell.
“Come.” He says something in Swedish to Oskar, who nods and lets them pass without following.
Matsson keeps that hand on his shoulder, guiding him despite being side-by-side with him. Keeping up appearances, of course. Meanwhile, Tom feels like he’s walked into the lion’s den. He thought no one could be as tough and uncompromising as Logan, but really, Matsson might be a different beast entirely. Suave and sexy yet horrifically deadly.
Matsson leads him into an office and closes the door. Locks it, even. Not entirely unusual. He tends to lock doors to avoid being interrupted. Tom stands there like a soldier waiting for orders.
Matsson turns around, serious as death. “Are you trying to fuck me over, Tom?”
Tom raises his eyebrows, caught off guard. “What?”
Matsson approaches him until they’re about a foot apart from each other. “I’ve been listening to you tonight. You’re running your mouth. Implying that people don’t trust me.”
Tom bristles a little. What part of what he said was so objectionable? “Of course they’re not going to trust you. It’s a new transition, and—”
“Yeah, no,” Matsson interrupts him. “Don’t bullshit me.” He gives Tom a light shove to his shoulder.
Tom makes a nervous laugh, and he hates that it’s his instinctive defense mechanism. “Are you serious?” He asks in disbelief, but he knows the answer is yes. Yes, this man is that obsessed with his own image.
“Tom. If we’re going to run this company together, there’s some things you should know.” Matsson continues to approach, forcing Tom to take equal steps backward until his back hits the wall.
Tom can smell Matsson’s cologne on his neck, and fuck him he smells good; like musk and sandalwood. “And what are those, Matsson?”
“Ett. I put you here. All that attention and recognition you’re getting? It’s because I gave you a chance.”
“That’s a given.” Matsson raises his eyebrow at this. Not a sufficient answer. “Y-yes. And I’m grateful.”
“Två. Don’t say shit behind my back like a coward.”
“Yes, okay.”
“Tre. You’re mine.”
A shudder runs down Tom’s spine. He’s not gay, obviously, but there’s something about the way Matsson is looking at him and talking to him right now that scratches some sort of itch he never knew he had.
Matsson tilts his head expectantly. “Answer me, Wambsgans.”
Tom swallows hard. “Yes,” he croaks, looking away.
“Nuh-uh.” Matsson takes his jaw in his hand. “Look at me and say it like you mean it.”
Tom forces himself to look at Matsson. The man doesn’t even look mad anymore. There’s a devilish quirk to his lips. Eye-fucking him. Fuck. Fucking piece of shit. His dick, neglected for weeks, throbs to life. “Yes,” he repeats, louder.
“Yes, what?”
“Yes, I’m yours.”
The man’s eyes move. God fucking dammit, he’s looking down. He half expects Matsson to be weirded out, but he’s not, the fucking European sex addict. “Tommy Wambsgans!” he says in mock surprise. “Are you getting off to this?”
His face must be bright red, because his cheeks are burning. He wouldn’t be surprised if Matsson did this on purpose just to fuck with him. Yet he doesn’t feel defiant, doesn’t want to walk away, he just stays there, frozen. He can’t even muster up anything to say.
Then Matsson gropes him. Squeezes just firm enough to be slightly uncomfortable. Tom moans like a whore and claps his hand over his mouth.
“Look at you. I thought you could only get it up for your boytoy.” Matsson squeezes harder as he says this.
Tom grunts. Fuck. He lowers his hand to respond to him. “I don’t. Shut up.” There’s no bite to his words.
Matsson ignores him and hums. “You can’t leave here like this, Tom. How about I do you a favor, hm? Would you like that?”
God, please. Just anything for this to end. “Yes.”
“What do we say when we want something?”
Tom’s eyebrows furrow. He must be so fucking giddy right now, having someone to boss around. “Just touch me.”
“Try again.”
“Please touch me,” he sighs.
“Good boy.” Matsson’s fingers move quickly to undo his belt and pants. Tom’s hands tense against the wall. There’s a deep, instinctual need to do something with them, but he’s stuck on whether to hit the man or start touching him.
He’s always found Matsson handsome, and regrettably so. One could classify him as sexy. Tall, blonde, dressed well. Eyes a mysterious shade of blue, not blue enough to appear innocent, but blue in a way that pulls one in like it’s magnetism. He’s like a fucking model. Maybe he was created in a lab, with scientists selectively choosing the genes of the most sexy man in Sweden.
Cold air hits his cock as it obediently stands at attention. The way Matsson looks at it is predatory. He thinks the man might rip it off and auction it. Maybe Connor will buy it.
“Matsson, don’t fuck around,” Tom warns, “or I will bend you over the desk and fuck you myself.”
He gets an annoyed huff in response. “You’re so bossy. Not sexy.” Matsson spits in his hand loudly.
“I’m not trying to woo you, dickless. I have a wife.”
Matsson spits again. “And you’re not trying to stop me.”
“She won’t give a shit. Especially not if you fucked her, too.”
Matsson smiles like he’s pleased with that answer and then shrugs. “I won’t confirm or deny that. But if the baby comes out blonde…”
“Fuck you. Fuck—” Tom’s hands fly up to Matsson’s shoulders, ready to shove him away. Instead, he’s paralyzed by Matsson’s hand on his cock, stroking slow yet firm. “Oh…” He sighs, eyelids fluttering, hips twitching forward despite himself.
God, he desperately needed to be touched. And even though he’s being jacked off by his fucking boss, he has no qualms with it. He’s such a whore. He might as well be a skimpy secretary traipsing by Matsson’s office and bending over in front of him so his embarrassingly short skirt rolls up his thighs. ‘Mister Matsson, will you give me a promotion if I suck your cock?’ Jesus Christ.
Tom groans, because the fucker might just be into it. He tests the waters. “Mmh… Am I your slut now, Matsson?”
Matsson growls. “You’re not a slut. You’re a bitch, and I’m your fucking pimp.” He swipes his thumb across the tip and Tom whimpers. “I tell you who to fuck. So be a good little bitch for me and look sexy and happy. You got that?”
Shockingly, none of this turns Tom off. He nods. “Yes.”
There’s something about a man’s hand on your penis compared to a woman’s that’s so much different. Maybe it’s the size, the strength, the hardness. Shiv has a way of jerking him off with soft finesse, going different speeds to tease him, but Matsson is raw power and technique. He teases him differently, squeezing his hand harder around him at the second half of his upstroke. It makes Tom’s hips involuntarily jerk each time. And like Shiv tends to do, Matsson looks at him with intrigue, studying his expressions. Was his face this close before?
“Fffuck,” Tom groans after a particularly firm stroke. The pressure is insidiously starting to build. His fingers curl into the fabric of Matsson’s suit, desperate. “Oh my God.”
Matsson lets go. Tom whines in response and is immediately horrified that he just did that. This is just fucking embarrassing, and knowing that he’s insanely into Matsson’s handjob skills is certainly not going to help him through his marital issues.
The Swede chuckles at him, because embarrassment is an expression Tom wears unabashedly. “You like it, don’t you?”
“I do.” Yes, Lukas, he likes it. Shall he write it on his forehead to make it more obvious? Scream it at the top of his lungs? Whatever Lukas Matsson wants, he’ll fucking get.
Matsson spits in his hand and grabs his dick again, going faster, occasionally swiping his thumb across the head like before.
Tom can’t think of a response. He doesn’t even necessarily care anymore; he just wants to get off. His noises devolve into wanton moans. “Lukas,” he pants out. “Lukas. I’m close.”
Lukas pops open the buttons of Tom’s jacket. Oh, he is not going to aim him there. Before Tom can tell him no, he’s coming, grunting at each throb like he’s being punched.
The front of his dress shirt is wet. He looks down to see his own load, ropes of white on white cloth, with the rest on Matsson’s hand which is slowly stroking him through the aftershocks. Tom will concede defeat; Matsson is good.
“You could’ve aimed anywhere else,” he finally complains when he has the air.
Matsson lets go. He doesn’t respond, just hums, because he’s licking Tom’s jizz off of his hand like a cat. Fucking weirdo.
Tom sees his bulge in Matsson’s pants and is alarmed when the first feeling in his gut is want. “I’m not sucking you off.” He says this more to himself than to Matsson.
He’s ignored again. “You said ‘Lukas’ before you came.”
Tom blinks. “Yeah?”
“Yeah. You usually call me Matsson. It’s cute.”
Calling it cute feels demeaning. “Uh-huh.”
“Go clean yourself up. There’s a bathroom across the hall.” Lukas hooks one finger under Tom’s waistband and pulls it back up over his now softening dick. He pats it. “Mine,” he adds, as if he’s proud of himself.
Prick.