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Korn calls for him in the evening.
Spring has extended its gentle hand to their pocket of the country – in the evening glow, the lush foliage of the family courtyard is bathed in vibrant greens, blues, and muted browns. Birds twit incessantly from treetops with newly sprouted leaves, and crickets chirp melodically from dense bushes.
“Father,” Kinn nods, hands laced together behind his back expectantly.
“Kinn,” his father responds. “How are you this evening?”
“Fine, thank you.”
“Excellent. Take a seat.”
Though he has not completely mastered the art of expectation, Kinn has learnt to anticipate what sort of encounter he can expect from the first few seconds of their interaction. He studies his father’s face, his relaxed posture, the slight bend of his elbow on the coffee table where he sits, and Kinn’s nerves begin to dissipate, unfurling themselves from the knot they’ve twisted in his back.
“As you know,” Korn begins, “the Russians are coming tomorrow to discuss a price for our latest shipment.”
“Yes,” Kinn agrees. They have been in talks with the Russians – their fragmented and tense connection slowly unfurling from the mess it has been twisted in, until it has begun to resemble something almost like a business relationship.
“I would like Porsche to attend,” his father declares, not exactly one for subtleties. Kinn’s heart sinks.
“The other clans are talking about his appointment as the head,” Korn continues. “It will begin to look suspicious if he does not start attending.”
Kinn’s pulse jumps in his throat unpleasantly, and he wills it to be still. “But, Father-”
“He must rise to the position I have appointed to him as head of the minor family. This is the perfect opportunity.”
Kinn’s eyes slide shut briefly, rubbing his temples with one hand. “I don’t think he is ready. He will be too hot-tempered for Anatoly especially.”
“If not now, then when?” Korn asks, fixing Kinn with an expectant look, and Kinn knows he has lost this fight before it has even begun. There is no compromising with his father on this matter.
“I just want to keep him safe,” Kinn sighs quietly, flushing slightly at his own display of vulnerability.
“You will not need to worry. I believe you will prepare him well.”
Kinn does not miss the hidden meaning behind his father’s words – Kinn knows Porsche is now a reflection of himself, and by extension, his father. If he fucks up, you will make me look like an idiot, Korn is really saying. So, you will make sure he doesn’t fuck up.
Kinn swallows thickly. “Yes, Father. I will talk to him tonight.”
“Thank you for understanding, Kinn,” Korn replies, as if Kinn has a choice. There is an undertone of finality to the words, and it is enough for Kinn to know that the conversation is over. His father has proven himself good at that – finishing things.
A heavy cloud of anxiety twists itself in a knot in Kinn’s stomach. The Russian mafia is notoriously difficult to deal with – they come with high prices, high expectations, and a low tolerance for bullshit. Anatoly – the head of the Moscow branch – is a tough man with an unfaltering hostility. He does not take kindly to any kind of backchat, defiance, or bartering. Kinn has seen with his own eyes a room of slaughtered men at the hands of Anatoly himself after a negotiation gone awry – the man harbours a thirst for profit and bloodshed three times as intensely as Kinn and his father combined.
“I will attend to the matter now, Father,” Kinn says, and his father responds in a nod of dismissal.
He finds Porsche in the business room, sitting at his desk, flicking through a couple of boring-looking contracts. Porsche yawns silently, an expression of displeasure on his face at the paper in front of him, before his eyes land on Kinn’s. His face changes immediately, eyes softening, and Kinn is so in love with this man.
“Hi,” Porsche smiles, which Kinn returns easily.
“Have you eaten?” Kinn asks, and Porsche nods gratefully.
“I have.”
“So, you know the Russian negotiation we have planned for tomorrow morning?” Kinn begins, not bothering to waste time side-stepping the issue.
“Mmhm,” Porsche hums in agreement.
“My father has requested that you join me. As head of the minor family,” Kinn states, words tumbling out awkwardly. He is a little fearful of Porsche’s reaction – fearful of eliciting any anger in Porsche at the mention of his father. It truly is awkward between the three of them now; Porsche, Kinn, and Korn. Kinn cannot sit through an encounter with Porsche and Korn without wincing at least once at his lover’s abject brashness towards the most respected man in Kinn’s life.
Kinn thinks he understands, though. So, he has learnt to take a step back.
“I see,” Porsche says, eyebrows raised in slight surprise.
“I would rather you had a choice in the matter,” Kinn sighs, slight guilt creeping into his countenance. “But my father has emphasised his desire for you to be there.”
To his surprise, Porsche does not respond immediately. He tilts his head to one side thoughtfully, as if absorbing the information. Kinn notices that Porsche is playing absently with the gold ring on his finger, the one that mirrors Kinn’s own. Twists it in between his thumb and forefinger, the evening light catching it in a gold kaleidoscope.
It’s not that Kinn doesn’t trust Porsche – truly, it isn’t. Kinn would place his entire life in Porsche’s hands in a heartbeat – and that is not a truth that Kinn takes lightly.
But Kinn has seen many different times, in many different ways, how Porsche’s rough, untrained upbringing has coloured many professional encounters. It is something Kinn loves deeply about the man – the fact that Porsche is so unaffected, so unfiltered, so insistent on sticking true to what he believes in. It is so different to what Kinn has come to expect from those in his life; a welcoming change to the overbearing reverence he sometimes receives from his employees and associates. But it is also something dangerous.
Kinn knows not everyone takes fondly to anything but the upmost respect – accepting only submission to the power imbalances that colour the underworld. And Porsche is many things, but he is certainly not submissive.
So, it’s because Kinn trusts Porsche so deeply, that he is also deathly afraid of losing what has come so easily.
“Okay. I’ll do it,” Porsche nods, and Kinn is taken aback by his immediate decision. And more than a little anxious.
“This is a really important deal,” Kinn emphasises, looking at Porsche purposefully. “It’s the first major deal with the Russians since everything that happened.”
“It should be okay tomorrow, if you follow my lead,” Kinn continues. “We currently have a better relationship with them than we have had in the past. You will not need to say much. Just observe, for now. It is my father’s preference that you begin to understand how these meetings operate.”
Porsche nods, looking absently out the window, caught in thought. Outside, the sunset is filtering peacefully to dusk – the warm yellows and oranges illuminating the sharp, handsome lines of Porsche’s face and fading slowly into muted blues.
“It is imperative that you do not say or do anything out of line,” Kinn repeats, and Porsche straightens at Kinn’s insistence. “I don’t really like it either, but all I want to do is to keep you safe and ensure that the transaction goes smoothly.”
“I’ll try my best to make you proud,” Porsche responds, turning to Kinn suddenly. A private, genuine smile splits across his face. “I want to impress you.”
“You always do,” Kinn softens, taking Porsche’s delicate face in his hands and gently pressing his lips to Porsche’s.
The only warning Kinn gets when he meets with Porsche the next morning, is just how good Porsche looks. And Porsche always looks good.
A navy blue dress shirt hugs tight around his lean frame, unbuttoned just above his sternum. A sharp collarbone is only slightly visible, peeking through the ornate fabric. His soft, thick hair falls gently across his forehead, spilling over from his combed-over cowlick - the one Kinn likes to card his fingers through. Iron-pressed grey pants follow the curves of his strong legs and cling snug to his waist.
He is wearing the expensive cologne that Kinn had bought for him for his birthday. The scent of sandalwood, spice, and something heady and deep permeates the air in an aura around the man where he stands confidently, wrapping his Rolex around a thin wrist.
Kinn swallows dryly, cheeks flushing. “You look nice,” he comments, in what is potentially the understatement of the year.
He doesn’t just look nice. He looks expensive.
Porsche smiles shyly. “I’m a bit nervous,” he admits, and Kinn is appreciative of the display of vulnerability.
“I am too,” Kinn sighs, nudging his arousal to the side. “I am sorry that you have to be thrown into this so soon.”
“It’s okay. I’ll just be there for you,” Porsche smiles. “At least I’ll be there to protect you if shit hits the fan.”
Kinn grins, a wave of something warm and languid curling through his stomach. It is a pleasant feeling, to love and be loved.
“Let’s hope it doesn’t have to come to that,” Kinn responds, and Porsche’s smile turns sheepish.
“Okay,” Kinn huffs, setting his jaw. His fingers slip under Porsche’s collar, and he tugs slightly to straighten it. Porsche’s cologne trails under his nose, and Kinn feels his head rush with renewed arousal, but resolutely ignores it. “Are you ready?”
“Ready as I’ll ever be.”
“Let’s go, then.”
--
To Kinn’s slight and guilty surprise, the morning is transpiring quite smoothly. Almost suspiciously smoothly.
They are at the tail-end of their discussion – the crunch point.
“Fifty million baht,” Anatoly concludes, lacing his knurled fingers together on the long, ornate oak table. Kinn knows that the offer is not really an offer. It is an order.
The Russians do not play mind games like the Italians or the Chinese. They cannot be engaged in hours long, cryptic conversation nestled under allegory and pretence. They cannot be convinced like the French or coerced like the Japanese. What they offer is what you accept, or else you take a bullet square between the eyebrows.
It is not what they had hoped for, of course. But it is reasonable enough. Kinn knows his father will begrudgingly accept it. He moves to extend a hand to accept the offer, and then-
“One hundred million baht. Or nothing,” a calm voice suddenly comes from beside him. A voice that he would recognise in any lifetime.
Kinn’s heart drops all the way to his stomach. A sluice of pure panic courses through every neuron travelling in his spinal cord. Fuck, Kinn thinks, squeezing his eyes shut. And they were doing so well. That’s it. Close the curtains.
There is raucous laughter from the assembly of Russians sitting around the table. If Kinn wasn’t so scared that Porsche has just gotten himself and Kinn shot point-blank in the centre of their heads, Kinn would probably be joining in.
Porsche’s counteroffer is preposterous. Not only is it double what the Russians are offering, but also thirty million higher than their best-case scenario. It is a complete mockery, and there is not a single chance anybody would accept it. Not even Kinn’s father could get away with such audacity.
Kinn’s eyes widen, and he shoots a panicked, furtive look at Porsche. He tightens the hand that is resting on Porsche’s knee, knuckles going as white as a sheet of paper against Porsche’s grey dress pants. I love you, but you are going to get us killed, he hopes the gesture is saying.
But the man beside him isn’t looking back at him.
He’s staring at Anatoly. A slow, languid smile melts its way onto Porsche’s lips - the same smile that drives Kinn crazy. Something suggestive and sultry creeps into his eyes, at odds with an innocent, playful tilt of his head. It’s as if he’s asking, “are you sure?”
“Porsche,” Kinn hisses frantically under his breath, unoccupied hand reaching slowly and instinctively into his back pocket for his pistol. “What are you doing?”
Porsche doesn’t respond. His face doesn’t falter. Locking eyes with Anatoly, he picks up his glass of whiskey and takes a slow, measured sip, his full lips mouthing at the rim of the crystal glass. He extends the column of his tanned, slender neck slightly, showing off the place Kinn has marked with his own mouth more than once. When he swallows, the column of his throat swells and then tightens perceptibly. A sliver of pink tongue darts out to wet his lips.
If Kinn didn’t know any better, he would say it was almost… seductive.
Kinn’s line of sight shifts to the Russian man across the table. And he freezes.
Anatoly isn’t laughing. He isn’t reaching into his back pocket for his gun. He doesn’t even look angry. His eyes are locked on Porsche, eyes following the movement of his throat, tracing down to where Porsche’s shirt is slightly unbuttoned to reveal just a glimpse of his toned, firm chest.
His eyes are hungry, and Kinn is furious. His very last ounce of self-control is the only thing holding him back from slamming his fists on the polished oak, standing up and screaming, “he’s mine!”
“One hundred million,” Porsche almost whispers. His eyes have not deviated from his target. As if merely an outside observer peering through a fish tank, Kinn watches in abject, silent horror as Porsche’s eyes travel slowly down the length of Anatoly’s frame, with that same doe-eyed, heavy gaze.
For a split second, Kinn does not recognise the seductress sitting beside him – does not know this man. The man he would know in any lifetime, the man he could pick out in a crowd from just the lines of his body and the soft sigh he lets out when he first wakes in the morning, has become a stranger to him.
The table has gone quiet.
Then, something in the air twists and breaks. Kinn seizes power.
“Porsche,” Kinn snaps, and this time it is not an anxious hiss. His voice is cold and sharp, perhaps a little more than he intended, and obviously it is enough to break whatever fever has washed over Porsche. Porsche’s eyes move to Kinn’s, but Kinn cannot read his expression.
“Fine. One hundred million,” Anatoly rasps, and he sounds so far-away and confused that it sounds like he’s spoken it from another room. It is completely out of character and extremely off-putting. Porsche grins at Kinn triumphantly, whose jaw has just dropped to the floor.
There’s a suspended pause.
And then the room erupts.
“How do you do it?” Tanapon is asking, turning rapt attention to the man in front of him, who is currently flicking through a wad of cash in his hands, a cigarette dangling loosely from his lips. “The ladies love you.”
The two young men standing next to him nod enthusiastically. They, too, have seen Porsche’s unlikely talent in the form of tens of thousands of baht.
Porsche grins, tilting his head in acknowledgment of his own talent. He pinches the cigarette from his lips, reaching for the lighter in his pocket. “It’s all in the eyes,” he says, conspiratorially. He looks over his shoulder across the room to where Yok is engaged in conversation with the three beautiful, glamorous women in front of her. “You need to get them wanting to know you.”
“It can’t just be that, Porsche,” Tanapon groans hopelessly. “If so, we are all screwed.”
Porsche laughs. He brings the lighter to his lips. “You start with the eyes. Once you have gotten them interested, you have to make them feel like they are the only ones in the room. Compliment them. Make them drinks that aren’t even on the menu. Whatever it takes.”
Tanapon considers this for a second. “It probably helps looking like you do,” he admits, eyes flicking down Porsche’s frame as he takes a long drag from his cigarette. The other two nod in silent agreement. Porsche is truly a thing of beauty – and they all know it.
“It’s not really about being handsome,” Porsche replies. “It’s about using what you have to your advantage.”
“That’s the hardest part,” Porsche continues, flicking a dish towel over one shoulder. “You have to find out exactly what it is that you can exploit. Whatever will draw someone to you.”
Tanapon nods, eyebrows raised in appreciation.
“Money is nothing to them when you do it the right way,” Porsche emphasises, nodding his head toward the wealthy group of women across the room.
“They have more than enough of that. What they don’t have,” he says, “is someone to make them feel good.”
“Porsche,” Yok sings from across the room, voice trilling melodically. “You are wanted over here,” she calls, suggestively, and Porsche can hear the smile in her voice. He is her best, after all.
“If you’ll excuse me,” Porsche says, stubbing his cigarette into a nearby ashtray. “Business awaits.”
Tanapon smiles indulgently. “Thanks, Porsche,” he says, and Porsche waves a flippant hand in response.
"No need to thank me. Just watch and learn, young grasshopper.”
" Do you think it would work on men as well?” Tanapon asks his two coworkers absently, who are both watching Porsche with twin interest.
The younger one, Sai, snorts. “Well, it would certainly work on me,” he admits, not without humour.
They watch from across the room as Porsche presses a gentle kiss to a pretty woman’s outstretched hand. His eyes are locked to hers, unwavering in their intensity. She preens at the contact, a dainty hand moving to press against her lips in a gesture of shyness.
"Yeah, me too,” Tanapon replies.
--
“Pleasure doing business with you,” Porsche says politely, twenty minutes later, once the noise has died down and the pistols have been stowed away. He takes Anatoly’s deft hand in a firm, professional handshake.
Kinn nods shortly in agreement, a terse smiling curling his lips, but his mind is racing. Half of it is from the pure adrenaline coursing hot and thick through his blood, and the other half is still reeling from the strange behaviour of the man he loves most in this world.
Anatoly doesn’t look at Kinn in the eyes, but Kinn can read his expression from a hundred miles away. It is the same one Kinn knows he has worn himself before – the expression that says, “I am completely fucked, and that man is the reason why.”
Kinn’s hand tightens on the pistol nestled in his back pocket. He ignores the resolute glares from the men around the table – knowing that Anatoly will have something to answer for later. He also ignores the looks of surprise and conspiracy between the bodyguards stationed around the room.
“We will see you again soon,” Anatoly mutters, face flushed as if he isn’t quite sure what he has just agreed to.
“Looking forward to it,” Kinn replies.
“What the fuck was that?” Kinn demands once the Russians have left and they are alone, fixing Porsche with a steely glare.
Porsche’s eyes widen at Kinn’s tone, and then narrow, mouth twisting into a frown. “What was what? Why are you angry? I got us a good deal.”
You aren’t a cheap bartender whoring yourself out for tips anymore, is what Kinn wants to say, but just barely stops himself. Hurting Porsche won’t make Kinn feel good, and it won’t make him feel any better about himself. He has crossed that line far too many times.
So, he decides to change tact. He ignores the obvious out of good faith, because he loves Porsche and doesn’t derive any pleasure from hurting him anymore.
“Why would you risk such a ridiculous offer? Why did you ignore everything we spoke about last night?” Kinn pushes a stressed hand through his hair in frustration. “They are extremely dangerous people, Porsche!”
Porsche swallows thickly, clearly unsure how to respond. His eyes flash with something complicated, as if he were only just realising the implications of what could have transpired in that room.
“I don’t know,” Porsche admits. “Something just came over me.”
When Kinn doesn’t respond immediately, Porsche turns on his heels to face him directly. There is a genuine apology in his eyes. “I’m sorry, Kinn,” he emphasises, and Kinn is not sure exactly which part Porsche is apologising for.
Kinn screws his face up in frustration. “I have agreed to go and see my father,” he gets out eventually. “I will see you later.”
Porsche nods wordlessly. His eyes follow Kinn intently as he leaves the room.
--
“They settled,” Kinn announces to his father abruptly as he strides into the room. “For one hundred million.”
Korn chokes slightly on the sip of whiskey he is entertaining, which is enough for Kinn to know that he is genuinely shocked.
“What? How did that happen?” Korn fixes Kinn with a grim look. “Who had to die?”
Kinn sighs. “Nobody did. Porsche did something with his eyes, and Anatoly relented,” he tries to explain, words tumbling out gracelessly.
“What on Earth do you mean?”
“I don’t know, Father. He just looked at him.”
To Kinn’s surprise, Korn just tips his head back and lets out a loud, barking laugh.
“He sounds exactly like Namphueng,” Korn smiles wistfully, and Kinn head reels back in surprise at his father’s unprompted mention of Porsche’s mother.
At Kinn’s expression, Korn pauses for a second before explaining. His father’s eyes shine with something Kinn can’t quite place.
“Nobody in the mafia wanted to deal with women back then. They were just a part of the furniture – either an obstacle or an object of pleasure.”
“But Namphueng didn’t let that stop her. She used it to her advantage, in fact. By the end of her tenure in the mafia, she had singlehandedly charmed every head of every clan into coughing up millions of baht, and had them signing the most preposterous contracts.”
Korn chuckles again, mirth dancing in his eyes. “But I will say, Kinn, an extra fifty million is quite a steep hike. Porsche certainly has some nerve.”
“It was like nothing I’ve ever seen before,” Kinn rasps, and he doesn’t even care anymore what words are leaving his lips. “It was like he had the man transfixed.”
“It’s in their blood, Kinn. The art of seduction.”
Thirty years earlier, a striking woman in a long, blue dress and light pink lipstick sits in the same chair as Kinn had today. On either side she is flanked by her brothers, their heavy, intimidating presence bookending her delicate frame.
The woman is Porsche’s mother.
She takes a soft lock of hair in-between her fingers and twirls it around a long, manicured nail. When she speaks, every eye in the room snaps to hers.
“I think we should go a little bit higher. Do you think you could do that for me, boys?”
The poor unsuspecting target, not yet familiar with Namphueng’s allure, scrambles to grasp onto something that he can make sense of.
“I don’t think so, Madam Namphueng. I have been instructed to only offer what has been agreed upon.” But he sounds too uncertain, and Namphueng rushes to clamp down on him.
The men on either side of Namphueng do not say a word. They do not need to. Namphueng’s angelic face morphs into an affect of disappointment. Her pink lips pout slightly, and her ornately dressed fingers lace together under her chin, silver rings glimmering softly in the light projecting from the outside window. Are you sure you really want to disappoint me; her expression is asking.
“Are you sure you can’t make an exception, just for me? I would be ever so grateful.”
There is always a moment when she knows the scale has tipped in her favour. It sits purposefully, suspended in the air, waiting for her to latch onto it and grasp it tightly in her hand. With a slight tilt of her head and a widening of her eyes, she has crossed the line, and the torch has now been passed.
The target hesitates for a moment, rusty cogs turning ineffectually in his brain, like an old analogue clock from the 1800s. “I… think it might be possible,” he sighs, and, to him, the smile that transfixes Namphueng’s lovely face at that response is worth every extra dollar he will have to cough up.
“Great. I’m glad we could come to an agreement.”
“It is a great shame what happened to Namphueng,” Korn avows to his second-eldest son, thirty years later. “It was a huge loss for our family. We never quite recovered once she left. We tried to convince her to return, and, well…”
Korn gives Kinn a meaningful look, who tries to hide his reflexive disgust. Kinn still does not like to think about what his family has done to Porsche’s – how they have pulled apart everything Porsche has ever loved and branded it with a violent, acrid Theerapanyakul stamp.
“But it sounds like her son has adopted her gift,” his father continues, a private smile nestled on his face.
“I’m not sure you are fully understanding. Porsche’s… allure… isn’t going to stop anyone from killing him,” Kinn snaps, gritting his teeth and fighting a blush from rising in his cheeks.
“Perhaps not. But it will heighten our reputation.”
And Kinn knows, at those words, at that very moment, his father has put his official stamp of approval on the events of the day. Not only that – he has encouraged them.
Something hot and unpleasant settles in the bottom of Kinn’s stomach, like a rock tied to a corpse at the bottom of an ocean.
And, for the first time in a long while, Kinn is not quite sure what to do.
--
Jealousy is a complex emotion in Kinn’s life. As a child it was even encouraged in his family – to feel jealous was to have something tangible to work towards. It inspired one to be better, to move quicker, to think faster.
As an adult, it is less acceptable to feel jealousy, as one should not feel the need to be jealous in the first place. What one desires, one should already own for themselves.
So, the ugly, hot, irritation coursing down the length of Kinn’s throat when he lies in bed that night and reflects on the day, while it is something very close to - something almost identical to – jealousy, it most certainly is not. He refuses to accept it.
But Kinn cannot ignore the fact that his mind is fixated on that look. All Kinn’s brain can focus on is that sultry heat in Porsche’s eyes, his lust-blown pupils, the movement of his throat. The hunger in his eyes that should be reserved for Kinn, and Kinn only. And the response that fact provokes in him is not a pleasant one.
Kinn is irritated. And frustratingly, inexplicably, turned on.
“Hey,” a familiar voice interrupts, shaking Kinn from his hyper fixation, and Kinn’s pulse jumps anxiously.
It’s Porsche, clad in a soft white t-shirt and silk pyjama pants, hair mussed. He is standing in the arch of the doorway, leaning casually against the frame, his arms crossed. He looks soft, open, and Kinn’s stomach flutters a little.
Kinn does not respond. He does not trust himself enough to.
“Are you going to tell me what the problem is? I’ve already apologised, if that’s what you’re still upset about.”
Kinn clears his throat. Porsche stands in the doorway expectantly, one eyebrow raised in anticipation.
“No,” Kinn responds, lamely.
“No?”
Kinn stares petulantly into his lap.
Porsche heaves a heavy sigh, making his way across the room towards Kinn. He takes Kinn’s hand in his, holding it tight enough to ensure that Kinn can not pull it away.
“Hey,” Porsche murmurs, softly, and his voice is warm and sticky, like honey. “Talk to me.”
Kinn glares at the space in front of him. He weighs up the cost-benefit analysis of telling Porsche the truth about why he’s so pissed off. And that would mean admitting a few things: one, that he is jealous in the first place, and two, that Porsche’s fuck-me eyes have as much as an effect on other people as they do on him. And that is a dangerous thing to come to terms with.
So, instead, Kinn grips the back of Porsche’s head, perhaps a little too forcefully, and crashes their lips together.
He feels Porsche’s lips part in surprise against his and Kinn uses the opportunity to move his tongue into Porsche’s mouth. There’s a moment where Porsche is resistant, and Kinn knows the cogs in his brain are turning – wondering if perhaps they should actually be talking about their feelings. But Kinn insistently nudges Porsche’s lips open with his mouth, and he hears Porsche make a noise of pleasure and feels him shiver slightly, and then he acquiesces.
“Kinn,” Porsche moans against Kinn’s lips, but he doesn’t make a move to break their contact. With their lips still attached, Porsche climbs onto Kinn’s lap, ass pressed into the swell of Kinn’s erection, and Kinn makes a sound of agreement at the pressure.
Kinn has a sudden, feverish desire to brand Porsche – to leave his name on every inch of Porsche’s skin – as a message to everyone else. He wants to say, he is mine, and I am the only one who gets to have him like this. You can look, can have him with your eyes, but you will never feel him like I can.
Kinn is overwhelmed with lust at the thought, his cock straining in his pants. Digging his hands into Porsche’s hips, he grabs Porsche’s waist roughly and moves Porsche against Kinn’s painfully hard crotch, resulting in moans from both of them.
“Kinn,” Porsche gasps again, and Kinn responds by bucking his hips up hard against Porsche. Porsche hisses at the contact, and Kinn mouths his way down Porsche’s neck, sucking the soft skin of the column of his throat.
He takes Porsche’s skin in his mouth and without thinking bites down, hard. Porsche yelps, body jerking, and he pushes Kinn’s head away from his neck. Red marks have started to form there, and Kinn should not feel as satisfied as he does at that fact.
They stare at each other for a moment, loaded silence filling the room. Porsche’s pupils are blown, and a pretty flush illuminates his cheeks – glowing bright in the dimness of the room.
“Kinn,” Porsche repeats, a little more insistently this time, and Kinn sighs heavily.
“Yes?” Kinn responds, trying to sound annoyed, though his voice comes out in a breathy hitch of arousal.
Porsche’s lips twist suddenly in a knowing smile. “You’re so hot when you’re jealous,” he grins, and a surprised, aroused noise rips from Kinn’s throat, somewhere between a gasp and a growl.
“Do you know how hard it was,” Kinn admits breathlessly, words rushing out without thinking about the implications, “to see you look at him like that?”
Porsche rolls his hips against Kinn slowly, purposefully, where he sits, making Kinn gasp at the contact. “I know it was.”
“I could hardly contain myself, Porsche. It hurt.”
Porsche slides his hands down Kinn’s chest, tugging Kinn’s shirt off in one smooth manoeuvre. “It’s okay. You can let it all out, Kinn.”
Kinn pulls Porsche’s head to his until their noses are touching. “I’m going to fuck you,” Kinn rasps, “until my cock is the only thing you can think about.”
Porsche laughs, breathless. “Don’t worry,” he whispers. “I’ve already been thinking about it for the whole day.”
Porsche must sense the aroused surprise on Kinn’s face, because he smirks, murmuring, “what do you think I was thinking about the whole time we were in that meeting?”
“Huh?” is all Kinn can respond with.
“You think I wanted anything to do with him? I just wanted his money. What got me so worked up,” Porsche mouths, moving closer until his lips are centimetres apart from Kinn’s, “was thinking about feeling you inside of me.”
At that, the last of Kinn’s resolve – what resolve he even had left – snaps.
The last thing Kinn sees before he flips Porsche around and presses him back against the sheets is Porsche’s knowing, lust-filled grin.
They are sitting, a few months later, in a small conference room in Tokyo. The light filters through a small frosted-glass window on the fourteenth floor of the building.
“Hmm,” Porsche is humming, two pairs of eyes swivelling to his. “I think we can come up with something a little bit more reasonable.”
Watanabe scoffs, one hand flexing reflexively against the polished oak. “I don’t know what sort of shit you’ve been pulling to get the deals you’ve been getting, but it’s not going to work on the Yakuza.”
Porsche turns innocent eyes to him. “I’m not sure what you mean by that,” he responds, one hand slowly, languidly, moving to Kinn’s where it is casually resting on top of the table. The other hand is perched conspiratorially under his chin, propping his face up with his knuckles.
Watanabe’s eyebrows furrow incredulously. “Seriously? You must take me for an idiot.”
Porsche’s eyes meet Kinn’s conspicuously where he sits next to him. This one is going to be a pain in the ass, his expression is saying. One of Porsche’s legs presses flush against Kinn’s, and Kinn can feel every point of contact.
Kinn nods in agreement, just slightly enough for Porsche to see, and shifts his eyes back to the Japanese man sitting across from him.
“How about this,” Porsche begins, voice bright. “You lower your asking price by ten million, and we have a deal.” Kinn’s eyes move to where Porsche’s hand is now creeping slowly up his clothed arm. Something warm and heavy pools in his stomach.
Watanabe laughs brusquely, the harsh, guttural noise echoing through the room. “You’re joking, right?”
Then his eyes lock, suddenly, with Porsche’s, and his laughter dies suddenly into silence.
Porsche peers at Watanabe under his eyelashes. The wandering hand has moved, and is now creeping casually under Kinn’s shirt, at the corner that has been conveniently untucked, the other is tracing his full lips absently with one finger.
Porsche’s hand – the one under Kinn’s shirt – splays against Kinn’s hot skin, tracing his fingers gently against Kinn’s abdomen. Kinn bites his lip softly.
Watanabe’s hard eyes are glued to Porsche. Porsche cocks an eyebrow in response, a silent challenge, the tip of his index finger slipping into his mouth.
“And what’s in it for me?” Watanabe demands to know, but his tone has evened out considerably, and Kinn knows that Porsche has noticed, too.
“Our business, and our continued support,” Porsche offers, smiling sweetly, and the words are smooth and plush, like spun silk. They sound good when they escape into the room.
Porsche pinches one of Kinn’s taut, hard nipples in-between two fingers, playing with it absently. Kinn’s breath hitches, and he has to fight extremely hard not to curse at the sudden stimulation.
Watanabe’s gaze swivels to Kinn at the noise, and something in his face goes lax as he notices Kinn’s flushed appearance. Kinn watches as Watanabe’s interested eyes flick to the hand casually exploring Kinn’s chest, and back up to Kinn’s face.
“I-,” Watanabe stutters, and then stops abruptly, squeezing his eyes shut. He looks immensely frustrated with himself at the stumble. He knows that it is an admission that he has lost. He has managed to let Porsche slide hotly under his skin.
“Is it hot in here, or is it just me,” Watanabe mutters bitterly, grabbing at his collar ineffectually. The hand under Kinn’s shirt tightens reflexively, and Kinn can feel Porsche’s exultant smile without even needing to look at him. Kinn clears his throat slightly, but a lump of arousal is stuck there, and he chokes a little in order to move past it.
“So, do we have a deal?” Porsche asks, rushing to seal the deal with one last push. Porsche’s eyes comb knowingly through Watanabe’s – a look that is asking, see how I am taking him apart?
Watanabe can see. And his hardened exterior is cracking.
There is a long beat of expectant silence. And then-
“Alright, fine,” Watanabe spits, grinding his teeth together so hard that Kinn can almost hear his jaw crunching. “Let’s just get it over and done with.”
Something slow and feral creeps onto Porsche’s features. “Excellent,” he says, and Kinn can only stare in awe at the man beside him.
--
“Seriously, Porsche, how do you do it?” Kinn asks for probably the hundredth time in the last two months once they are back in their hotel room. They are lying in bed, and Kinn is tracing patterns on Porsche’s naked back with gentle fingers.
Kinn will allow it all to occur, all the bullshit, as long as he gets to have Porsche the way he wants to afterwards.
“It’s all in the eyes,” is all Porsche ever replies with, followed by a little sparkle in his eyes.
And in another room, not too far away, a beautiful woman with long, dark hair sits. One by one, she took apart the most powerful men in the mafia with just her smile.
And her eyes still sparkle in exactly the same way.