Siren Song - Chapter Four
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The MPD cleared Jon without much trouble, the brass issuing a terse statement by mid-morning that painted it all in strokes of reluctant mercy: “Superman, like the officers on scene, is confirmed as another victim of the metahuman thief known as Siren. No charges forthcoming; full exoneration pending forensic review.” The fact that MPD officers had helped Siren in his heist was embarrassing for them just as it was for Jon. Tabloids snickered low, Coppers Compelled: Siren’s Silver Tongue Turns Finest to Fools and the department’s PR scrambling with “isolated incident” pressers that rang hollow. But if Superman, a god among men, couldn’t resist Siren’s powers, then no one would blame the poor, innocent officers from MPD either. They were human, after all, and Jon’s fall made theirs forgivable, a shared shrug in the scandal’s shadow. “Even the Man of Steel slipped,” the commissioner had grumbled off-record, voice thick with that cop’s gallows humor. “What chance we got against a pretty face?” It was a relief. Even if the army of lawyers that worked for the League, sharks in tailored suits with billables that could fund a small nation, had guaranteed it’d shake out that way, but hearing it official from Metropolis’ finest loosened the noose a fraction, let him breathe without the phantom weight of bars or Justice League membership revoked.
The press was, of course, having a field day. Like Jon had predicted, it was impossible to hush what happened, the events of the night exploding into a global echo chamber by morning, the entire world waking to the spectacle of Superman’s stumble splashed across screens and stands from Suicide Slum to the stars. HERO OR HELPER? screamed the headline on the front page of the Daily Planet that morning, Cat Grant’s byline a gut-punch under the black-and-white splash of Jon mid-blur. Over at WGBS News, Vicki Vale’s scoop hit harder: SUPERMAN’S STOLEN HEART: Did the Man of Steel Fall for a Crimonal’s Charm?
That was the only thing everyone wanted to discuss. Morning shows on TV kicking off with breathless panels, like Metropolis Mornings where anchor Trish Q leaned into the camera, coffee mug in hand, cooing “Was it kryptonite in his kiss, or just good old-fashioned boy-meets-thief? We debate with our expert psychologist, stay tuned!”; late-night cable slots devolving into snarky roasts, such as The Perry White Hour where the host fired off zingers like “Supes packs faster than he punches, talk about a plot twist!” to canned laughter and a graphic of Jon with cartoon hearts for eyes; podcasts churning endless episodes, from Cape & Crisis dropping a bonus “Siren’s Song: How One Meta Made Superman Swoon” with guests dissecting the “romantic robbery” like it was a tabloid rom-com.
The only reprieve was that the League had kept shut the details of Siren’s power. No leaks on pheromones, the official story locked down as “mind control,” deliberately vague and clinical, a telepathic takeover that painted Jon as a hapless vessel rather than a body hijacked by its own traitorous desire. Jon thought it would pass soon, the headlines fading to footnotes, the morning-show panels pivoting to the next alien incursion or Luthor’s latest “philanthropy” scam, the world’s short attention span a mercy he’d banked on since the Watchtower debrief. He’d hole up in the Fortress for a day, let the crystals hum him clean, dodge Tyler’s texts with a “patrol snag, talk soon” until the guilt stopped gnawing like a bad heat-vision burn.
But then the leak hit, a digital grenade lobbed from some MPD evidence locker or Elysium’s back-hack server, timestamped, spilling onto the net like glitter. Luckily, it had no sound, no tinny echo of Jon airing his relationship problems in that vaulted hush, spilling “getting to know each other” like loose change, or offering his real name on a silver platter. No audio meant no viral clip of his voice cracking boyish, no podcasters looping the flirt-flutter for “psychological deep-dive” fodder. But the video was unmistakable: grainy black-and-white feed from the store’s overhead cams, Jon’s broad frame filling the frame as he blurred into servitude; then the slowdown, Siren, closing in, lithe sway and silver-eyed lock turning the Man of Steel to putty. Jon’s face flushed farm-boy red, body leaning in like gravity’s fool, and there, impossible to miss, the camera’s unforgiving angle catching every inch, his hard cock tenting the suit obscene, ten inches outlined stark against the blue weave, straining like a beacon no emblem could eclipse.
The press stayed clear of that one, too explicit, too visceral for even the tabloid vultures, the League’s lawyers circling like sharks with cease-and-desist fangs, threatening legal Armageddon to anyone who dared air a Leaguer in such an intimate, involuntary moment. But social media couldn’t give a damn: Twitter lit up like a flare, the clip rocketing from anonymous drops to algorithmic hell, watermarked and remixed within the hour, hashtags exploding: #SuperSiren, #EnemiesToLovers, #Supercock. Jon became a trending topic minutes after the video hit online, the algorithm’s cruel mercy shoving it to every feed from Metropolis millennials to Gotham goths, global servers straining under the thirst.
Everyone was talking about it, complimenting him in thirsty awe, the Boy Scout’s body finally bared in betrayal, “dude’s packing like a god should” threads racking likes; making lewd jokes that ranged from clever to crude, the clip’s silent bulge a punchline canvas for every dirty mind. On Twitter, it unfurled relentless: @CapeCrushDaily dropping a meme of Jon mid-blur with eggplant emojis raining down, caption “When the villain says ‘help me pack’ but you’re already packing”. @MetaThirstTraps quipping “Siren’s got rizz, Supes went from saving the world to saluting it in 0.2 seconds flat.”; and @HeroHookupz straight-up thirst-trapping with “If Siren’s got Superman pitching a big tent, sign me up for the circus. Who’s got the popcorn? Compliments laced the chaos, “Boy’s built like he benches planets, no wonder Siren couldn’t resist” from fan art threads; lewd riffs piled on, “From ‘truth and justice’ to ‘thrust and bussy’ real quick lol” echoing in reply chains that buried the serious takes under emoji avalanches.
That wasn’t even the worst. The worst was Tyler. His boyfriend wasn’t talking to him, not a word, not a text, radio silence that hit harder than any Bat-glare. At first, Jon thought they’d be fine: he had been mad as hell when Jon finally met him and Tyler told how he had to climb down all forty stories by foot, only to have a very awkward conversation with the security guard on duty that night. When Jon explained what happened, Tyler had been understanding at first, his face softening with the easy empathy Jon loved, pulling him into a hug. But then the details started to spill and the whole #SupeCockGate debacle happened. Tyler had gotten furious then, as he should have, golden eyes flashing storm-dark, the hurt twisting under the anger because it wasn’t just the heist or the humiliation; it was Jon’s want, laid bare and broadcast. He stormed out after that, a curt “Call me when you’re not starring in your own porn parody” slung over his shoulder. Jon had picked up his phone a dozen times since, but he decided against it, every time, the coward’s calculus winning out: what could he say that wouldn’t sound like a cheap excuse? Sorry I got hard for a villain? Sorry you saw the clip before I could bury it? No. Better the quiet, the space Tyler deserved to rage or grieve or ghost.
And if Jon was being completely honest with himself, he didn’t really care about Tyler at that moment. Not the way he should, not with the gut-twist of a hero’s remorse or the soft ache of a lover’s lapse. He didn’t fault his boyfriend for being mad at him, not one bit; Tyler had every right to the fury, but that was an afterthought in Jon’s mind now, a footnote flickering faint at the edges.
No, his every waking thought was consumed by Siren. The thief owned him, a fixation that burrowed deeper than any pheromone hook, turning Jon’s orbit into a spiral. He needed to find him, to track that shadow through Metropolis’ veins. Make him face justice, drag him kicking into a cell where those full lips couldn’t pout their way free. That was the only thing that would fix everything: the headlines’ sneer, the League’s sidelong glances. Arrest the ache, cuff the craving, let the bars between them blunt the blade of want.
And if there was a part, a dark, dormant part of Jon, that yearned to see the guy again… he wouldn’t think about that. Wouldn’t let it surface. No. Justice first. Always. The dark part could starve in silence, a shadow he’d heat-vision away come dawn.
That’s how Jon found himself in the Aerie, his best friend Damian Wayne’s version of a Batcave, a shadowed sanctum carved into the last three stories of an abandoned WayneTech building in Gotham’s industrial sprawl. Jon had asked Damian for help, because of course he would. Damian was the smartest person he knew, bar none. If anyone could find Siren, it was him, the heir who’d outmaneuvered Ra’s Al-Ghul and outfought his own shadows.
At first, Damian declined him echoing Batman’s orders with that clipped, resolute bite. “You’re to stay away from Siren, Kent,” he’d said, sheathing his katana with a snap that echoed off the reinforced pillars. “And I have better things to do than hunt your new boyfriend.”
The jab landed low, a Bat-precision strike that twisted Jon’s gut. Outrage flared hot under the Jon’s skin. Boyfriend? No, Siren was justice’s due, a thief to cuff and contain, not... not that. But Jon was nothing if not an expert in annoying Damian, years of Super Sons synergy honing the art to a fine edge: hovering too close during forms, “accidentally” knocking batarangs off racks, launching into rambling defenses of Smallville pie over Gotham grit until Damian’s temples throbbed like overtaxed servers. He insisted unrelenting, leaning against a console in the ops deck, blue eyes wide and pleading: “Come on, Dami, just a lead? One trace? You’re the only one I trust with this.” Whines about Bat-dictates, hypotheticals on Siren’s next score, even a half-joking offer to spar for it, until Damian yelded, finally, with a hiss of exasperation that fogged the holo-grid, green eyes rolling skyward as he yanked up a terminal. “Fine, Kent. But if this ends with you simpering again, I’ll feed you to the League’s ethics board myself.”
Damian found him with no difficulty. Siren, after all, was no master criminal, just a pretty opportunist with a pheromone punch, sloppy enough to leave digital breadcrumbs for a mind like Damian’s to trace. It started with cross-referencing the Elysium CCTV timestamps against Metropoplis’ undergrid traffic cams… and that was thar farest Jon’s mind brain could follow when Damian started talking about WayneTech satellites backdrops and shadow-pinged ARGUS drone feeds.
“Amateur,” Damian muttered, the holo-grid collapsing to coordinates with a flick of his wrist. “Leaves his toys plugged in.”
As it turned out, Siren lived in an expensive penthouse in one of New Troy’s most exclusive addressed, The Echelon Spire at 10 Sovereign Avenue, not even that far from Elysium Jewels, a mere seven blocks up the avenue where the city’s elite stacked their fortunes like poker chips in a game no one else could afford to play. Damian’s first instinct was to call the police, fingers already ghosting over the console’s encrypted line, green eyes narrowing as he queued the MPD’s meta-task force ping, ready to drop Siren’s coordinates like a batarang into the precinct’s lap.
Jon was out of the Aerie before Damian could even finish that though. He shouldn’t be flying, not really, not in civilian clothes, but Jon couldn’t wait and he’d fly fast enough that no human eye would be able to spot him. Gotham’s smog choked the air for a split-second, the Narrows’ grime a fleeting smear, before he punched east toward Metropolis, the wind screaming past his ears. Jon touched down on the expansive portico of The Echelon Spire’s penthouse balcony, a marble expanse veined in gold, flanked by neoclassical urns overflowing with night-blooming jasmine, the city’s skyline sprawling below like a jeweled tribute. A set of ornate double doors swung inward on silent hinges, ushering him into a luxury bedroom that dripped baroque opulence: walls swathed in ivory silk damask, gilded cornices framing panels of hand-painted cherubs, and twin chandeliers cascading crystal tears that caught the low light like frozen rain. Overhead, the ceiling vaulted into a frescoed masterpiece: Apollo and Hyacinth entwined in eternal youth, the sun god’s lyre arched against a cerulean sky, their forms rendered in luminous oils that seemed to shift with the eye, tragedy veiled in divine grace. Classical music drifted from somewhere unseen, a harpsichord’s delicate trill weaving through Vivaldi’s strings, the melody languid and laced with longing, as if the room itself were breathing a lover’s sigh.
Siren was there. The boy lay prone on a massage table, head pillowed on crossed arms, eyes drifted shut in languid surrender, his expression dissolved into pure, unfiltered pleasure. A soft, parted sigh escaping those full lips as the masseuse’s oiled hands worked slow circles into the pale expanse of his back, thumbs digging deep into the subtle flex of muscle beneath silk-smooth skin. The sight hit Jon like a freight train slamming into his chest, stealing breath and balance in equal measure: the thief’s raven hair spilling tousled over one forearm, those spectacular thighs splayed just so under a draped sheet, the air thick with jasmine and the faint, herbal tang of massage oils.
There was a part of him, a desperate, clinging shard, that had hoped it was all imagined, his otherworldly beauty a figment of his pheromone-addled brain, some hallucination he’d purge with enough time and farm-fresh air. But no. He really was that gorgeous. Perhaps even more, up close in this gilded cage, without the heist’s adrenaline haze, Siren’s form a revelation of lethal grace, every curve and hollow rendered in devastating clarity, pulling Jon’s gaze like gravity gone rogue.
The masseuse froze mid-knead, her oiled hands hovering over the curve of Siren’s spine, surprise etching her features as she caught sight of Jon framed in the baroque doorway. “Hm... sir?” she ventured, voice a tentative lilt pitched toward her client.
Siren opened his eyes then, silver orbs fluttering lazy from their pleasure-drenched veil, lashes casting brief shadows over high cheekbones. He followed her gaze and there Jon stood, rooted in the threshold’s gold filigree, heart slamming against his ribs like a trapped comet. The thief’s expression bloomed, that beautiful smile spreading across his face like dawn breaking over the bay: full lips curving plush and knowing, crinkling those molten eyes with a delight that was equal parts welcome and wicked, raven strands shifting as he propped up on one elbow, the sheet slipping low to bare more of that pale expanse.
“Jon,” he purred, the name a velvet caress laced with Vivaldi’s strings. “What a nice surprise.”
Jon’s breath hitched as Siren’s gaze pinned him anew, that smile a hook he couldn’t, wouldn’t, shake free. He steeled his spine, drawing on every ounce of Kryptonian resolve he’d forged under yellow sun, forcing authority into his voice like heat vision into a glare. “Let her go, Siren,” he snarled, the words low and edged.
Siren raised a perfect eyebrow at him. “What do you mean?” he asked, head tilting just so, raven strands spilling like ink over one pale shoulder.
“Stop using your… your powers on her,” Jon ground out, fists clenching at his sides, the his clothes suddenly too tight. His pulse thundered traitorously, jasmine blooming thicker in the air like a taunt.
Siren laughed, full lips parting in genuine mirth as he propped up higher on his elbows. “The only power I’m using is the power of money, Jon,” he purred, the name a velvet hook that snagged low in Jon’s gut. “She’s being very well paid to be here.”
Jon felt himself growing hot at that, flush crawling up his neck.
“Please, Sydney,” Siren said to the woman then, his tone shifting soft and dismissive, silver gaze flicking to her with a smile that promised her next month’s rent in a glance. “Leave us alone.”
She nodded quick, eyes wide but professional, wiping oiled hands on her smock as she gathered her kit, the door’s hush swallowing her exit without a backward glance, leaving the penthouse’s baroque hush to thicken around them, Vivaldi’s harpsichord the only witness to the electric silence.
Siren slid off the massage table with fluid grace, the sheet whispering away and leaving him completely naked in the baroque hush. Jon felt his mouth watering, a traitorous flood that pooled hot under his tongue, his super-senses sharpening the betrayal: the faint sheen of oil on pale skin, the subtle flex of muscle as Siren stretched, catlike and unhurried. He tried to look away, he really tried, jaw clenching, blue eyes darting to the frescoed ceiling where Apollo’s gaze mocked him, but as it turned out, he wasn’t that strong. Not against this. His gaze dragged back, heavy and helpless, drinking in Siren’s body with no reserve.
The boy was absolutely perfect, a living fresco of temptation, sculpted from moonlight and sin. His perfect, soft pale skin was flawless as untouched marble, begging for fingerprints to mar it. Pecs swelled gentle but defined, nipples dusky peaks that tightened in the room’s cool draft; abs carved in subtle ridges, a six-pack that dipped to a narrow V, trailing dark like an arrow to the shadowed thatch below. And those thighs, Rao, those spectacular thighs, lean-muscled and endless, pale as fresh snow, flexing with predatory poise as Siren shifted his weight, the kind of legs that could wrap and ruin in equal measure.
Siren took a turn then, deliberate as a dancer’s pirouette, reaching for a silky silver robe hanging close on the vanity’s gilded hook. His body twisted slow, affording Jon the full show: the most perfect bubble butt in the world: big, full, round, twin globes of firm, pale perfection that jiggled just enough with the motion to twist something primal in Jon’s gut. He wanted to bite him, sink teeth into that plush curve, mark it red and claiming, feel Siren gasp and arch under the press.
“To what do I owe the pleasure, Superman?” Siren asked, the words a silken drawl as he cinched the robe’s sash loose around his tiny waist. He padded closer across the parquet’s gold inlays, barefoot and unhurried.
“I’m here...” Jon’s voice faltered, cracking like cheap crystal under the weight of those silver eyes, his super-lungs seizing on the jasmine bloom that hit him anew, thick and heady, chasing away the bay’s salt from his clothes. He cleared his throat, the sound rough and unnecessary in a room built for moans. “I’m here to take you in. To the police.”
Siren paused a heartbeat away, close enough that Jon could trace the faint oil-sheen on his collarbone. “Hmmm,” he hummed. “I don’t think you are, Jon.”
Siren stepped nearer, the robe gaping just enough to tease the pale swell of his pec. “Look,” the thief said, voice dipping conspiratorial, full lips curving in a pout that begged mercy or more. “I owe you an apology. If I’d known the press would go crazy like that, I would’ve never asked you to help me.”
“You saw that?” Jon asked, heat flooding his cheeks anew.
“Oh yeah,” Siren answered, smiling devilish now, that plush curve sharpening to a predator’s edge. His gaze dropped deliberate to Jon’s bulge. “Hastahg SuperCockGate, huh?” The words purred low, laced with wicked delight, Siren’s tongue darting to wet his lower lip as if tasting the meme’s filth. “I don’t think your boyfriend was very happy with that footage,”
“Yeah,” Jon admitted, voice rougher than he meant, the confession spilling easy. “He’s pissed at me.”
Siren pouted at him then, lips pursing into a perfect plea. “I’m so sorry, Jon,” he murmured, “I never meant to cause you any problem. Can you forgive me?”
Yes, Jon wanted to tell him, yes, of course, everything you want, darling the words bubbling hot and unbidden up his throat. His cock throbbed harder against the jeans, justice dissolving into the dark part’s yearn. Heat flooded his face, his chest, every Kryptonian cell screaming surrender.
Somehow, he managed to control himself this time. “Sure,” he forced out, voice rough as gravel under yellow sun, blue eyes locked on Siren’s face to avoid the robe’s teasing. “Just... just stay there, okay? Don’t come any closer.”
Siren tilted his head, eyebrow arching again in a mix of curiosity and coy delight. “You scared of me, Jon?”
“No,” Jon lied, the denial cracking at the edges, his super-hearing picking up his own pulse thundering too loud, too fast. “Just... your powers... don’t use them on me, okay?”
“Oh, I won’t use them,” Siren said, the promise a velvet murmur as he closed the distance. His jasmine scent hit Jon with full force then, a blooming wave, thick and intoxicating, petals unfurling in his lungs like a drug he couldn’t exhale, chasing every rational thought to the edges of the room where Vivaldi’s strings tangled in the chandeliers’ gleam.
“What’s gonna happen next is gonna be all you, Jon,” he continued, voice dipping low and intimate. “No pheromones at all.” He stopped inches away, head tilted up to meet Jon’s gaze..
“What… what’s gonna happen?”
Siren’s smile deepened, slow and devastating with knowing that pinned Jon more effectively than any kryptonite cuff ever could. “Why don’t you tell me what you want to happen, huh?”
Jon swallowed hard, his throat working against the heat flooding his face. “I… I want to take you to the police,” he managed, the lie tasting like ash on his tongue. He knew how hollow it rang, knew Siren heard it too, in the tremor beneath the bravado, in the way his gaze kept flicking helplessly over bare skin.
Siren snorted softly. He began to circle Jon then, barefoot steps silent on the gold-inlaid parquet, one pale finger extending to trace a deliberate path across the red flannel over Jon’s chest. The touch was feather-light, yet it seared straight through the shirt, igniting nerves that had no business firing this hot, this fast. Siren dragged that single fingertip as he moved, a slow, claiming orbit that left Jon rooted, breath shallow, cock throbbing insistently.
“I want you to pay for your crimes,”.
“Hmm,” Siren breathed against the nape of Jon’s neck, warm breath ghosting over invulnerable skin that suddenly felt anything but, “I don’t think you do, Jon.”
The words curled intimate and certain, jasmine blooming thicker around Jon’s senses like smoke he couldn’t exhale. Siren’s finger resumed its path across his back now until he completed the circle and stopped once more in front of him, close enough that Jon could see the faint sheen of residual oil on pale collarbones.
“When you found out where I lived,” Siren continued “you could’ve sent any of those costumed fools from that creepy satellite of yours. Hell, you could’ve tipped off MPD and let them swarm the place.” He tilted his head, raven strands shifting like spilled ink, that devastating smile sharpening just a fraction. “You didn’t have to come yourself, did you?”
Siren stood so close that Jon didn’t need super-vision to drown in every detail of those fantastic silver eyes, molten rings flecked with starlight, pupils blown wide and dark, pulling him under like twin singularities wrapped in mercury. Jon towered over him by a good six inches, broad shoulders and farm-boy bulk casting a shadow across Siren’s pale, bare form, yet somehow it was Jon who felt small, cornered by that upturned gaze.
Jon said nothing. What could he have said? Siren was right, and they both knew it down to the bone. Jon had wanted to be here, had crossed the city in civilian clothes, no cape, no emblem, no excuse of duty to hide behind.
“You’ve been thinking about me these last few days?” Siren asked.
“All the damn time,” Jon admitted, the truth spilling unfiltered, no point in lies when Siren could read the want blazing across his face like a Planet headline. “I’ve been going crazy over you, Siren.”
Siren’s smile unfurled radiant, lips parting to reveal a flash of white teeth, genuine delight softening the predatory edges for a breathless heartbeat. “Hey, you know what?” he whispered, tilting his head up to hold Jon’s gaze, the confession low and intimate. “I’ve been thinking about you too.”
One pale hand rose, fingers cool and confident as they settled over the soft flannel of Jon’s shirt, right at the top button, just below the open collar. With a deft, practiced flick, Siren popped it free, the tiny snap absurdly loud in the gilded hush. The fabric parted a fraction, baring the strong column of Jon’s throat and the upper curve of hard pecs beneath the thin cotton tee.
“Honestly,” Siren continued as his fingers lingered at the next button, teasing without quite committing, “I never give much thought to you heroes. You all sound terminally boring… but you, Jon… there’s just something about you.”
“I’m boring as hell too,” Jon muttered, the words tumbling out clumsy and stupid, heat crawling up his neck as soon as they left his mouth.
Siren laughed, a bright cascade that rippled through the room like sunlight on water.
“I don’t think you’re boring, Jon,” Siren murmured, his voice a reverent hush that seemed to stroke the air itself. He looked up through thick lashes, silver eyes gleaming with something darker than amusement, something hungry, almost awed. “I think you’re… pure. Like that daddy of yours. Like one of those angels sent from above to save us damned sinners down here in the dirt.”
His fingers moved to the next button on Jon’s flannel shirt. A soft pop, and the fabric parted further, revealing more of the thin white tee stretched tight across Jon’s chest, the shadow of muscle shifting beneath cotton with every shallow breath. Siren’s gaze followed the widening V of exposed skin, lips curving slow and wicked.
“And what does that say about me,” he whispered, tilting his head up again so Jon could see every glint of sinful intent in those molten eyes, “that I want to corrupt you? That I want to sink my teeth into all that goodness…” His tongue darted out, wetting his lips with deliberate slowness. “…and take a piece of it just for myself?”
The words hung heavy in the air, intimate as a confession, dangerous as a vow. Jon’s pulse thundered in his ears, heat flooding south in a helpless rush, the worn denim of his jeans far too confining. Siren stood close enough that Jon could feel the faint warmth radiating from bare skin, close enough that looking down into that upturned face felt like staring straight into his own unraveling. Very distantly, somewhere beneath the thunder of his pulse and the jasmine haze clouding his mind, Jon knew he shouldn’t be here. A faint, fading alarm bell rang in the back of his skull, telling him to back away, to fly, to get the hell out before the last thread of restraint snapped. Siren had just spelled it out, plain and explicit: he wanted to corrupt him, to sink his teeth into all that farm-raised, Smallville-polished goodness and claim a piece for himself.
Jon should have recoiled. Should have clung to every lesson Dad had ever drilled into him: truth, justice, holding the line no matter the temptation. He should have felt outrage, or at least the cold clarity of duty.
The only thing he wanted, the only thing that mattered in the gilded hush of this penthouse, was to offer himself up on a silver platter. Siren wanted a piece? Hell, he could have the whole damn thing. Every inch, every secret, every guarded corner of the heart behind the “S” that wasn’t even on his chest tonight. Jon wanted to surrender it all, let those silver eyes and beautiful lips and pale hands take whatever they craved, until there was nothing left of the hero and only the man remained, ruined, claimed under Siren’s smile.
He stood frozen, chest rising and falling too fast beneath the parted flannel, the heat in his jeans now a throbbing ache he couldn’t hide. Siren’s gaze flicked down once, acknowledging the obvious strain, then lifted again, triumphant. Waiting for Jon to make the choice he’d already made the moment he crossed the balcony threshold.
“What do you say, Jon?” Siren murmured. “Wanna debase yourself with us mortals? Just for today?”
Without waiting for an answer he already knew, Siren turned with fluid grace and padded toward the bed, a massive, palatial thing with an intricately carved mahogany headboard that belonged in some forgotten European chateau. The silk robe clung loosely to his narrow waist as he moved, parting just enough to tease glimpses of pale skin beneath. He climbed onto the mattress on all fours, slow and deliberate, the motion arching his back and presenting the perfect, rounded swell of his ass beneath the whispering silk, an unmistakable invitation that made Jon’s mouth go dry and his pulse hammer in his throat. Siren lingered there a heartbeat longer than necessary, letting Jon drink in the view, before he sank forward onto the mountain of snow-white pillows like a cat stretching languid in a shaft of sunlight, limbs loose, raven hair spilling wild across lace-trimmed linens.
Jon knew exactly what he was doing.
Siren wasn’t going to cross that final inch. He wasn’t going to touch, to command, to push. He’d promised no pheromones, and he was keeping that promise with cruel precision, leaving the choice entirely, devastatingly Jon’s. Every sway of those hips, every sultry glance over a pale shoulder, was designed to pull Jon forward on his own trembling legs, to make him take that first irrevocable step.
All of it, whatever happened next, would be Jon’s decision alone.
And standing there in the chandelier’s glow, jeans straining painfully against the insistent throb of his arousal, Jon felt the last frayed thread of resistance quiver and snap.
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