Page 11

They drive past three bars—all closed, all dark, neon signs blank against the windows.

"Seriously?" Chris groans, fingers tapping on the steering wheel. "What kind of city shuts down on Mondays?"

Dennis’s eyebrows pinch in thought. What kind of guy from around here doesn’t know the shelter, doesn’t know the bars, and doesn’t seem to know anything at all about this town?

"Welcome to small-town living." Dennis smirks. "LA boy."

Chris's head whips around, eyes widening. "How did you—"

"Lucky guess." But Dennis files that reaction away. More pieces to the Chris puzzle, a picture still full of gaps.

"Fine." Chris takes a sharp left turn, tires screeching as the light turns green just in time, letting him blow through without stopping. "Plan B."

"Which is?"

"My place has drinks."

"I bet your place has beer that tastes like feet."

"Better than no beer."

The smart thing would be to get an Uber home. The safe thing. Dennis should say no.

But instead he’s noticing how the streetlights catch Chris's profile, turning him into something breathtaking, carved from shadow and jawbone.

"Fine," Dennis says. He swallows. "One drink."

It’s not like the plan’s changed, after all. Just the location. What could even happen?

Chris only grins, making a few quick turns, winding down side streets that get darker and narrower with each corner. He takes a sharp left, then a right, driving them deeper into some forgotten stretch of town. Finally, he pulls into a cracked, dimly lit carpark, empty except for a single lamppost flickering weakly over the faded parking lines.

Chris kills the engine. "Tada!"

The lamppost sizzles, pops, then burns out into pitch blackness.

"This your place?" Dennis asks, leaning toward the dashboard to squint at the building.

Five stories of questionable architecture and even more questionable maintenance loom back. Sun-bleached walls, mismatched windows, and what looks suspiciously like vines creeping up the side. The whole place radiates a kind of dark, forgotten charm—or, in Dennis’s view, the need for urgent repairs.

"Seriously?"

"What's wrong princess? Too shabby for your tastes?"

It is. But Dennis isn’t about to admit that when Chris is looking at him in that way. Intent. Focused.

The kind of look that makes Dennis's throat go dry.

"Please." Dennis gets out of the Lexus. "I've seen worse."

"No you haven't."

Dennis hasn’t. Oh well, there are first times for everything.

The elevator's broken. They climb four flights of stairs, Dennis counting each step to distract himself from how Chris is taking them two at a time, thighs flexing with each bound.

They reach a door at the top of the building, its wood scuffed and bleached from years of sun and use. Chris’s keys jangle as he pulls them from his pocket and slides one into the lock. It sticks, grinding stubbornly, until he leans in and shoulders the door open with a grunt.

As the door creaks open, he sweeps his arm out with a flourish.

"After you."

Dennis steps into darkness. "No lights?"

"Power's out." Chris stomps on the floor with the heel of his work boots three times. "Hey Martinez! Flip the breaker!"

Nothing happens.

"Building manager," Chris explains. "Probably passed out again." He closes the door. "Hang on."

There's rustling, then the flick of a lighter. Then candlelight blooms, throwing shadows across a space that goes on and on and on.

The apartment's huge. One big room stretching the width of the building. Exposed brick and bare pipes. Windows on three sides where the moonlight filters in.

It could be beautiful.

Instead it's all uncovered bulbs and peeling paint.

A battered old couch that looks like it came with the apartment sits against one wall. There’s an expensive-looking sound system next to a rickety IKEA desk that has a sleek laptop on top of it.

On the floor, a king-size Tempur-Pedic mattress lies flat under what must be designer sheets, but there’s no bed frame to support it. An ultra-wide TV is mounted on the wall in front of it, cables neatly tucked away.

At the far end of the room, a clothesline stretches wall to wall, hung with drying cargo pants and T-shirts.

Racks of designer suits and crisp shirts stand in the middle of the room, their neat lines catching the dim light. Below them, rows of polished leather shoes—Italian loafers and handmade boots—rest quietly, out of place in a construction worker’s home.

Nearby, laundry baskets overflow with rumpled work clothes left unfolded—cotton and denim spilling over the edges.

The room looks like it’s holding two lives, mismatched and crammed into one space.

Little pieces that don't quite fit, like Chris himself.

"Beer?" Chris tilts the candle, lets hot wax pool on a windowsill before pressing the base into it. He heads to the fridge. Ancient thing that hums like it's dying.

"Sure." Dennis trails after him, hands in his pockets, not quite sure what else to do in this strange place.

Chris pulls out two bottles and pops both caps off against the counter's edge.

He holds one out. When Dennis takes it, their fingers brush.

Lingering.

Deliberate.

"So." Chris takes a swig of his own beer, eyes not leaving Dennis. "Still hate me?"

"Still sending dick pics to colleagues?" Dennis takes a long pull, his head back, eyes closed, Adam’s apple bobbing with each swallow. He ahh s when he’s done, looking at the label. Dang, that’s a good beer.

"Just the pretty ones." Chris says, gaze now fixed on where Dennis’s throat had worked around the beer.

Dennis almost chokes. "Wait—you think I'm pretty ?" He scoffs, incredulous, shifting his shoulders back a little. "Dude, I work out!"

Chris's eyes travel over Dennis’s broad shoulders and toned arms. They slide down his solid chest to where his shirt pulls tight at his tapered waist. "I think you're fucking gorgeous and you know it."

He reaches past Dennis to set his beer on the counter, arm brushing Dennis’s side. Takes a step closer. "I think you're stuck up and privileged and drive me absolutely insane."

"That's rich coming from someone who—" Dennis’s back finds the counter, cold metal biting into his spine. He fumbles his beer onto the surface behind him, afraid to drop it. His eyes dart around the apartment—searching, thinking.

There’s a Lexus parked outside but this place is falling apart. Nothing makes sense about Chris.

The contrast makes his head spin—or maybe that's just how close Chris is.

"—who drives a Lexus but lives like this?"

"I think about you all the time." Chris pins Dennis against the counter, no space left between them. All muscle and heat and raw need. "Think about that punch. Think about your mouth." His tongue swipes across his bottom lip as his eyes fix on Dennis’s mouth. "Think about bending you over every surface in this place—"

Dennis’s face burns so hot he’s convinced it’s a beacon in the dark.

This isn’t right.

He wedges a hand between them and pushes against Chris’s chest, into solidness that won’t budge.

“No.”

“No, what?”

Chris’s fingers circle his wrist.

“I—I’m not into men.”

“Me neither.”

"Then what the fuck is this?" Dennis glares, eyebrows furrowed, unreasonably annoyed. "You don't make any sense."

"Don't have to. I know what I want, and I want you." Chris's grip tightens, thumb pressing into Dennis’s pulse point. "Tried hating you,” he admits, “didn't work. Made you hate me instead and all I got was a hard-on watching you punch me."

Dennis’s fingers close around Chris's shirt, bunching the fabric until his knuckles brush against warm skin underneath. The contact shoots up his arm like lightning. "You're actually insane."

"I just need to know how you would feel under me. How it feels to have you."

His hand slides up, past Dennis’s elbow, fingers spreading over his tricep, pulling him closer even though there's nowhere left to go. Chris's other hand finds Dennis’s hip, thumb pressing into the dip of muscle there, making Dennis’s breath catch.

"Once. That's all I'm asking."

Dennis’s hand slides down, following the divide between Chris's pecs, over his sternum, down the flat, sculpted plane to rest just above his abs. He feels each breath making Chris’s muscles shift under his palm.

“But I don’t want this. ”

“You don’t want me?”

“I didn’t say that.”

Chris's pupils spread until his eyes are almost black. A hand wraps around the side of Dennis’s neck, then Chris is thumbing Dennis’s jaw, dragging the pad of his finger along the sharp edge of it, more sure of himself than ever.

"Aren't you curious?” he husks, “I see how you look at me, princess.” His eyes search Dennis’s, unblinking, like they have all the time in the world tonight. “Haven't you ever wondered if the picture I sent you is real?"

Dennis hooks his fingers into Chris's belt loops. Jerks him forward until their hips crash together.

"You fucking pervert ," he hisses, anger and arousal warring in his veins.

“I can’t wait till you’re fucking this pervert.”

"Chris, stop—" Dennis’s protest dissolves into a moan when Chris rolls his hips.

"Say the word and I'll go,” Chris whispers, right by his ear, nose tracing its shell. “Tell me to get lost and I’ll do it.”

"It's your apartment, you idiot!"

"My apartment, my rules." Chris's mouth curves against his ear. "And rule number one is: you call the shots, princess."

Dennis opens his mouth but the words stick in his throat. Everything's too much—Chris's breath on his ear, his hands everywhere, the heat between them making it impossible to think straight.

“Then shut up !”

"Make me."

So Dennis does, desperate to stop the words that are making his heart pound in a way it shouldn’t. He grabs Chris's hair. Yanks him towards himself.

Their mouths crash together. All teeth and tongue and months of tension snapping like a wire.

Chris groans. Shoves his thigh between Dennis’s legs. Waves against him until Dennis’s head falls back, throat exposed.

"Fuck," Chris breathes, lips grazing Dennis’s neck before he bites down, making Dennis shiver with a moan. "You look so good, princess. Feel so good."

He seals his mouth over the bite, sucks until Dennis feels the mark swelling hot under his skin. "You have no idea how much I've been wanting this," he pants against the tender spot, "wanting you."

Dennis’s eyes flutter closed, his resolve slipping as he bares his neck for more even though he knows he shouldn't.

It's been a brutal couple of months—stress, deadlines, and the weight of this project wearing him down, and suddenly, Chris's touch feels like the only relief he's had in ages.

His hands slide down to grip Chris's ass. He squeezes, kneads the muscle under his palms.

Shit, it really is as perfect as it looks. He presses Chris closer, grinding their crotches together.

“Since when?” he rasps, one hand sliding up, fingers slipping beneath the elastic of Chris’s underwear.

The brush of skin on skin sends a jolt straight to Dennis’s crotch, sharp and unbearable. He needs to distract himself. His other hand tightens in Chris’s hair, yanking his head back so he can lick into his mouth again.

The kiss is messy, graceless. Their tongues slide together—wet, then cool, then hot—and Chris still tastes sweet and bitter like that fancy beer and bad decisions that feel too good to stop.

"Since you walked onto my site in those tight pants." Chris tugs Dennis’s perfectly pressed shirt free of his pants, callused hands rough and firm as they splay warm across his stomach.

Dennis’s muscles jump under the touch.

"Acting all superior. Looking down that perfect nose at me."

"Your site?" Dennis scoffs. Mmm s when Chris finds a nipple and thumbs over it. His breath hitches when the touches turn into tweaks. “Arrogant motherfu— ahh!”

"My site." Chris works Dennis’s buttons open one by one, tugging the collar wide. His teeth find the soft spot under Dennis’s collarbone, and Dennis yips when he bites down.

Chris's laugh buzzes against his skin. He soothes his teeth marks with his tongue. "My princess."

"I'm not—" Dennis gasps as Chris's hand cups him through his pants. "I’m not yours," he forces out, chest rising and falling more rapidly now, forearms digging painfully into the edge of the counter.

"No?" Chris squeezes. "Then why are you so hard for me?"

"Fuck you!" Dennis’s voice catches in his throat. Everything burns . This is so much worse than being caught staring at Chris's ass.

"Rather fuck you." Chris works Dennis’s belt open. "Rather wreck you. Make you beg for it."

He drops to his knees. The candlelight catches his face. Makes shadows dance across his features.

"Want to taste you." Chris looks up through his lashes. The edge of his mouth hikes up. "Do you want me to taste you princess?"

Dennis’s hands fist in Chris’s hair, clenching with a mix of desire and the simmering urge to wipe that smug look off Chris’s face—payback for every grin and jab and dick move Chris had thrown his way since they started working together.

But work. Professionalism. The project.

This could ruin everything, and things are already complicated enough…

Chris notices his hesitation. "This doesn't have to mean anything," he promises.

When Dennis still doesn't answer, Chris's hands massage up the back of his thighs, fingers digging into flesh until Dennis’s knees threaten to give.

"Just two guys," Chris's voice stays steady, like this is the most normal thing in the world, "with nothing better to do and no one better to do it with. It's not that hard and not a big deal."

Chris makes it sound so easy.

So casual.

So inconsequential.

Dennis licks his lip. Nods once. His thumb finds Chris's bottom lip, tracing it as he stares at how plush and inviting his mouth is.

Chris's eyes flutter shut as he draws the thumb into his mouth, sucking until his cheeks hollow around it, making Dennis’s head spin.

When his eyes open again, looking up at Dennis from his knees, all those responsible thoughts from before evaporate.

"It doesn't have to mean anything," Dennis rasps, "because it doesn't mean anything."

It can't. It won't. Not a chance in hell.

Not with a man because being a disappointment to his father is one thing but this would be the final nail in his coffin, and abso fucking lutely not with Chris of all people.

Chris lets Dennis’s thumb slip from his mouth, suction catching the pad one last time, eyes locked on Dennis’s face like he's gauging every reaction.

"Gotcha, princess. Hear you loud and clear." He nuzzles against Dennis’s crotch, mouth so close Dennis can feel each exhale hot against his scrotum. His moan vibrates through the cloth of his underpants, and Dennis has to bite his lip to stay quiet.

"Please," Chris breathes against him, his lips hot and damp, the heat of his breath seeping through the fabric between them making Dennis’s skin pebble. "Please?" he tries again, softer, pressing closer, pushing harder, his voice no more than a whisper.

It’s the first time Dennis has ever heard Chris beg for anything.

Who’s wrecking who now?

He doesn’t hate it. He doesn’t hate it at all.

"Do it." Dennis’s voice comes out strong, certain, commanding the moment.

And Chris does.

He unzips Dennis’s pants with stable fingers, hooks his thumbs into the waistband and drags them down until they catch under the curve of his ass.

Then he's there, pushing his face in deep into the fabric of Dennis’s underwear, first one side then the other, breathing Dennis in like his scent is oxygen.

Dennis’s fingers find Chris's hair, sweeping thick bangs back over and over, tilting Chris's head to see his face.

The way Chris seems to be enjoying him before even unwrapping him properly hits Dennis low in his gut.

When Dennis’s fists tighten in his hair, Chris takes the hint. He peels the briefs down, and Dennis’s dick springs free, bouncing lightly just under his belly button, head flushed and gleaming where precum had soaked through the cotton.

"Fuck," Chris breathes. He traces the thick vein up Dennis’s shaft with his nose, making Dennis’s breath catch in his throat. “Fuck, princess, look at you, look how beautiful you are everywhere.”

Then he's pressing the tip of his nose right under the sensitive head, shaking his head back and forth until Dennis’s cursing at the pressure, vision going white at the edges.

"Chris, shit, I can't hold it—" Dennis’s voice breaks. It's too much after too long, and everything feels raw and new and overwhelming.

"I got you, princess," Chris whispers against his cock before taking him in—all wet heat and velvet softness.

His tongue circles the head until Dennis yelps, oversensitive from disuse. Chris stays still then, letting Dennis adjust to the feeling of being enveloped by his mouth, waiting for his breathing to steady.

When the room stops spinning, Dennis finds his hips moving on their own, tiny shallow thrusts pressing him into the softness of Chris's cheeks. His palms settle on the back of Chris's head, hesitant at first, then testing, exploring.

Chris lets him lead, crooning around Dennis’s cock when he inches in a little further, welcoming him greedily like he's been waiting to gorge himself on it for far too long.

Hungry sounds vibrate around Dennis, each one sending jolts straight to his core. Chris's mouth works him over with a just right suction, tongue sliding and teasing, reducing him to moans and gasps.

Dennis grips tighter, thrusting a little deeper, his thoughts unraveling with every wet sound, every shuddering breath he swears he'll deny later.

When Dennis comes down Chris's throat, stars exploding behind his eyes and curses on his lips, Chris swallows and keeps swallowing, his throat clicking and pulling him deeper as he suckles around him.

He drinks Dennis down with noises thick with satisfaction, staying true to his word about tasting him, savoring every drop.

Then Chris stands and Dennis’s legs feel like jelly, his body still vibrating from his orgasm.

Dennis isn't small, but when Chris gets his hands under Dennis’s thighs and lifts him like he's nothing, strong fingers digging into the meat of his ass, there's that split second where he's sure they'll both end up in a heap on the floor.

But Chris's grip stays firm, and all Dennis is left with is his thundering heart and white-knuckled grip on Chris's shoulders.

"Bed," Chris's voice rasps—low, insistent, leaving no room for argument.

Dennis wraps his arms around Chris's neck, feeling the strong, steady thrum of his heartbeat against his forearm, the only reliable thing in this mess they're making.

Words fail him completely, so, "That mattress better be clean," is all he manages to say.

Chris’s laugh is low, full of heat, a sound that makes Dennis’s pulse spike. "Guess we’ll find out."

The world tilts, and Dennis hits the mattress with a soft thud before Chris follows him down, bracketing him in on both sides.

Chris is everywhere—above him, around him, pressing so close Dennis can't tell where he ends and Chris begins.

It should feel weird.

Wrong.

Like the biggest mistake ever.

But for some odd reason, it doesn’t.

So Dennis...

Well.

Dennis stops thinking altogether.