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T he rumors start like cracks spiderwebbing through glass—small, almost invisible at first. A conversation that snaps shut when I walk into a room. A glance, too quick to be casual. Helena's sharp, assessing eyes following me down the hall. If I hadn't already been hyperaware of every brush of Sterling's hand, every lingering glance, every unspoken thing trembling between us, I might have missed it.

"They suspect something," I tell Sterling during our weekly dinner, my appetite a distant memory.

His fork stills halfway to his mouth. "I've noticed," he admits, setting it down with a quiet clink. "Marina asked yesterday if I was 'mentoring' you outside of work hours."

The way he says "mentoring" leaves no doubt about the subtext. Not about professional development. About fucking.

"What did you tell her?" I ask, trying to keep my voice even.

"That your professional growth is important to me." He sighs, raking a hand through his hair. "It's not technically a lie."

Technically. If by professional growth he means the growth of my cock. In his hand. In his mouth. In his ass.

The deception hangs there between us like a weight neither of us wants to touch. Truth and lies, twisted so tightly together I'm not sure we could untangle them now even if we wanted to.

Our relationship has only deepened over the past weeks—emotionally, after Sterling ripped himself open and showed me the wreckage he carried; physically, after he started relaxing the rigid, clinical boundaries he used to shield us both. And still, here we are. Treading water over a fault line.

"Is it a problem?" I ask quietly. "Us?"

Sterling's jaw tightens. His expression hardens in that way I've come to recognize—masking panic with cold calculation.

"It's complicated," he says, defaulting to the phrase he uses when the truth hurts too much to name. "Perception matters. If clients think I'm engaging in inappropriate behavior with an employee, it could damage the facility's reputation. It could damage everything."

"Inappropriate behavior," I repeat, bitterness cutting through my chest like glass. "Is that what you think this is?"

Sterling reaches across the table, covering my hand with his. His palm is warm, steady, grounding."You know it's more than that," he says, voice rough. "But the power imbalance is real. The ethical concerns are real. It's why I've been so careful. Why I have to be careful."

"I get it," I say. And I do. Intellectually. But emotionally? Emotionally it feels like being asked to split myself in two—one half cold and professional at work, the other half burning alive every time he looks at me.

"So what do we do?" I ask, my voice smaller than I mean it to be.

"Be more careful," Sterling says firmly. "At least until your internship ends. Three more months."

Three months. Ninety days. A hundred sleepless nights.

The thought tightens something inside my chest painfully.

Before I can say anything else—before I can ask the question neither of us has dared voice—Sterling's phone buzzes. His face shutters immediately, slipping into that impenetrable, professional calm he wears like armor.

He answers with a terse "Sterling here," listens for a minute, then ends the call with a grim expression.

"What is it?" I ask, dread already curdling in my stomach.

"United States Department of Creatures." His voice is clipped, too controlled. "Surprise inspection. Tomorrow."

My heart stumbles. "Is that... bad?"

"We're fully compliant," Sterling says. "We have nothing to hide."

But the way his mouth tightens tells me everything I need to know. Compliance isn't the problem. Perception is.

"Inspectors interview staff," he continues. "Review logs. Observe procedures. We need to be perfect. Professional."

The unspoken warning hits harder than any shouted order ever could. No looks. No slips. No mistakes.

* * *

The next morning, the facility hums with a tense, brittle energy, sharp as static before a lightning strike. When I arrive, Marina's already at her desk, hair pulled back into a severe bun, wearing what I privately call her "battle blouse"—stark white, starched to within an inch of its life.

"Inspectors," she says without preamble, catching my glance. "Two of them. USDC. In with Sterling now."

My stomach twists into knots. "What exactly are they looking for?"

"Compliance." She ticks items off on her fingers. "Health codes. Biohazard protocols. Ethical treatment standards." She leans in, lowering her voice. "But really? They're fishing. Looking for anything that smells even a little wrong."

Great. Exactly what we need. Government officials digging for dirt at the exact moment Sterling and I are balancing on the knife-edge of an ethical violation.

I swallow hard, plaster on my best neutral face, and head for the staff lounge to wait my turn. Every step feels heavy. Every heartbeat too loud. Today isn't just about inspections. It's about survival.

The inspectors emerge from Sterling's office minutes later—a severe-looking woman with steel-gray hair and a younger man whose face seems permanently carved into an expression of suspicion.

Sterling follows close behind them, his professional mask locked firmly in place, his posture relaxed but controlled, every inch the competent, unflappable business owner.

"This is Hank Honeyworth, our intern," Sterling says, introducing me with polite detachment, his voice pitched at exactly the right level of cordial formality. Not cold. Not warm. Just... appropriate.

I rise and shake their hands, careful to meet their eyes and keep my grip professional, feeling the burn of Sterling's absence like a shadow at my back even though he stands only a few feet away.

"Pleased to meet you," I say, my voice steady even as something tight coils low in my gut.

"We'll want to speak with you later," Inspector Watson informs me, her gaze sharp and unblinking, like she's already peeling back layers I didn't know I had. "For now, please continue your regular duties while we observe."

I nod, offering a neutral smile, and turn back toward the floor, feeling their eyes linger a moment longer than necessary, weighing, assessing, filing away.

The rest of the day becomes an exercise in brutal, exhausting control.

Every interaction between Sterling and me is reduced to clinical efficiency—no lingering looks, no brushes of contact, no familiarity. He addresses me with the distant politeness reserved for staff, and I answer him the same way, burying everything too big, too bright, too dangerous to be seen under layers of rehearsed professionalism.

And yet, the more we pretend indifference, the sharper my awareness of him becomes, until every nerve feels raw with the effort of not looking too long, not standing too close, not giving anything away.

By midday, I can barely breathe around the tension coiling in my chest, my body reacting to his proximity the way it always does now, helpless and hungry despite the sterile choreography we're forced to perform.

After lunch, it's my turn.

Inspector Reyes leads me down a side corridor into a small conference room that feels both too cramped and too exposed, the fluorescent lights overhead buzzing faintly like a warning. I sit across from him, hands folded neatly in my lap, heart hammering against my ribs so hard it almost hurts.

"How long have you been working here, Mr. Honeyworth?" Reyes asks, not looking up from his tablet.

"Months," I stammer. "I'd have to look at my calendar to tell you how many."

"And how would you describe the working environment?" The question is asked casually enough, but something about the way he leans back in his chair makes my stomach twist.

"Professional. Educational." I don't let my voice falter. "Mr. Johnson maintains very high standards for all aspects of the operation."

"Including staff interactions?" he presses, his gaze flicking up to meet mine.

I force myself not to flinch. "Especially staff interactions," I say evenly. "We handle sensitive biological materials and serve a diverse clientele. Professionalism is non-negotiable."

He hums noncommittally, tapping something into his tablet, and launches into a series of rapid-fire questions about training procedures, safety protocols, client handling standards—nothing directly accusatory, but each one sharp-edged enough that I have to grip the sides of my chair to keep myself anchored.

Maybe it's paranoia. Maybe it's guilt. Maybe it's just the weight of everything Sterling and I haven't said out loud pressing down on me harder with every word.

"One final question," Reyes says, setting his tablet aside and studying me with the calm, clinical disinterest of someone inspecting a specimen under glass. "Do you feel comfortable reporting any concerns about facility operations or staff conduct to Mr. Johnson?"

"Absolutely," I say without hesitation, because this, at least, is true. "Mr. Johnson has always made it clear that ethical standards and staff well-being are his highest priorities." I hold Reyes's gaze as I say it, not blinking, not looking away, not giving him even an inch of doubt to sink his teeth into.

When he nods and dismisses me with a polite thank you, I stand carefully, my knees weaker than I'd like to admit, and walk out of the room without glancing back.

And even though Sterling is nowhere in sight, even though I can't hear his voice or feel the weight of his stare, I know—somehow—that he's waiting for me. And that he's proud.

* * *

After the interview, I throw myself back into my duties, pretending that my nerves aren't shredded, that I'm not still hearing Inspector Reyes's even voice circling in my head like a hunting hawk. The inspection drags through the afternoon, a slow, meticulous unraveling of our entire operation—every record combed through, every procedure scrutinized, every conversation weighed for hidden faults.

Sterling and I maintain our careful distance, speaking only when necessary, keeping our movements clean, impersonal, cold. And still, with every passing hour, the tension between us thickens, stretching tight and fraying at the edges.

By late afternoon, I'm practically vibrating with it, so tightly wound it feels like my skin might split open. When Helena flags me down and asks me to grab more supplies from the storage closet, I don't hesitate—I seize the excuse like a drowning man grabbing at a life preserver.

The supply closet is blessedly quiet, shielded from watchful eyes, the heavy metal shelves and boxes of inventory muffling the distant noise of the facility. I lean against a shelf, dragging in a shaking breath, trying to bleed off the pressure coiled under my ribs.

The door creaks open behind me. I turn, expecting Helena. Instead—Sterling. He fills the doorway, his massive frame blocking out the light behind him, and his expression— God, his expression is a wrecking ball.

Tension and hunger and barely controlled need roil in his amber eyes.

"Five minutes," he says, voice pitched low and rough as gravel as he slips inside, closing the door with a soft, decisive click. "The inspectors are with Dr. Kim. Going over lab records."

Before I can say a word, he's on me—crossing the space between us in two steps, fisting his hands in my shirt and hauling me into a kiss so hungry it nearly buckles my knees. Nine hours of enforced distance, of polite words and practiced professionalism, crack open between us like a dam breaking, drowning me in him.

"This is insane," I gasp when he finally lets me breathe, my hands scrabbling at his sides, desperate for more. "If they find us?—"

"They won't," Sterling growls, already working my belt loose with skilled, urgent fingers. "Couldn't wait. Need to touch you. Need it so fucking bad."

The danger only sharpens everything—the heat, the hunger, the reckless, vibrating need that's been building inside me since this morning.

Sterling spins me around, pressing me chest-first against the shelving unit, his hands greedy and rough as they slip under my shirt, sliding over my ribs, claiming every inch of exposed skin like it's his by right.

"We have to be quick," he murmurs against the back of my neck, his voice sending a shiver all the way down my spine. "And quiet."

I nod frantically, my breath coming in short, shallow gasps, as he shoves my pants down just enough to bare me. The cool air hits my overheated skin, but then Sterling's big hand wraps around my cock, stroking once, twice, enough to make my whole body jerk helplessly.

While his other hand... It's moving. Searching.

"Look what we have here," he says, a wicked edge to his voice that makes my knees threaten to give out. I glance sideways just in time to see him holding up one of the facility's sanitized beginner vibrators, sleek and slim and clinically innocuous—at least, until Sterling's mouth curves into a slow, predatory smile.

"Sterling," I hiss, half scandalized, half wrecked with want. "That's inventory!"

"Sanitized inventory," he counters, and before I can say another word, he lifts it to his mouth, dragging it between his lips, coating it thoroughly with saliva.

My cock twitches hard in his hand. I'm already gone, and he knows it.

Sterling brings the slicked toy down between my legs, his touch deliberate, the first press of it against my entrance making me gasp—a soft, involuntary sound that he catches instantly, clamping a big, callused hand over my mouth.

"Quiet," he growls against my ear, voice low and vibrating with authority. "Unless you want to explain this to the inspectors."

The vibrator circles my rim, slow and teasing, and I arch against him helplessly, every instinct screaming to push back, to take more, to be filled.

Sterling's breath is hot on the side of my neck as he presses the tip harder against me, slow and unyielding, slipping inside with maddening care.

My whole body clenches around it, desperate and greedy, and the hand gripping my cock tightens slightly—just enough to remind me who's in control here.

Just enough to tell me he's barely holding on, too.

The danger of discovery should terrify me. It should have me pulling away, fixing my clothes, slamming the brakes on the reckless hunger Sterling unleashes with every touch.

Instead, it sharpens everything—every nerve ending, every ragged breath, every desperate, shameful need thrumming through me as Sterling works the vibrator deeper with slow, devastating precision, his other hand stroking my cock with ruthless, perfect rhythm.

The dual stimulation is almost unbearable, my body burning hotter with every pass of the toy, every stroke of his palm, the pleasure ratcheting higher and higher until it feels like my skin might split from it.

"You have no idea," Sterling growls against my ear, his voice a wrecked snarl barely leashed to human language, "how hard it's been today. Watching you. Smelling you. Knowing exactly what you want and not being able to take it."

His words slam into me, sharp and filthy and perfect, throwing gasoline on a fire that was already spiraling out of control.

The vibrator presses harder against that spot inside me that makes my vision gray out at the edges, Sterling's hand on my cock matching the rhythm exactly, every movement deliberate and devastating.

"Sterling—" I gasp against his palm, my body jerking, hips stuttering forward helplessly. "I'm gonna?—"

A noise freezes us both.

Footsteps. Voices—Helena and one of the inspectors, their conversation too clear, too close. My heart stops cold as the doorknob rattles softly, turning. Sterling doesn't stop. He doesn't even hesitate.

Outside, Helena's voice saves us, redirecting with perfect calm: "The main supply room has more complete records. This is just overflow storage."

The footsteps move away, fading, and the second they're gone—I shatter.

The orgasm rips through me like a shot fired through glass, violent and immediate, my whole body locking tight as wave after wave of release crashes over me. Sterling works me through it with agonizing thoroughness, drawing every last pulse from my body until I'm sagging against him, trembling with overstimulation.

Carefully, with the same reverent precision he showed when he first touched me, Sterling withdraws the vibrator, setting it aside without a word. He turns me around with gentle strength, pulling me against his chest, one massive hand stroking down my back in soothing, grounding circles while my heartbeat stutters back toward something almost survivable.

"That," I finally manage, voice wrecked and breathless against his chest, "was too close."

Sterling's amber eyes are still molten with hunger—unfulfilled, barely contained—but he makes no move to seek his own pleasure, no demand for more. Only a low, rumbling growl of regret deep in his throat.

"Too close," he agrees grimly. "We shouldn't have risked it."

Reality crashes back in—hard and cold—cutting through the haze of release as I straighten my clothes with shaking hands, wincing when my pants brush too hard against oversensitized skin.

"How much longer?" I ask, my voice still rough.

"They'll finish today," Sterling says, raking a hand through his dark fur with visible effort to regain his composure, "but Inspector Watson mentioned they might have follow-up questions tomorrow. We need to be careful until they're gone."

I nod, swallowing the bitter taste of disappointment even as my body still aches for him. "I'll go out first," I say quietly, already moving toward the door. "Give it a few minutes before you follow."

Just as I reach for the handle, Sterling catches my wrist—strong but not rough, the touch electrifying in its tenderness after everything we just did.

"I have a business dinner with potential investors tonight," he says, and there's something almost apologetic in the way his thumb brushes lightly over the inside of my wrist. "Raincheck for tomorrow?"

The disappointment hits sharper than I expect, blooming deep in my chest, but I force a small smile and nod. Because I understand. I do. Even without the inspections, Sterling's life is bigger than just us. And I can't—won't—jeopardize that.

"Tomorrow," I promise, squeezing his fingers once before slipping out the door and back into the too-bright hallway, every nerve still humming with the memory of his hands on my body.

Tomorrow feels like a lifetime away.

But for him, I'll wait.

* * *

The rest of the day passes in a blur of inspections and interviews, my nerves stretched thin as paper, every smile and every answer carefully measured until I feel hollow inside. By the time the inspectors finally leave, promising to return briefly tomorrow for exit interviews with Sterling and Helena, it feels like the facility itself exhales in relief.

I'm gathering my things, ready to slip away before anything else can demand my fractured attention, when Helena appears beside my desk. Her face is drawn tighter than usual, her mouth pressed into a grim line that makes something cold and uneasy unfurl in my stomach.

"A word, Hank? In private," she says, her tone leaving no room for argument, and I follow her without protest to her small, cluttered office. She closes the door behind us and studies me for a long moment, her eyes sharp but not unkind, as if weighing whatever she's about to say against something heavier than anger.

"You're sleeping with him, aren't you?" she says finally, her voice direct, her words cutting clean through any illusion that I might have had time to prepare.

Denial rises instinctively, quick and stupid, but something in her expression halts it before it ever leaves my lips. She isn't accusing me. She isn't disgusted. She looks... concerned. And somehow, that's worse.

"It's complicated," I say after a beat, hearing how hollow it sounds even as it leaves my mouth.

Helena sighs, a sound that seems to drain some of the strength from her shoulders, and for the first time since I've known her, she looks tired in a way that has nothing to do with work.

"It always is," she murmurs, sitting heavily in her chair. "I've worked for Sterling since he opened this place. I've seen him build it from nothing. And I respect him more than almost anyone. But this—" she gestures vaguely between us, the invisible thread that connects me to Sterling and will not be unwound, "this is dangerous. For both of you."

"We're being careful," I say, but the words falter under the weight of her gaze, brittle and thin even to my own ears.

Helena raises an eyebrow, unimpressed. "Are you? The supply closet today wasn't exactly subtle."

Heat flashes through me, burning high and sick, and I duck my head even as the words tumble out. "You knew?"

"I've been married thirty years," she says dryly, her mouth curving into something that might have been a smile in a different conversation. "I know what two people sneaking off for a quickie look like. I redirected the inspector, but I won't always be there to cover for you."

Shame and gratitude crash into me at once, leaving me raw and unsteady. "Thank you," I manage, my voice rough around the edges. "For not... for not exposing us."

Helena shakes her head, her expression softening just a little, enough to let me see the bone-deep worry underneath. "I'm not doing it for you," she says. "I'm doing it for Sterling. For this facility. He's built something important here—something that helps people, that matters. I won't see it damaged because two people couldn't keep their hands off each other."

The truth of it stings in ways I don't want to examine too closely, but I don't argue, because deep down, I know she's right. Sterling has built something here that's bigger than either of us, something fragile in its own way, something that could be crushed under the weight of rumor and scrutiny faster than either of us want to believe.

"What happens between Sterling and me," I say carefully, forcing the words out, "it's private. It doesn't affect our work."

"Maybe not," Helena concedes after a long moment. "But perception matters, Hank. Especially when you're handling clients who are trusting this facility with parts of themselves they don't show anyone else. If they start doubting us, even for a second, it doesn't matter how well you both do your jobs. It'll already be too late."

She leans forward, fixing me with a look that strips away every defense I thought I had left. "I'm not judging you. But inside these walls? During work hours? You need to be smarter. Both of you."

"I understand," I say, and I mean it. "We will be. I promise."

Helena studies me for another long, weighted moment, and when she speaks again, her voice is softer, carrying something almost like sadness. "He cares about you," she says, not as a question, but a certainty laid bare between us.

I nod, unable to trust myself to say anything else.

"Don't make him choose," she says, her voice barely above a whisper now. "Between you and everything he's built."

Her words follow me out of the building and into the night, heavy as chains I can't shake off. The drive home is a blur of headlights and dark thoughts, my hands tight on the steering wheel, my mind too full to focus on the road.

Helena is right. Every risk we've taken, every reckless moment, has consequences we can't outrun forever. The rumors among the staff, the inspectors sniffing around, the imbalance of power we keep pretending we can navigate without consequences—it all matters. It always did. And yet, even knowing the risks, even feeling them settling into my bones like cold water, I can't bring myself to wish any of it away. Because what we're building together—the trust, the vulnerability, the impossible, undeniable connection—feels bigger than the risks. Feels worth it.

The real question, the one I haven't dared ask until now, is whether Sterling feels the same way. Whether what we have is strong enough to survive not just desire, not just secrecy, but scrutiny. Whether it can stand when everything we've been hiding finally demands to be seen.