Was it victory that Simon saw? That flicker over pale eyes? That snide, unflappable smile under the furrow of his brow?

Chris disgusted this man, whoever he was. That was an awful lot closer than someone who passed him by on the same shady brothel treks. A Carrington? A family client? A lawyer?

He let out a huff of a laugh, as though surprised Simon took that long to catch on to some in-joke.

“Why else do you think I fuck him?” he mused, nonchalantly shaking the bag in hand to listen for anything that sounded breakable. “For his good looks?”

If it was that, definitely not John.

“For his artistry?”

If he looked a little queasy, that was probably Darius – his own damned work of art, the nervous, attention-starved thing.

“You should see the places I’ve had him,” he laughed, eyes narrowing. “The things I’ve made him eat.”

No one was fussier than Zack, after all.

Chris chucked the bag hard behind him, stepping forward like a wolf with a rabbit in his sights.

“You know why he keeps crawling back to me, whore?” he smiled with teeth, grabbing Simon’s collar. “Because you’re not enough for him. You’ll never be enough. Even disgusting me,” he chuckled, but oh he’d make them all pay for that one later, “is better than just a dead fish in bed.”