Not my Circus
✩ Kinger & Caine
contains workplace romance, slight age gap, heavy sexual tension, praise kink, light dominance and submission, possessiveness, jealousy, teasing, slow-burn escalation, MMF
Your first day started with a badge that didn’t scan, a laptop that greeted you in three different languages, and an email titled “Welcome :)” that contained exactly one attachment and no explanation.
Software engineering, they said. Stable job, they said.
You were standing in front of a glass office with your name still unfamiliar in your own head when someone behind you said, brightly—
“Ah! Fresh meat—I mean—new hire! Delightful.”
You turned and paused, because—right. Okay. That was…not what you expected.
He looked like he’d walked out of a different genre entirely. Tall, sharp suit, deep red coat like he refused to commit to the concept of “casual,” hat tilted just enough to look intentional. His smile was wide, controlled, and just a little too excited for 9:07 AM.
You blinked.
A taller man stood half a step behind, softer in every way. Light hair, slightly rumpled vest, sleeves pushed up like he’d forgotten when he started working and never stopped. His posture was hesitant, but not weak.
Also…fuck.
Okay. You loved slightly older men. That was a known issue. A manageable one. Usually.
This did not feel manageable.
“Hi,” you said, because you were still a professional. Technically.
Caine clapped once, delighted. “Oh, she speaks! Excellent, we’ve avoided the worst-case scenario.”
You stared at him.
“Most people speak, Caine.” Kinger chuckled.
“Well yes, but you never know,” Caine said, waving it off like that was a completely normal concern. Then his attention snapped back to you. “You’re with us. Congratulations. Condolences. Come along.”
He turned immediately, already walking, expecting you to follow.
You did. Because, again. Job.
Kinger lingered just long enough to give you a small, apologetic look before stepping after him. “He doesn’t mean anything by it.”
“I figured,” you said. You didn’t. Oh god.
Caine gasped. “Wait!”
You flinched. Hard enough that your heel nearly slipped and you walked straight back into a solid chest. Warm. Very warm. Oh. That was the other one. Your brain paused for a full second before politely shutting down.
“Sorry—” you started, already stepping forward again, face neutral like you hadn’t just mentally short-circuited over a man existing behind you.
Kinger, for his part, didn’t move away immediately. Just steadied you lightly by the shoulders, gentle and careful, like you were something he didn’t want to startle and then let go.
“It’s alright,” he said quietly. “No harm done.”
Great. Perfect. Fantastic. You were going to die here.
Caine, meanwhile, had spun around dramatically, one hand outstretched like he was presenting a prize.
“I am Doctor Victor Caine,” he announced, voice booming with unnecessary grandeur for a hallway with exactly three people in it. “And the tall, blonde, and devastatingly handsome individual beside you is my—and now your—colleague, Mister Lucien Kinger.”
Kinger made a small, embarrassed sound. “Caine—”
“What?” Caine shot back immediately. “Am I wrong? Should I undersell? I refuse to undersell.”
You nodded once, like this was all completely normal. Like your onboarding didn’t currently feel like a fever dream. “Nice to meet you both.”
Caine beamed like you’d just validated his entire existence. “Marvelous. She’s polite. Keep that. It’ll fade.”
“I don’t think that’s how that works,” you said dryly.
He pointed at you. “Ah! Sass. Even better. You’ll survive.”
“That’s…reassuring.”
“It shouldn’t be,” Kinger murmured under his breath.
You caught it. You absolutely caught it. And that—combined with the way his mouth twitched like he hadn’t meant to say it out loud—did something very specific to your brain chemistry.
Caine snapped his fingers. “Right! Orientation. Or what passes for it. Step one: do you know how to code?”
“Yes.”
“Excellent. Step two: ignore half of what I say.”
“Caine—”
“I said half, Kinger, not all. Let’s not discourage initiative.”
Kinger sighed softly, rubbing the bridge of his nose like this was a conversation they had daily. “What he means is—we’ll walk you through everything.”
“We will?” Caine tilted his head.
“Yes, we will.”
“Ah. Democracy. How tedious.”
You exhaled slowly. You had been here—what—five minutes?
Your badge didn’t work. Your laptop spoke in tongues. Your supervisors were—
You glanced between them.
One was chaos in a tailored coat with a smile that looked like it could start problems for sport. The other was soft-spoken, warm, and very clearly the only thing stopping the first from committing workplace crimes.
And both of them were—Yeah. No. You were not thinking that again. You cleared your throat. “So…where do I sit?”
Caine lit up like you’d just asked the best question of his life. “Ah! A woman after my own heart—straight to logistics. Kinger, she’s brilliant. I like her.”
Kinger gave you a small smile. “You haven’t even seen her work yet.”
“I don’t need to. It’s a vibe.”
“That’s not a metric.”
“It is now.”
You pressed your lips together.
Kinger noticed. His expression softened just slightly, like he was relieved you weren’t already planning your escape.
Caine turned on his heel again, gesturing grandly down the hall. “Come along, dear employee. Let us ruin—excuse me—shape your future.”
You followed, because apparently, despite every warning sign your brain was firing at full volume, you were already a little bit hooked.
That was your first day.
And your way straight to hell.
The next few weeks settled into something that should have been chaos. Objectively—it was.
Nothing in that office functioned the way it was supposed to. Deadlines bent around Caine’s moods, meetings turned into debates that somehow ended in snacks, and your project board looked like it had been curated by three entirely different personalities with no communication between them.
And yet you liked it. More than liked it, actually. You found yourself waking up a little earlier just so you wouldn’t miss the quiet moments before everything inevitably derailed.
Kinger was always there first. Not early in a strict sense—more like he’d simply never really left.
Sleeves rolled, hair slightly disheveled, glasses pushed up while he leaned over his desk with that careful focus of someone who got lost in his work and forgot time existed. He’d look up when you came in, like he needed a second to adjust back to reality, and then his expression would soften in that quiet, almost shy way.
“Good Morning, dear,” he’d say, voice warm, steady.
Your spot would already be set.
A mug waiting. Sometimes tea, sometimes coffee, sometimes just water with a slice of citrus floating like he’d put actual thought into hydration as a concept. It was never announced, never pointed out. Just there.
You never mentioned how much you noticed.
Caine, on the other hand, made it impossible not to notice him.
He arrived like a disruption.
Always late. Always loud. Always acting like the room had been unbearably dull before he entered and he was doing everyone a favor by existing in it.
And every single morning, there was a sticky note on your desk.
Not a normal one. Never something useful.
One morning it read: “If anything breaks, it wasn’t me.” accompanied by aggressively scribbled bees in the corner.
Another day: “Motivation is a myth. We run on spite here.” with a tiny, badly drawn sword.
And once—just once—“You look like you’d survive a lawsuit. Impressive.”
You had turned that one over twice before deciding not to question it.
Caine didn’t explain them but the day he forgot—on accident, you were sure—you had found yourself pausing at your desk, waiting, before realizing it wasn’t there. He noticed that. Of course he did. So the next morning there were two.
By the end of the first month, you had stopped pretending this was normal workplace behavior. You had also stopped pretending you weren’t enjoying it. Because somewhere in between the chaos and the quiet routines, something shifted.
You learned the rhythm of them.
Kinger worked like a constant, steady, thoughtful, careful with everything he touched.
He talked to himself when he was deep into something, soft murmurs under his breath as he pieced problems together step by step.
Sometimes you’d catch fragments—half-formed thoughts, small corrections—and if you leaned just slightly into his space, he’d include you without hesitation. No ego. No resistance. Just a gentle, “Here—look at this part,” like collaboration was the most natural thing in the world.
Caine worked like disruption. He couldn’t sit still. Couldn’t stay quiet. His focus came in bursts, sharp, brilliant, chaotic and then he’d veer off, pacing, humming, talking, singing under his breath before it turned into actual volume.
And when something went wrong, that was when it got interesting.
“Son of a—” he’d start, cutting himself off mid-sentence, visibly recalculating.
You’d glance up, already knowing.
“—sparkling spoonful of incompetence,” he finished instead, voice strained like it physically hurt him not to swear properly.
You bit back a laugh. Kinger didn’t even look up. “You can just say it, you know.”
“I cannot,” Caine snapped, offended. “We have standards.”
“You called someone a ‘walking spreadsheet error’ yesterday.”
“And I stand by that.”
You had learned very quickly that pushing Caine—just a little—was entertaining.
Pushing him when Kinger was involved? That was something else entirely.
Because Caine was absolutely not subtle.
He liked to pretend he was. He liked to act like everything he did was intentional, controlled, part of some grand performance.
It wasn’t.
Not when it came to you. Not when it came to Kinger.
You noticed it the third week in. You had leaned over Kinger’s desk, close enough to see his screen properly, your shoulder brushing his arm as he explained something in that low, thoughtful tone. You hadn’t thought anything of it—just normal, easy proximity.
Until Caine appeared.
He didn’t say anything at first. He just…inserted himself.
Physically.
One second there was space between you and Kinger, and the next there wasn’t because Caine had stepped right between you, one hand braced casually on the desk like he belonged there.
“Oh? Collaborative moment?” he said brightly, eyes flicking between the two of you. “How thrilling. Don’t mind me, I’ll just—supervise.”
You stared at him.
Kinger blinked slowly. “You weren’t even in the room a second ago.”
“I move fast.”
“You were singing in the hallway.”
“I multitask.”
You should have stepped back. You didn’t. Instead, you leaned slightly against the desk again, just enough that your shoulder brushed Caine this time.
His sentence cut off mid-word.
That was when you realized.
Oh.
Oh, this was fun.
After that, you didn’t stop. You didn’t push too hard. Just enough. A brush of your hand when you passed Kinger something. Leaning in close when you asked a question. Letting your knee bump his under the desk like it was accidental.
And every time Caine reacted. Sometimes instantly, sometimes a second too late, but always. He’d step in, interrupt, redirect, insert himself like he physically couldn’t stand not being part of whatever was happening.
Kinger noticed too.
He just didn’t comment on it but sometimes, when Caine turned his back for a second, Kinger’s eyes would flick to you—soft, a little amused, a little something else—and you’d feel that quiet shift again.
The one that said he wasn’t as unaware as he pretended to be.
By the time a month had passed—You had them.
Not in a dramatic, obvious way. Nothing had been said. Nothing had been defined. But the dynamic was there.
Settled. Comfortable. Dangerous, if you thought about it too long.
Your project got heavier around that time. More complicated. More pressure. The kind that settled into your shoulders and didn’t leave even when you went home.
The office changed with it.
Kinger got quieter—not distant, just deeper in his work, more focused. The soft murmuring returned, constant undercurrent as he worked through problem after problem, occasionally pushing his glasses up with a tired exhale.
Caine got louder. Not in a disruptive way. In a…compensating way.
He filled the silence Kinger left behind.
Humming turned into singing. Singing turned into commentary. Commentary turned into creative swearing that got progressively more ridiculous the more frustrated he got.
“At this point I’m convinced this code was written by a sentient spatula,” he muttered one afternoon, pacing behind you. “A malicious one. Possibly French.”
You didn’t even look up. “You’re projecting.”
“I am not projecting. I am observing.”
“You called a bug ‘emotionally manipulative’ ten minutes ago.”
“It was. It kept reappearing.”
Kinger huffed quietly, not quite a laugh. You glanced over and he was watching the two of you now, expression softer than it had been all day. Less tired.
You weren’t supposed to get attached to coworkers like this.
You knew that. You really did. But when you leaned back in your chair, stretching just slightly, and felt Caine’s hand briefly press against the backrest as he passed—
When Kinger wordlessly slid your mug a little closer because he noticed you hadn’t touched it in a while—
You stayed right where you were.
By that point, your mornings had developed a rhythm.
Door. Coffee smell. Low murmur of Kinger already working. Something faintly unhinged left behind by Caine—either in physical form or emotional damage.
So when you pushed the office door open that morning and stopped, it was because the rhythm was…off.
They were too close.
Not casually. Not the normal, “leaning over a screen” or “sharing space because the office was small” kind of close.
You stood in the doorway, one hand still on the frame, slowly squinting your eyes at them like your brain was trying to manually process what it was seeing.
Caine was standing right in Kinger’s space. Not just near him—in it. One hand braced against the desk beside Kinger, the other hovering suspiciously close to his face. Kinger, meanwhile, looked like he had been caught mid-thought, mid-breath, mid—something.
His posture was off. Shoulders a little tense. Eyes a little too wide. Caine, on the other hand, was grinning.
Of course he was grinning.
“I was helping him look for his glasses,” he said immediately, like he’d been waiting for you to walk in just so he could deliver that line.
Kinger made a small, distressed sound beside him. “Yeah—yeah. My glasses.”
Your eyes narrowed further. You didn’t move. You didn’t blink. You just tilted your head slightly, gaze sliding up—“…they’re on your head,” you said flatly.
Silence.
Kinger froze like you’d just pulled the plug on him. His hand came up hesitantly and touched the top of his head. “…right,” he murmured, voice suddenly very careful. “That would explain why I—couldn’t—find them.”
Caine didn’t even try to recover.
He just laughed under his breath, low, amused, completely unbothered and then his attention snapped back to you like you were the more interesting situation now.
Which, apparently, you were, because the next second he was moving.
You barely had time to react before he closed the distance, arms sliding around your torso with zero hesitation, like you’d been the intended target all along. And then you were moving too. Backwards.
“Caine—” you hissed under your breath, hands instinctively coming up to push at his chest, but he didn’t even slow down. If anything, he leaned into it, steering you effortlessly like this was choreography he’d practiced.
“Aaah, my delicate little sunflower,” he said, voice dripping with theatrical affection as he pulled you into a full hug—tight, warm, overwhelming in that way that should have been annoying and was. Mostly.
You hated how normal it felt. He’d always been touchy. Always too close, too casual with it, like personal space was more of a suggestion than a rule.
“Caine,” you tried again, sharper this time.
He loosened his hold just enough to look down at you, with that stupid, unfair face. Sharp lines, red-white hair catching the light just right, that grin that never quite left his mouth, and eyes—God. His eyes were infuriating. Bright. Alive. Way too expressive for someone who pretended to be in control of everything.
You felt your brain short-circuit for half a second before you forcibly shook it off.
Work. You were here to work.
You pressed your hands flat against his chest and shoved. Or—you attempted to, because he didn’t move. Not even a little. Your expression flattened. “Are you fucki—”
“AHHH—!”
Caine’s scream cut you off instantly, loud and dramatic like you’d just tried to stab him instead of speak.
You flinched. Your brows pulled together.
Right. No cussing.
You stared at him, unimpressed. He stared back, equally intense, like he’d just saved the moral integrity of the room.
Behind him, you could feel it before you even looked—Kinger.
Still there. Still quiet. Still watching. When you finally glanced past Caine’s shoulder, you caught him adjusting his glasses properly now, the movement just a little too deliberate, like he needed something to do with his hands.
His gaze flicked to yours for a brief second. Soft. A little embarrassed and something quieter, harder to name before he looked away again.
Caine, completely oblivious—or pretending to be—tightened his hold just slightly again before finally letting you go with a dramatic sigh. “Honestly,” he said, like he’d been personally wronged, “the language in this workplace is appalling.”
You crossed your arms, deadpan. “I didn’t even finish the sentence.”
“I know,” he said gravely. “I feared for what it could have become.”
Kinger let out a quiet breath that might have been a laugh.
You caught it. Caine caught you catching it and just like that, his attention snapped back again—sharp, immediate, like a switch had flipped. He stepped half a pace closer. Not touching this time. Just—There. “You’re late,” he said suddenly.
You blinked. “I’m three minutes early.”
“Emotionally late.”
“That’s not a thing.”
“It is now.”
You stared at him. Then past him at Kinger, who, despite everything, had the faintest hint of a smile at the corner of his mouth.
The banter about “emotional lateness” had barely left his mouth before you were done playing.
“I don’t like your attitude today,” you said, voice low and flat, pushing past Caine with enough shoulder to make it deliberate. He let you, barely, his fingers brushing the small of your back like he couldn’t quite stop himself. “And you aren’t innocent either.”
You shot Kinger a warning look on the way to your chair. Just a flick of your eyes. Enough. Caine followed you in, all mock innocence and red coat tails. “But—my dear—”
“Sit down.”
He sat. Immediately. Like the word from your mouth had weight.
Kinger stood without a word, collecting your mug and his own with that quiet, careful grace he wore like armor.
He didn’t look at either of you as he slipped toward the kitchen, but the door hadn’t even clicked shut before Caine spun his chair around, facing you across the small office like the space between you was personally offensive.
You ignored him. Opened your laptop. Typed one meaningless line just to look busy.
“Didn’t you like my little adventure?” he asked, voice a shade too low, a shade too possessive for nine-thirty in the morning.
“You spun me like an idiot,” you answered without looking up. “That wasn’t an adventure. That was vertigo.”
He hissed—sharp, theatrical, the sound of a man who’d just been called out and liked it too much. You rolled your eyes, already reaching for the next keystroke.
“Caine,” you said, calm, almost bored. “Dial it down.”
Ooooh. He didn’t like that.
The chair scraped back. He was on his feet and across the room in two long strides—too fast, too fluid for someone who claimed to be all drama and no follow-through.
Before you could blink he’d spun your chair, caging you in with one hand braced on the armrest, the other on the back, leaning down until the world narrowed to red-white hair, sharp grin, and the faint scent of bergamot and oil from whatever ridiculous product he used on that stupid beard.
You tilted your head up slowly, meeting his eyes.
Your fingers slid up the front of his crisp white shirt until they caught the silk of his red tie. You wrapped it once around your wrist, then yanked.
Hard.
Caine’s breath caught. The chaos in his gaze stuttered, pupils blowing wide as you pulled him down close enough to smell the warmth of his skin, close enough that his next exhale ghosted across your lips.
“You can intimidate him,” you murmured, amused, “but not me, sweetheart.”
His knuckles went white on the chair. You felt the tremor run through him—restrained, vibrating, like every chaotic inch of him wanted to grab you right back and forget the open door and the rules and the fact that Kinger was three seconds from walking in.
You didn’t let go of the tie. Not yet. You held Caine there, foreheads almost touching. You could feel Kinger’s stare on the nape of your neck like a physical touch—warm, heavy, curious in a way that made your stomach tighten.
Caine’s grin widened, feral and delighted and completely unrepentant.
“No,” he laughed right against your mouth, the word hot and low. Then he grabbed the back of your head—gentle, always so strangely gentle beneath the theatrics and bumped your forehead to his in one firm, possessive tap. “Absolutely NOT.”
You knew, in that split-second of shared breath and racing pulse, exactly how this would have ended if Kinger hadn’t come back.
Instead you turned away, and took the fresh mug from Kinger’s hand. Your fingers brushed his on purpose. He didn’t pull away.
“I am, uh…not asking,” Kinger said quietly, eyes flicking between the two of you like he was trying to read a language he only half-understood. His voice was soft, but there was heat under it—banked, careful, waiting to see if you’d let it flare.
You sipped the tea. Still perfect. Still exactly how you liked it.
The tension after that didn’t break.
It thickened.
For the next three days it sat in the office like humidity before a storm—sticky, electric, impossible to ignore no matter how hard you tried. You hated it. God, fuck, you hated how much you didn’t hate it.
Caine watched you like he wanted to eat you alive.
Not in the polite, workplace-appropriate way. No.
Every time you leaned over your desk to adjust a line on the character designs, his gaze dragged slow and deliberate across the curve of your neck, down the line of your spine, lingering like he was already imagining how you’d taste if he finally got his teeth on you.
He still talked too loud, still paced like the floor owed him money, still filled the room with chaotic commentary on the project.
But the second your eyes met his, that grin sharpened into something feral.
Kinger, on the other hand, looked like he wanted to die between your legs.
Quiet, devastating, and so fucking polite about it. He stayed tucked in his corner, sleeves rolled high, murmuring code under his breath like a prayer, but every time you stretched or crossed your ankles under the desk his shoulders would tighten.
His stare would flick up, soft, starved, almost apologetic, like he knew exactly how obscene the thought was and couldn’t stop having it anyway.
He’d push his glasses up, clear his throat, and go right back to typing, cheeks faintly pink.
You kept your head down and worked on the character designs like your life depended on it. Lines, colors, expressions that somehow kept coming out sharper and hungrier than you meant them to.
The office hummed with the low clack of keyboards, the occasional dramatic sigh from Caine, the soft rustle of Kinger shifting in his chair. Nothing was said. Nothing was touched.
But everything felt touched.
It was very late, well past the hour any sane person should still be here, when Caine suddenly stopped mid-pace, spun on his heel, and gasped like the idea had physically struck him.
“WE SHOULD—go out. All three of us.” His voice cracked with theatrical delight. “Maybe dinner? Maybe a bar? Somewhere with low lights and questionable decisions. Come on, we’ve earned it. The project can survive one night without us pretending we’re not all thinking about the same thing.”
He said the last part like it was casual. Like it wasn’t a lit match tossed straight into the dry kindling you’d all been pretending wasn’t there.
You looked up from your screen. Kinger’s fingers had frozen over his keyboard.
Caine’s grin was pure chaos, eyes bright, red coat still somehow flawless after twelve hours of pacing. “What do you say, darling? Kinger? Don’t make me beg. Actually—do make me beg. I’m flexible.”
The air in the office pulled taut again, thinner now, like it might snap if anyone breathed too hard.
You tilted your head, letting the smallest smile curve your lips.
The place Caine picked was exactly what he’d promised—low lights, warm tones, just loud enough to blur conversations into a soft hum. The kind of place that made everything feel a little closer than it should. A little more private. A little more dangerous.
You slid into the booth first. Kinger followed, taking the seat beside you after a brief hesitation, like he was aware—too aware—of the proximity it would create.
Caine took the seat across from you, already leaning back like he owned the place, menu in hand, expression far too pleased with himself.
“This,” he announced, glancing around with satisfaction, “is what we call atmosphere.”
“It’s a restaurant,” Kinger said mildly, though his voice had that faint strain again, like he was holding onto something just under the surface.
“It’s an experience,” Caine corrected, flipping the menu open with a dramatic flick of his wrist. “Try to keep up.”
You didn’t comment. You didn’t need to. Your hand resting against Kinger’s thigh as if it belonged there. Warm through the fabric, solid, grounding. You let your fingers brush slightly, testing, Kinger’s breath hitched.
He went still for a fraction of a second before his hand came down over yours, gentle but firm, guiding it away like he was trying to correct something before it spiraled.
“Careful,” he murmured under his breath, voice low enough that it didn’t carry past you.
But instead of letting go his hand stayed, then shifted, sliding back to your thigh. His fingers pressed in, just a little, like he was testing something now, mirroring you in that quiet, careful way he did everything.
Your mouth curved slightly. Satisfied. You let his touch settle, let the tension stretch just enough before your heel slipped, your foot slid free, smooth and deliberate now, no hesitation left in it as it moved under the table. Across.
Toward Caine.
He didn’t look up. Still reading. Still completely absorbed in whatever overly complicated description he’d found.
Which made it all the better when your foot brushed his shin.
You dragged it up just slightly, testing the line, waiting for the reaction—Nothing. For a second.
Then his hand shot down too fast, catching your ankle cleanly before you could pull back, grip firm as he guided your foot further between his legs, pressing it there like he’d already decided what to do with it.
You felt it. Enough. More than enough.
Caine hadn’t moved otherwise. Still sitting there like nothing had happened, menu in his other hand, expression perfectly composed.
“Since when were you in charge?” he asked, voice smooth, almost bored as he snapped the menu shut with a sharp, deliberate motion.
The sound made Kinger flinch beside you.
Caine’s gaze lifted then—finally—locking onto yours.
There it was. That edge again. Sharper now.
You didn’t pull your foot back, if anything, you pressed a little harder. Just enough. And then you leaned sideways, head coming to rest lightly against Kinger’s shoulder like it was the most natural thing in the world.
Kinger went rigid for half a second before forcing himself to relax, though his hand on your thigh tightened instinctively, fingers pressing in just a bit more than before.
“Are you comfortable?” he asked quietly, voice careful, like he was trying very hard to stay composed.
“Very,” you said, just as quietly.
Across from you Caine stilled, his grip on your ankle tightened slightly. Not enough to hurt—just enough to remind you he was still there, still holding you exactly where he wanted. His head tilted, just slightly, eyes narrowing as he took in the picture in front of him.
You.
Leaning into Kinger.
Kinger letting you.
Your foot still very much between his legs.
A slow breath left him through his nose. “Fascinating,” he said finally, tone light but just a fraction too controlled. “We’ve developed a system, have we?”
Kinger shifted beside you, clearly aware of everything at once now, his hand still on your thigh like he didn’t know whether to move it or leave it. “You’re the one who suggested we come out,” he said, a bit too quickly.
“I did,” Caine agreed easily. “I don’t recall suggesting…this.”
You lifted your head just enough to glance at him, smile small, unbothered. “You didn’t say not to.”
He barked a laugh. “Oh, I see,” Caine murmured, leaning forward slightly now, elbow resting on the table as he studied you properly. “You’re feeling bold tonight.”
“Am I?” you asked.
“You are,” he said simply.
Under the table, his thumb brushed against your ankle before settling again. Kinger’s fingers flexed against your thigh in response, like he was reacting without meaning to.
A waiter approached. Perfect timing. Menus were taken. Orders were given. Voices returned to something almost normal, though the undercurrent never left.
And through all of it—Nothing changed.
Your head stayed near Kinger’s shoulder, close enough to feel the steady rhythm of his breathing. His hand stayed where it was, warm, grounding, just this side of careful.
Caine didn’t let go. Not once. Not even when he leaned back again, expression shifting back into that familiar, sharp amusement. His gaze flicked between the two of you, calculating. Entertained. Just a little bit unhinged.
“Well,” he said lightly, folding his hands together on the table. “This is going to be an interesting evening.”
You met his eyes, smiled and pressed your foot just slightly further.
Dinner should have helped.
That was the logical, civilized assumption—food, low lighting, a public table between the three of you, something neutral to dilute the thick, syrup-slow tension that had been coiling tighter every day in the office.
It did not help.
If anything, it made it worse. Because now there was no pretending it wasn’t deliberate.
Caine leaned all the way into it like the night was his personal stage and you were the only audience that mattered.
Every comment sharpened just enough to cut, every glance lingered half a second too long, dragging across your mouth, your throat, the slow cross of your legs under the table.
He asked questions he already knew the answers to—just to watch the way your lips moved when you answered, the way your breath caught when his foot brushed yours under the cloth.
When you gave him that dry, unimpressed look instead of the reaction he wanted, his grin only widened, delighted and dangerous, like denial was the foreplay he craved most.
Kinger was quieter, but never less present. If Caine was wildfire then he was the slow, banked heat that crept under your skin and stayed there, warm and patient and utterly devastating.
His voice stayed low and careful, that soft rumble that made you lean in without meaning to.
His hand lingered when he passed you the wine, thumb brushing the inside of your wrist like an accident that wasn’t. Every so often his gaze would drop to your mouth, hold, then flick away—cheeks faintly flushed, jaw tight, like he was fighting the urge to say something filthy and gentle all at once.
You played along, of course. You weren’t stupid. You knew exactly what you were doing—letting your knee rest against Caine’s under the table, letting your fingers trail along Kinger’s sleeve when you reached for the salt, smiling just enough to keep them both stupid and starving.
By the time dessert menus were offered and promptly ignored, the tension wasn’t just sitting there anymore. It was stretched tight, humming, alive.
The walk back to the car didn’t break it. The drive made it worse.
Caine didn’t ask. He assigned.
“Passenger seat,” he said, voice velvet and command as he unlocked the car, red coat flaring like he owned the whole damn night.
You gave him a look.
He gave you a bigger one, eyes glittering. “Don’t argue with me in public, darling. I have a reputation to maintain.”
“You absolutely do not,” you shot back, but you slid into the seat anyway, because the pull was already too strong and you liked the way it felt when he won small battles.
The second the door shut, his hand was there.
Right on your thigh. Warm. Firm. Completely unapologetic, fingers splayed like he’d been waiting hours for permission he hadn’t asked for.
You didn’t move it. Didn’t acknowledge it directly. But your fingers tightened in your lap, and that was enough—his thumb shifted once, tracing a lazy circle that promised everything he wasn’t saying out loud.
From the backseat came silence. Kinger was there, watching. You caught it in the rearview mirror—just once, briefly.
His eyes were dark, fixed on the place where Caine’s hand claimed you, that soft mouth pressed into a line like he was holding back a groan.
The second your gaze met his he looked down, but not before you saw the hunger there, quiet and aching and so fucking polite it made your stomach clench.
Caine noticed, of course. He always did.
“Comfortable back there, Kinger?” he asked lightly, one hand on the wheel, the other still owning your thigh like it belonged to him.
“I’m fine,” Kinger answered, voice low and steady, though the faint edge of strain gave him away.
“Good,” Caine hummed, thumb stroking again, higher this time. “I’d hate for you to feel left out.”
You snorted softly, the sound half-laugh, half-warning. “Subtle.”
“I’m many things, my dear,” Caine replied, that wicked grin flashing in the dashboard glow. “Subtle is not one of them.”
“No kidding.”
His fingers squeezed once and your breath hitched before you could stop it.
The rest of the drive passed in that same stretched, electric quiet. Waiting. Simmering.
By the time the car pulled up to the building, your head was buzzing with it, skin too warm, pulse too loud.
You stepped out, smoothing your clothes on instinct, eyes flicking up to the sleek entryway and then you really looked.
At the building.
At the way they both moved toward the door without hesitation, shoulders brushing like they’d done this a hundred nights before.
Together.
You blinked. Once. Twice.
The realization slammed into you all at once, slotting every lingering glance, every too-close moment, every jealous little interruption into perfect, filthy clarity.
“Oh my god,” you breathed, the words slipping out before you could catch them.
Caine turned, already reaching for you with that theatrical flair, slinging one arm around your waist and twirling you once—smooth, effortless, pulling you flush against the hard line of his body.
“My sweet little biscuit,” he purred against your ear, voice dripping honey and sin. “What’s that pretty head of yours spinning about now?”
You pushed his face away with the flat of your hand, but you didn’t step out of his arms. Couldn’t.
Not when Kinger was standing right there, watching with that soft, helpless little smile, hands loose at his sides like he was waiting for permission to join.
“You two fucking live together?!” The words came out sharper than you meant, but the heat in them was unmistakable.
Caine yelped loud, dramatic, genuinely scandalized. “AAH—no cussing!”
You ignored him, still pinned against his chest, heart hammering as the knowledge sank deeper.
They lived here.
Shared space. Shared mornings. Shared nights.
The same walls that had probably heard every low murmur, every frustrated growl, every quiet, desperate sound they’d ever pulled from each other while you’d been sitting three desks away pretending not to notice the way they moved like they already knew each other’s bodies by heart.
It made everything so much hotter it was almost unfair.
Kinger let out a quiet, rueful laugh behind him—soft, warm, the sound sliding down your spine like a touch.
“We do,” he admitted, voice low and honest, cheeks flushing that faint, delicious pink again. “Though Caine prefers to call it ‘strategic cohabitation.’”
Caine huffed, still holding you close, chin resting on your shoulder like he had every right. “It’s not lying, it’s curation. We agreed on a unified front.”
“We did not agree on lying,” Kinger corrected gently, stepping closer now, close enough that you could feel the warmth of him at your back, the three of you caught in a triangle of heat and held breath. His hand brushed your arm—light, careful, but the look in his eyes when they met yours was anything but. “And now she knows. So…what happens next, hm?”
You looked between them, both of them watching you like the night had just cracked open and handed you the reins.
“Oh,” you said softly, lips curving like you’d just been handed the match and the gasoline. “This changes everything.”
Caine’s arm tightened around your waist, pulling you harder against the solid heat of his chest, red coat brushing your back like a warning and a promise all at once.
His breath ghosted warm against your ear, that theatrical purr dropping into something rougher. “Does it now, my sweet little biscuit? Care to elaborate before I—”
You didn’t let him finish. Your eyes locked on Kinger and you reached for him without hesitation. Fingers hooked into the silk of his tie, right at the knot, and you tugged.
Kinger’s breath hitched, a soft, startled sound.
He let you pull him down, let you drag him into your space until his mouth was right there, inches from yours, while Caine’s arm stayed locked around you like an anchor.
The three of you tangled together on the doorstep—your back to Caine’s chest, Kinger’s taller frame bending to you, the night air suddenly too thick to breathe.
You kissed him. No preamble. No gentle lead-in.
You crushed your mouth to his like you’d been starving for the taste of him, tongue sliding past his lips the second they parted on a gasp.
Kinger melted. His hands came up instinctively, one landing on your hip, the other bracing against Caine’s arm like he needed something solid to keep from falling apart.
The kiss was wet, deep, filthy-sweet: slow drags of tongue, the faint scrape of teeth when you nipped his bottom lip, the way he groaned low in his throat and gave in completely. His emotions spiked—surprise flashing hot across his face before it burned straight into raw, desperate want.
You could feel it in the way his fingers tightened, in the helpless roll of his hips forward, pressing against you like he’d been holding back for weeks and the dam had finally cracked.
Caine behind you went rigid for half a second, possessive jealousy flaring sharp and bright—then he groaned, the sound low and wrecked and utterly delighted.
“Oh, darling,” he breathed against the side of your neck, voice cracking with that perfect mix of outrage and arousal.
His free hand slid up your ribs, possessive, claiming, thumb brushing just under the swell of your breast like he couldn’t decide whether to pull you tighter or push you harder into Kinger’s mouth.
“Look at you. Stealing kisses right in my arms. You’re going to ruin me. Both of you. Filthy little—ah—mischief makers.”
You didn’t stop kissing Kinger. Not when he was making those soft, broken sounds into your mouth, tongue sliding against yours like he was trying to memorize the taste of you.
His glasses fogged slightly, you felt the heat of his cheeks, the way his breath stuttered every time Caine’s hand wandered higher or your fingers twisted tighter in his tie.
Caine’s mouth found the sensitive spot just below your ear, sucking a slow, open-mouthed kiss there while his hips pressed forward, letting you feel exactly how hard he was against the curve of your ass.
“Inside,” he murmured, voice rough and commanding and trembling with want. “Now. Before I decide the doorstep is good enough and we give the neighbors a show they’ll never forget.”
Kinger pulled back just enough to breathe, lips shiny and swollen, eyes dark and glassy behind his lenses.
He looked wrecked already—cheeks flushed deep, chest heaving—and the way he stared at you, then at Caine, like he couldn’t believe this was real but would happily die if it wasn’t… it made something hot and vicious curl low in your stomach.
You let go of his tie but didn’t step away.
Instead you leaned back into Caine’s chest, letting him hold you up while your fingers traced Kinger’s jaw, thumb brushing his wet bottom lip.
“Keys,” you said, voice husky. “Or I’m dragging you both inside by whatever I can grab next.”
Caine laughed and fumbled for the door like a man who’d just won the lottery and was terrified it might vanish.
Kinger’s hand stayed on your hip the whole time, thumb stroking slow circles like he couldn’t stop touching you now that he’d started.
The door had barely clicked shut behind you before Caine had you moving again, arm still locked around your waist, guiding you backward through the dark entryway like he’d choreographed this exact moment weeks ago.
“Inside, my darlings,” he announced, voice already pitching into that grand, theatrical boom that made the walls feel smaller. “Let us not waste a single second of this magnificent evening on trivial things like coats or common sense.”
You laughed until the backs of your knees hit the couch and you tumbled down into soft cushions and even softer chaos.
Caine followed without hesitation, dropping over you like a red-coated storm, mouth finding the curve of your throat while his hands pinned your wrists above your head in one smooth, dominant sweep.
“Look at her, Kinger,” he narrated, loud and delighted, eyes glittering as he glanced sideways at the taller man still standing by the door. “Our little chaos catalyst, already sprawled so prettily for us. Isn’t she exquisite? All sharp tongue and softer sounds just waiting to be coaxed out.”
Kinger didn’t answer with words at first.
He simply crossed the room in that quiet, measured way of his, shedding his vest somewhere along the way, sleeves already rolled high.
Then he kneeled beside the couch, one hand sliding up your thigh while the other brushed Caine’s arm like he needed the contact to stay grounded.
His touch was everywhere at once, palm gliding under the hem of your shirt, thumb tracing slow circles over your ribs, mouth pressing open and reverent against the inside of your wrist.
Caine’s mouth found your collarbone and Kinger’s fingers slipped higher, teasing the edge of your waistband like he had all night to worship every inch.
Caine laughed, nipping at your pulse point while he kept your wrists captive. “Yes, yes, exactly like that,” he crowed, hips rolling down against yours so you could feel exactly how hard he already was. “Our perfect little troublemaker. Kinger, darling, look how she trembles when you touch her there—magnificent. I could watch this for hours.”
You didn’t know how it happened, time blurred under the weight of hands and mouths and Caine’s endless, filthy narration but the couch wasn’t enough.
Not nearly.
One moment you were pinned between them on velvet cushions, the next Caine had scooped you up like you weighed nothing, carrying you down the hall with Kinger right behind, still murmuring praise against your shoulder.
“Bed,” Caine declared, kicking the bedroom door open with dramatic flair. “Much better for what I have planned. You’ll thank me later, my sweet.”
You landed on their massive bed in a tangle of limbs and red silk, pushing yourself up on your elbows, chest heaving, head spinning with how fast this had gone from teasing to this. Your mouth opened on instinct—
“Fu—”
“NO.” Caine yelped, loud and scandalized, one hand dramatically clapped over your lips like you’d just tried to set the apartment on fire.
His eyes were wide, grin fighting to break through the mock horror. “None of that in this house, darling. We have standards. Sparkling spoonfuls of delight only, thank you very much.”
“Oh my god, really?” you managed around his fingers, half-laughing, half-wrecked.
Kinger chuckled from the foot of the bed, soft, and utterly fond as he stood there already opening the buttons of his shirt one by one, revealing the smooth plane of his chest inch by inch. The sound of it curled low in your stomach.
You sat up a little more, eyes flicking between them, between Caine still hovering over you like a possessive king and Kinger’s slow, careful undressing and the realization hit you all over again.
They lived here.
They shared this bed.
They’d been doing this dance with each other long before you ever walked into that glass office.
“Wait—wait, wait—” you said, voice dropping into something darker, hungrier. Your grin turned menacing, slow and sharp and full of every filthy possibility now spinning through your head. “If you two are a couple…”
Caine’s grin matched yours instantly, wicked and delighted. Kinger’s fingers paused on the last button, eyes darkening behind his glasses as he watched you figure it out.
You leaned back on your elbows, letting the implication settle between the three of you like a live wire.
“Oh,” you purred, “this is going to be the best threesome I’ve ever had.”
That was our little mistake. Wasn’t it? You can leave now.
But you won’t.
The Masterlist is here. If that was not enough, you know where to put your request.
⋆✴︎˚｡⋆ © ᴠᴇʟᴠᴇᴛɢʜᴏᴜʟ
𝘙𝘦𝘣𝘭𝘰𝘨𝘴 𝘢𝘳𝘦 𝘴𝘸𝘦𝘦𝘵. 𝘛𝘩𝘦𝘧𝘵 𝘪𝘴 𝘯𝘰𝘵. 𝘋𝘰 𝘯𝘰𝘵 𝘤𝘰𝘱𝘺, 𝘳𝘦𝘱𝘰𝘴𝘵, 𝘵𝘳𝘢𝘯𝘴𝘭𝘢𝘵𝘦, 𝘳𝘦𝘤𝘭𝘢𝘪𝘮, 𝘰𝘳 𝘧𝘦𝘦𝘥 𝘮𝘺 𝘸𝘰𝘳𝘥𝘴 𝘪𝘯𝘵𝘰 𝘈𝘐.