Chapter 5 Public Claim

Theo Pov

I don’t go to my 11 a.m. structural systems lecture.

I don’t even pretend to.

Instead I sit on the edge of my bed—still smelling like sex and his skin—watching the clock tick toward noon. Jaz’s shift at the campus bakery kiosk starts at 12. He told me last night between gasps, right before I fucked him into the mattress again.

I should be in the studio. Revisions. Render passes. Internship portfolio polish.

I’m not.

I’m hard again. Aching. Thinking about his mouth stretched around me, the way he sobbed sir like it was the only word he knew.

I text him at 11:47.

Wear the black apron. No shirt underneath.

Dots appear. Disappear. Appear.

Already on. You coming to watch me work?

Yes. And if anyone flirts with you I’m bending you over the counter.

He sends back a single emoji: 🔥

I stand. Pull on dark jeans, black hoodie, sunglasses. Grab my keys. Leave.

The quad is packed—lunch rush, students spilling out of lecture halls, laughing, shoving, living like normal fucking people.

I cut through them like a blade. No one dares bump me today. Maybe they sense it—the edge I’m riding, the violence coiled under my skin.

The bakery kiosk is a small glass-and-steel box on the edge of the green. Hand-painted sign: Jaz’s Midnight Bites – Fresh 24/7. Line of maybe eight people. Jaz behind the counter in the black apron I told him to wear. No shirt underneath—just bare chest, tattoos peeking at the sides, flour dusting his forearms like war paint.

He looks up the second I step into view.

Eyes lock.

His tongue flicks across his bottom lip—quick, subconscious. Nipples hard under the thin apron fabric. He’s already half-hard; I can see the outline pressing against his jeans.

I don’t join the line.

I walk straight to the side service window—staff only.

He meets me there. Leans both forearms on the ledge. Apron gaps just enough to show the fresh bruise I left on his collarbone last night.

“Prince,” he murmurs. Voice low enough the customers can’t hear. “You’re early.”

I reach through the window. Grab the front of his apron. Yank him forward until our faces are inches apart.

“Call me that again and I’ll fuck you right here where everyone can watch.”

His pupils blow wide. Breath hitches.

“Promise?”

I don’t answer with words.

I slide my hand under the apron. Palm flat against his bare stomach. Feel the heat, the quick rise and fall. Slide lower. Cup him through denim. Squeeze.

He jolts. Bites his lip to keep quiet.

A girl in line glances over—curious, then confused.

I don’t stop.

I rub slow circles over the head of his cock through the fabric. Feel the wet spot bloom.

“Customers,” he whispers. Voice shaking.

“Let them watch.”

I lean in. Bite the shell of his ear.

“Turn around. Hands on the counter.”

He obeys—immediately. Turns. Braces both hands on the back counter. Ass presented. Apron hanging loose in front.

I step behind the kiosk like I belong there. No one stops me. No one dares.

I press against his back. Grind once—hard.

He whimpers—soft, broken.

I reach around. Unbutton his jeans. Unzip. Shove them down just enough.

No underwear. Of course.

Cock springs free—thick, flushed, leaking.

I spit into my palm. Slick him.

Then I drop to my knees behind the counter—hidden from the front by the display case.

Take him in my mouth.

One deep swallow.

He chokes on a moan. Hips jerk forward.

I pin his thighs with my hands. Suck hard. Tongue swirling the head. Hollow my cheeks.

Customers are ordering. Muffins. Coffee. Normal shit.

He’s trying to answer them—voice cracking.

“Uh—yeah—cinnamon roll—coming right up—”

I deep-throat him. Nose to pubes. Hold.

He slams a hand over his mouth.

I pull off slow. Tongue dragging along the underside. Flick the slit.

Then back down.

Fast. Messy. Filthy.

He’s shaking. Knees buckling.

I feel him throb—close already.

I pull off completely.

Stand.

Press my chest to his back again.

Whisper against his ear while I stroke him under the apron—slow, torturous.

“You don’t come until I say.”

“Please—Theo—sir—”

A guy at the counter clears his throat. “Yo, you good back there?”

Jaz forces a laugh—strained. “Yeah—fine—just—hot in here.”

I bite his neck—right over the old bruise. Fresh mark on fresh mark.

He shudders.

I speed up my hand. Twist at the head.

“Beg.”

“Please—let me come—need it—customers can hear—fuck—”

I stop.

He whines—desperate.

I tuck him back into his jeans—still hard, leaking, zipper half-up.

Button him.

Step back.

Walk around to the front of the line like nothing happened.

Order a black coffee.

He rings me up with shaking hands. Voice hoarse.

“Four dollars.”

I hand him a ten. Lean in.

“Close early. Meet me in the storage room behind the kiosk in ten minutes.”

His eyes flare.

I take my change. Walk away.

Ten minutes later the Closed sign is up.

I’m already inside the tiny storage room—shelves of flour bags, coffee beans, cleaning supplies.

Door opens.

Jaz slips in. Locks it.

I’m on him before he can speak.

Shove him against the wall. Mouth crashing into his. Tongue deep. Hands yanking his jeans down again.

He’s naked from the waist down in seconds.

I spin him. Bend him over a stack of flour sacks.

Spit on my fingers. Push two inside him—no warning.

He moans—loud, echoing in the small space.

“Quiet,” I growl. “Or I stop.”

He bites his own arm to muffle.

I add a third finger. Stretch him rough. Fast.

Then pull out. Replace with my cock.

Slam in.

He screams into his arm.

I fuck him hard—deep, punishing strokes. Hand around his throat from behind—not choking, just holding. Owning.

“Mine,” I snarl with every thrust. “Fucking mine. Say it.”

“Yours—fuck—yours—only yours—”

I reach around. Stroke him in time.

“Come with me.”

He shatters first—cock spurting across the flour bags. Hole clamping so tight I see white.

I follow—burying deep. Filling him. Marking him from the inside.

We stay like that—panting, shaking.

I pull out slow. Turn him around.

Kiss him—soft this time. Slow. Tender.

He melts against me.

“Don’t leave,” he whispers.

I cup his face. Thumb over his swollen lip.

“I’m not.”

I pull my hoodie off. Drape it over his shoulders.

Wear it.

Smell like me all shift.

He nods—eyes glassy, soft.

I kiss his forehead.

Then his mouth again.

We clean up fast. Jeans up. Apron straightened. My hoodie on him—too big, sleeves dangling.

I walk out first.

He follows two minutes later.

Back to the counter.

Customers none the wiser.

Except the girl from earlier—she’s staring at the hoodie. At the fresh bite mark peeking above the collar.

She whispers to her friend.

They both look at me.

I meet their eyes.

Smile—small, sharp, dangerous.

Mine.

All fucking mine.