Chapter 216 Chapter 0215

Chapter 216 Chapter 0215
Masahiro’s grip was firm on Matthew’s waist, his pace slow but deep, deliberate. Possessive.
Matthew, on his knees, braced against the mattress, let out a breathy groan, his fingers curling into the sheets. His body was already wrecked, his muscles weak from the second round—but Masahiro?
Masahiro wasn’t done.
“Masahiro,” Matthew exhaled, half-laughing, half-dazed. “You tryna kill me?”
Masahiro hummed, dragging his lips along the back of Matthew’s neck, pressing a lazy, open-mouthed kiss to his sweat-slicked skin. “You can take it.”
Matthew groaned. “I dunno, man, I think my soul left my body two rounds ago.”
Masahiro didn’t give a damn.
Then—the phone rang.
Masahiro barely acknowledged it.
Matthew, however, seized the moment. “Oh, thank God. Answer it.”
Masahiro exhaled sharply, gripping his hips harder. “Not really.”
Matthew groaned dramatically, dropping his head forward. “C’mon, Masahiro, this might be divine intervention.”
Masahiro ignored him. Kept moving.
The call ended.
Then—the phone rang again.
Matthew threw a hand back blindly, smacking Masahiro’s thigh. “Masahiro, you are literally the chief of narcotics. What if it’s important?”
Masahiro bit down on Matthew’s shoulder, just hard enough to make him gasp. “Then they can wait.”
The second call ended.
For a second, there was peace.
And then—a third fucking call.
Masahiro stilled.
The silence in the room was thick, tense, charged with something dangerous.
Matthew didn’t dare move.
Then, slowly, Masahiro dragged a hand over his face, muttering something dark in Japanese.
Matthew glanced over his shoulder, eyes heavy-lidded, cheeks flushed, watching as Masahiro reached for the phone, barely keeping his patience in check.
He glanced at the screen.
\`Clark. ´
Masahiro exhaled through his nose, deadly calm, deadly annoyed.
\`Did something happen? ´
Matthew was still catching his breath, blinking at him. “Who is it?”
Masahiro didn’t answer right away.
Instead, he inhaled sharply, composing himself, jaw clenching before finally answering the call.
“Clark.”
Masahiro’s voice was deadpan, irritated, but he wasn’t out of breath. Not yet.
Clark, however, was already pissed.
“You have got to be fucking joking,” Clark hissed. “You hired him?”
Masahiro tilted his head back against the pillow, balancing the phone between his ear and shoulder, his other hand firmly on Matthew’s waist, keeping him exactly where he wanted.
He sighed. “I assume you mean MacDougall.”
“Of course I mean fucking MacDougall!” Clark snapped. “What the hell is that thug doing outside my house? Why is he ringing my goddamn doorbell? And what is this ridiculous story about him being my private security?”
Masahiro’s lips twitched. This was already exhausting.
“You’re welcome,” he muttered, rolling his hips forward, slow and deep.
Matthew groaned, gripping the sheets, biting his lip. “You asshole,” he whispered.
Masahiro smirked.
Clark was still ranting.
“No, no, no, don’t ‘you’re welcome’ me, Masahiro.” His voice was clipped, elegant, but sharp as a blade. “Did you lose your entire fucking mind, or just a fraction? I’d love to know how you concluded that my best shot at staying alive was being babysat by a walking felony in designer shoes—a man who, might I remind you, I once tried to legally obliterate.”
Masahiro let out a low chuckle, amused as hell.
“Clark,” he said evenly, gripping Matthew’s hip harder, dragging him back with each slow, measured thrust, “you’re not really in a position to complain.”
Clark scoffed. “Excuse me?”
“You’re broke.” Masahiro’s tone was dry, matter-of-fact. “Your accounts are frozen, you have enemies with more resources than you, and last I checked, you need this case.”
A long, furious silence.
Then—
“You did not just call me broke, you underpaid public servant.”
Masahiro laughed. “Clark—”
“Oh, no, no, no. Let’s examine this fucking circus of logic, shall we?” Clark continued, tone razor-sharp and dripping in legal condescension. “Not only did you assign me a career criminal as my bodyguard, but this specific criminal, who I once tried to bury under a lifetime of legal proceedings. I had his mugshot in a file. I personally stood in front of a judge and laid out every single reason he should never walk free. And now? Now he’s supposed to be my employee? You see where I might have some fucking concerns, Chief Payne?”
Masahiro smirked. “Your delivery was excellent, but—”
“Oh, fuck you.”
Masahiro pressed deeper into Matthew, forcing another whimper from him.
Clark paused.
“…Masahiro.”
Masahiro hummed, half-focused, voice just slightly strained. “Mm?”
A beat of silence.
Then, coldly—
“Are you fucking right now?”
Masahiro grinned.
Matthew, who had been burying his face in the pillow to keep from making noise, finally burst out laughing.
Clark let out a deep, exhausted exhale.
“Oh my God. Do you ever stop thinking with your dick?”
Masahiro sighed dramatically. “Clark. Accept the damn protection. Go back inside. Say thank you.”
Clark rubbed his temple. “No.”
Masahiro tilted his head slightly, adjusting his grip on Matthew. “I had to work with an ex-con I arrested once.”
Clark pinched the bridge of his nose. “Yes, Masahiro, and look where that got you—balls deep in him while you’re supposed to be working.”
Masahiro laughed, deep and pleased.
Matthew, flushed and weak-limbed, gave a lazy thumbs-up. “He’s not wrong.”
Clark was still fuming.
“I swear, if that man puts one finger on me, I will sue him into financial ruin and bury your department in so much legal paperwork, the bureaucratic backlog will outlive your grandchildren.”
Masahiro chuckled. “MacDougall’s not stupid. You’re a job, not a target.”
Clark exhaled sharply. He knew that. It still didn’t mean he wanted to open the fucking door.
“…Fine,” he muttered. “But I want it on record that I object.”
Masahiro smirked, dragging his teeth over Matthew’s shoulder.
“Noted.”
Clark hung up.
Masahiro tossed the phone onto the nightstand, gripping Matthew’s jaw and turning his head slightly.
“Now,” he murmured, pressing his lips to Matthew’s temple. “Where were we?”
Matthew grinned. “Somewhere fucking important.”
Masahiro didn’t miss a beat.
Meanwhile?
Clark stood there, staring at the door, phone still in hand, jaw tight, the weight of what he’d just agreed to settling uncomfortably in his chest.
This was humiliating.
Not just being forced to accept protection—but this protection.
Fucking Adam MacDougall.
Clark inhaled sharply, ran a hand down his face, then straightened his cuffs with deliberate precision, as if that would somehow restore his shattered sense of dignity.
Then, with all the grace of a man walking into a legal catastrophe, he turned back toward the door.
Through the peephole, Adam stood there, still waiting, still unbothered, leaning casually against the frame, arms crossed, his rolled-up sleeves showcasing forearms that looked as lethal as his reputation.
Clark took another deep breath.
\`You are a professional. You are an accomplished, educated man. You are not going to let a glorified street thug get under your skin. ´
He squared his shoulders.
Unlocked the door.
And pulled it open.
Adam’s smirk was already there, waiting for him.
Clark stared up at him, unimpressed. “Let’s get this over with.”
Adam’s gaze flicked over him, slow, assessing, infuriatingly amused. Then, with mock professionalism, he extended a large, calloused hand.
“Pleasure doin’ business, counselor.”
Clark stared at the hand like it personally offended him.
Then, very deliberately, he did not shake it.
Instead, he turned on his heel and walked back inside.
“Shut the door on your way in,” Clark muttered, heading straight for the liquor cabinet.
Adam’s low chuckle followed him inside.
This?
This was going to be fun.