Jun Kim thrives as butler to the stars of L.A. His demanding job offers the perfect excuse to ignore his messed up family, and nonexistent love life. But his tidy, organized world is turned up-side-down when he’s hired to serve L.A.’s most challenging client: a depressive screenplay writer who quit writing after a nervous breakdown.
Once a shining writer-director, Einar Eriksen has become a shut-in after a crippling professional failure. He’s sworn to never write another script, and resents the movie studio for hiring a butler to spy on him. But as Einar learns of Jun’s wounded past, he commits to helping Jun toward self-acceptance, and unlocking his butler’s hidden sensual side…
For You, Sir is a sweet & spicy contemporary hurt/comfort MM Romance between an overachieving butler and his employer, where power play builds trust and empathy, and loving support can heal the wounds of the past.
• MM Boss/Butler Romance
• Hurt/Comfort
• Later-in-Life Romance
• Service sub + Pleasure Dom
• Opposites Attract
• Forbidden Love
• Sexual awakening
• Praise k!nk
• Interracial Couple
• Loving, Respectful Power Play
• HEA Guaranteed
CW: Adult Content, family alcoholism, mention of off-page parental neglect/abuse (off-page), MCs with mental health issues (depression, anxiety), forced sex fantasies (no actual forced sex), Mention of a side character who died by suicide (off-page)
Chapter 1 (Jun)
The bouquets in the florist’s cooler were lovely, but none felt right. Roses were too romantic, and the mixed arrangements were too cheery for the circumstances—Congratulations on your extended hospital stay! Yet, the more somber arrangements looked too funerary—white lilies drooping their heads in serene regret.
Where was the bouquet that expressed the proper balance of reverence, love, and existential dread I felt toward my mother? Would a higher price tag buy me another week’s reprieve from visiting her in the hospital?
My phone buzzed against my chest. I withdrew it from my suit coat pocket and glanced at the display: “Davies & Horne.” Work. Thank God. I pushed open the flower shop’s door and exited, glad for an excuse not to buy anything. If I was lucky, maybe a reason to avoid the dreaded hospital visit altogether.
Outside, a blast of desert air tightened my skin, and I was hit by the tarry chemical smell of asphalt from a road being repaved. I tapped the screen. “This is Jun.”
“Mr. Kim. How are you?” My contract manager, Deborah.
“Fine,” I squeezed out. Was that the answer she was looking for? “Adapting,” I added.
Adapting to a life of stir-crazy loneliness after the death of my last client. I had loved serving Mrs. Olsen—a 76-year-old ex-actress with a sharp tongue and a clever wit. I was her live-in butler when she received her Parkinson’s diagnosis and cared for her throughout its rapid advancement.
I was the one who found her the morning after she ended things “on her own terms.” I called the paramedics, even knowing it was too late, and closed up her house after they took her away.
“How are you enjoying the time off?” Deborah’s voice jerked me from my dark thoughts.
“Good,” I lied. “I’m getting a lot done.”
“A new contract came through this morning. I know you’re still on leave, but I thought I’d float it by you. It’s an interesting one.”
A distraction—good! “Sure,” I said. “Let’s hear it.” Slipping on a pair of sunglasses, I stepped into the sliver of shade along the edge of the storefronts and headed to my car.
A family wearing matching Universal Studios T-shirts gawked at me as I strode past, and I pretended not to notice. At six-foot-one, I’m head-turningly tall for a Korean guy, and tourists tended to suspect anyone wearing designer sunglasses in L.A. might be an incognito celebrity. Or maybe they were just incredulous that anyone would wear a three-piece suit in 90-degree weather.
“This job is sponsored by a major film studio, not the client himself,” Deborah said. “Have you heard of Einar Eriksen?”
“Of course.” Who hadn’t? The writer-director became a household name after his movie, The Fringe, won a couple Oscars. Though, admittedly, I hadn’t seen the film myself.
“Apparently, Eriksen had some kind of emotional breakdown,” Deborah said. “He’s in breach of contract for failing to deliver a script, but the studio would rather have him finish it than take him to court. They’re hoping some in-home care might get him back on his feet.”
“Live-in assignment or day shift?”
“Days to start,” Deborah said. “The client has become a shut-in and never leaves his house, so it’s best not to overwhelm him. At this point, the studio just wants you to make sure he takes his medication and gets back into a routine. Understand?”
“Yes.” Whether fame itself drove people mad, or it came with the territory of being a “creative type,” I was accustomed to celebrity clients with emotional challenges. Eriksen had to be one hell of a talent for the studio to still pursue him, despite his erratic behavior. That or they’d already sunk a boatload of money into his project.
“I know things ended tragically with Mrs. Olsen, but you had such success with her,” Deborah said.
The tension in my chest eased. I’d felt like a failure ever since Madam died while under my care. It was good to hear that Davies & Horne didn’t see it that way.
“Sign me up,” I said. Anything was better than hanging around my cramped studio apartment. Time alone meant reflecting on the pain of my fractured family. Or the conspicuous void where my love life should have been.
“Before you agree,” Deborah said, “there are a few more things you should know. I mentioned the client is a shut-in. He won’t take a housekeeper or cook, so you’d be performing those duties as well.”
I didn’t relish the thought of scrubbing all day, but at least I enjoyed cooking. “All right.”
“Good.” She exhaled. “Eriksen has a reputation for firing staff that don’t meet his standards, so I wanted to start with the best. Can you start this afternoon?”
The best. A ripple of pride rolled through me, and I smiled a little. “I can.”
~
Two hours later, I pulled up to the client’s address in Glendale. A steel fence surrounded the property, but the mechanized gate swung open without a code.
I parked my black sedan out of sight along the side of the house and checked my hair in the rearview mirror. Neat as a pin. My shiny black Oxfords crunched on the gravel, and I straightened my tie as I headed to the front door.
The house was a single story with a barrel tile roof in variegated shades of red. Even in spring, decaying leaves from the previous autumn clung to the corners of the yard. It was a sad contrast to Mrs. Olsen’s pristine garden, which had been lush with rose bushes, plump succulents, and fragrant citrus trees. I shook my head to clear the thought. Madam was gone; I needed to focus on my new client.
Sir’s house had a modern, eccentric style—all slanted angles, as if the building was trying to lean into the future. It matched his reputation as an auteur whose movies were known for odd visuals and high emotional impact.
Cobwebs dangled from the eaves over the front door, and crumbling leaves were lodged between the mat and the doorframe. I knocked and waited with my hands clasped politely in front of me. No sound came from within, but the client never left his house, so presumably he was home. I pressed the doorbell instead, then snapped my lapels and stood at attention, waiting for someone to answer.
Nothing.
Not a promising start, but it was a butler’s duty to handle difficult clients with grace and decorum. After waiting a moment, I fished out a house key. The agency had notified Sir that I would be coming, so I unlocked the door and let myself in. Perhaps he was taking a nap and I could get a jumpstart on things while he rested.
I stepped into the tiled foyer. Just beyond, the house opened into a massive living room with a vaulted ceiling. Even in such an airy space, the smell hit me immediately. Stale beer, decaying food, unwashed clothes. I kept my face blank and professional to keep from wrinkling my nose.
The furniture was sparse and minimalist, but every surface in sight, including the floor, was littered with dirty laundry, toppled bottles, discarded tissues, and empty frozen food containers. Floor-to-ceiling curtains across the back windows left everything in gloomy dimness, and the air conditioning kept everything as cold as a walk-in refrigerator.
My heart sank. If Sir wasn’t already depressed, just the state of the house would make him so. No one could live in this squalor and feel good about himself. Hopefully, the mess was the result of months of neglect, not something I’d need to clean often.
“Mr. Eriksen?” I headed into the living room, toward a man-sized lump on the couch, presumably my client. He lay on his side with his back to me. A blanket concealed most of him, but his long blond hair spilled across the sofa cushion and over the side.
“The agency sent—” I froze. The figure remained as motionless as a corpse and his neck was bent at a painful-looking angle.
Oh, God! Is he dead?Adrenaline surged, and my mind flashed with the memory of how cold Madam’s lips had felt against mine when I had attempted to resuscitate her.
The man stirred a little. Alive.
I exhaled.
Discovering Mrs. Olsen must have rattled me more than I cared to admit.
I loudly cleared my throat, but Sir didn’t move as I approached. Standing next to him, I caught the sad, sour smell of someone who had not showered for several days. I reached out to touch his shoulder. “Sir?”
The blanket exploded upwards in a flail of limbs, and I stepped back. Mr. Eriksen sat upright on the couch, gaping at me with wide, frightened eyes and disheveled hair, breathing hard as if he’d just run a mile. He pulled a wireless headphone from his ear and stared at me as if I had materialized from a nightmare. “Who’re you?”
“Apologies, Sir. I didn’t mean to startle you.” I put a hand to my chest and made a shallow bow. “I’m Jun Kim. Davies & Horne sent me to assist around the house.” I offered him a business card from my coat pocket, but he waved it away.
Sir shuffled his palms around the couch as if looking for something—his phone, I assumed—and his blanket slipped onto the floor. He was barefoot, dressed in a wrinkled V-neck and gray sweatpants. “I thought… I thought no one was coming until this afternoon.” He stopped searching and raked his fingers through his hair.
“It’s three o’clock, Sir,” I pointed out.
“Oh. Yeah.” His gaze skimmed over the mess scattered across the room, and he slumped. He lay back down with a quiet groan, pulling the blanket to his shoulder. When I briefly met his gaze, he looked away.
“Keep resting if you’d like, Sir,” I said. “I just wanted to introduce myself before I get to work.” I raised an eyebrow in a silent request for permission before I started wandering around his house.
“Sure.” His burst of energy had bled away. He moved slowly, like a wind-up toy with no tension left in its springs. Without acknowledging me further, he pulled the blanket over his head.
First things first. No gentleman could get his affairs in order while surrounded by refuse. I grabbed trash bags from my car, snapped on a pair of black nitrile gloves, and headed back into the great room. I quietly collected the scattered garbage, picking up beer bottles two at a time, holding them apart with a finger so they wouldn’t clink. I threw out the moldy food from the refrigerator and made a shopping list of fresh ingredients. Surely, Sir would feel better once he ate proper food instead of the awful frozen stuff he’d been living on.
I took the trash out back to the bins, but they were already full, contents rotting in the hot California sun. Disgusting. I covered my mouth and nose with my sleeve to keep from gagging, and returned to the back stoop, sucking in fresh air.
A pang of grief shot through me. If Mrs. Olsen hadn’t ended things the way she did, I would have been serving her Darjeeling tea in her rose garden at that very moment, not taking out the trash.
I was gripped by the clawing urge to smoke a cigarette, even though I’d quit years ago. An unbecoming, self-pitying impulse.
Get it together, Jun.
I put on a fresh pair of gloves and headed to the bathroom. Moldering towels were wadded on the floor, and the bottles of soap and shampoo in the shower were nearly empty. They were a dreadful drugstore brand at that, loaded with phthalates and sulfates. I added a few high-end body products to my shopping list—ones popular with other wealthy male clients.
On the floor, I found two empty prescription bottles in Sir’s name. One was for an antidepressant, the other an anti-anxiety medication, both dated over three months ago.
I called in refills to the pharmacy and hoped Sir wouldn’t fight me over taking them. I couldn’t stop thinking about all the things I wished I’d done differently for Mrs. Olsen—how I should have seen the signs when her depression worsened. I should have pushed harder to make her take her pills.
It was too late to fix things for Madam, but maybe it wasn’t too late for Sir. I could still be redeemed, could prove I was a good caregiver.
No, I chided myself. This wasn’t about me. I should focus on Sir’s needs for his own sake. Still, if I couldn’t get Sir’s head above water, I feared we both would drown.
Emily Brandish writes MM fantasy stories with thick plots, extra-spicy spice, and unforgettable characters you'll love spending time with.
She lives in Sacramento, CA and has been saying, "I'm going to be a novelist when I grow up!" since she was old enough to write a sentence.
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