Page 19

The next week drowns in deadlines and stolen moments.

During the day, they keep it strictly business—Chris barking orders at his crew while Dennis checks material specs and signs off on endless modifications. But after hours...

After hours, they explore.

Sometimes it's frantic and filthy. Sometimes it's whatever minutes they can steal. Sometimes it's all teeth and bruises and need: Chris shoving Dennis against supply room shelves, Dennis yanking Chris into empty conference rooms by his safety vest.

Other times it's unhurried and thorough—nights Dennis looks forward to in Chris's apartment where they take their time, testing what makes each other gasp and shiver. Building something that feels good. A lot like familiarity. A bit like trust? Something that maybe seems too fragile to label.

But maybe it doesn't have to be named? Doesn’t need to be anything specific.

Because right now, it's nice. So, why ruin it?

If anything, these thoughts are a helpful distraction from other thoughts that seem to plague him.

They creep up more and more these days. Take root in his head with seemingly no intention to leave or any way to eradicate them. They become bigger and more vibrant the more Dennis tries not to pay attention to them.

Thoughts like how, away from Chris's company, Dennis can't stop thinking about their first attempt.

The first time they tried to go all the way.

These thoughts, in kind, lead to other pesky musings.

Like how it might feel being properly entered. Penetrated .

Of having Chris all the way inside him. Actually fucking him.

Of them having sex. Real sex. Not just the kind that simply feels good or ends deliciously messy. Not just the touching and rubbing and sucking and finger fucking.

But the kind of dick-in-asshole sex with sweaty panting and non-stop kissing that connects them.

Physically. Viscerally. Deeper and more intimate than anything else they’ve ever done.

These thoughts are usually forcibly tranquilized with a splash of cold water—or several—on the face in the men’s restroom.

But sometimes, when Chris has got him pinned to the bed—mouth hot on his inner thighs, hand splayed wide and firm on his lower belly as another massages him open, Chris's eyes glued to his fingers in an unblinking daze as he works—Dennis finds himself wanting to watch too.

To see what Chris sees. To know what Chris's fingers look like sliding in and out of his body.

Stretching him. Pleasuring him internally until he’s choking on words, blacks of his eyes rolled to the back of his head, begging for more, just as Chris had predicted he would.

Dennis doesn’t love how affected he is by these thoughts and memories. The only solace he has are constant curiosities he tries not to think too hard about. Wonderings like:

But what about Chris?

Does Chris remember that first time too?

Does he replay it over and over in his head like Dennis does?

Dennis doesn’t know. But he does catch Chris staring sometimes—in the middle of meetings, during lunch breaks, while reviewing blueprints on-site together—even with twenty-odd people milling around them.

Chris's eyes stick to him like Dennis is some kind of magnet he can't resist, and fuck if that doesn't make Dennis’s stomach flip every time.

What goes through Chris's head when he looks at Dennis like that?

What exactly does Chris want from him?

Maybe Dennis is reading too much into it. Not everything revolves around him and his big head and main character syndrome.

Sigh. Chris has probably forgotten about that night entirely.

After all, he said he couldn’t wait to try again. But to date, it’s never come back up in their conversations.

Dennis’s face heats up hot as he updates material orders, jaw clenched. Stupid brain, always circling back to make him feel like shit. Shut up, shut up, shut up.

One day, work seems to feel particularly endless without a single Chris sighting.

No stolen kisses behind the lumber pile, no quick blowjobs in the supply closet, not even a new dick pic to keep him company.

Six PM turns into seven, then turns into eight, and Dennis is still hunched over permits when Chris appears with takeout bags and that stupid grin that Dennis loves.

"Eat something before you pass out and I have to explain to your dad why his son died of terminal stubbornness."

"Fuck off," Dennis says, but he's already reaching for the food, his chair rolling towards Chris, fragrant and piping hot making his stomach growl. "Like you'd ever talk to my dad.”

"True. I'd probably just wheelbarrow your good-looking corpse through meetings."

Dennis shovels a forkful into his mouth before responding: "At least then, I'd still be more useful than you."

Chris bursts into laughter, spraying rice everywhere and nearly tipping over the takeout bag and spilling biryani all over the floor.

"Eww, gross!" Dennis recoils, napkin clutched to his chest like a shield. "Do you save all this disgustingness for me, or is everyone lucky enough to experience it?"

"I thought you liked messy,” Chris leers, grin wide, elbow on his knee, leaning in closer. “You didn’t seem to mind when I came all over your face the other night.” He waggles his eyebrows.

Dennis’s face burns up. "Hey Chris," he says quickly, desperate to change the subject, "what did the architect say when he saw the hot construction worker?"

Chris's eyebrows shoot up. "You think I’m hot?”

“ Chris! ”

“Okay, okay, what?"

"Nail me harder!"

Chris snorts rice out his nose this time, clutching his stomach as he wheezes with laughter.

"Oh my god, you're actually revolting!" Dennis screeches, jerking back and making vomitty faces, but his smile fades slightly at the edges as he watches Chris lose it completely.

God, he's missed this today.

"Gym time," Chris announces later, rolling his shoulders back with a groan.

He twists left, then right, making his T-shirt bunch and ride up his stomach, chocolate-bar abs and that teasing trail of dark hair disappearing into the waistband of his Calvin Kleins peeking above his jeans.

Dennis’s mouth waters even though he just ate.

They get up and Dennis walks him to the door, passing over keys, wallet, and a paper bag of empty takeout containers. "Thanks for dinner."

Chris's smile brightens up the whole room. He leans in, kissing Dennis on the lips like it's the most natural thing in the world. "Don't work too hard, yeah?"

Dennis swallows, willing the red flush to stay below his neck. "It's fine," he says airily, "my gym's 24-hour."

"Not what I meant, dumbass." Chris rolls his eyes. He snakes an arm around Dennis’s waist then tugs him closer until their thighs bump together. His hand slides down, squeezing Dennis’s ass.

"Call if you need help. With work," he adds when Dennis smirks, fingers already sneaking under Chris's shirt to trace the hard lines of his abs.

Goddamn, Chris’s skin feels so silky and taut and warm under his touch.

“Not the other kind of help. Or, or, or," Chris decides, melting into the groping, “the other kind of help is okay too."

His eyes roll up like he’s just had the best idea ever, making Dennis snort, digging his fingers into Chris’s ribs.

“You’re ridiculous,” he laugh-scolds as Chris yelps at the tickle.

They come together again without thinking, Dennis’s eyes fluttering shut as his lips curve up against Chris's mouth.

The kiss lingers long and deep, neither wanting to pull away first.

Dennis’s hands slide higher under Chris's shirt, palms spreading over bare skin—the same chest that'll soon be pumping iron and dripping sweat.

Fuck . He needs to focus on the supplier deadline, not imagine tracing those ridges with his tongue, feeling each groove catch against his lips. His dick needs to behave so he can actually get some work done.

Dennis gives Chris a little wave off, then watches as his footsteps fade into the dark hallway.

He drags himself back to his desk. Powers through emails while his back screams from sitting too long. He paces circles around his office, phone pressed to his ear—talking, negotiating, arguing—as overseas suppliers start their day.

Ten bleeds into eleven, and he works faster because fuck it if he's pulling another all-nighter.

His phone buzzes. Dad flashes across the screen.

Dennis straightens his spine automatically, shoulders squaring like he's about to face a firing squad, because he is. He takes a deep breath, then answers.

Or at least tries to. His father speaks before he can even say hello.

"We need those permit modifications by tomorrow morning."

Dennis stifles a sigh into his phone. Glances at the wall clock. "Um, it's almost midnight."

"The material order goes through at nine AM," his father's voice carries that familiar edge of impatience. "Unless you'd rather explain to the investors why we're behind schedule. Again."

“No, of course not, but father—”

"Then I suggest you work quickly."

“ Dad! ”

His father hangs up.

Dennis wants to chuck his phone across the room, but that would be stupid. The hassle and trauma of transferring everything to a new phone is the only thing he’d win from one second of lost control.

Consequences. Logical thought. One’s mind should be like bamboo—flexible, swaying with the wind. Always bending, never breaking.

Or some shit like that.

Not that it’s wrong. No one wins with stupidity and rashness.

Although, the last time he did something stupid and rash... well, he got Chris, didn't he?

Dennis scrubs his palm furiously over his face, trying to erase the blush spreading there.

Focus.

Back to what his father needs.

The modifications are on his home computer. Because of course they are. Because the universe hates him.

Well. Almost hates him. Because this might finally be his chance to—

He glances at the clock. Chris should be done at the gym by now, probably fresh out of the shower...

Dennis grins to himself. He grabs his phone and texts Chris:

Need a favor

The response hits his phone instantly:

Anything princess. Just finished up and heading out. Was gonna drive by and check on you anyway

Something warm with just a tinge of ouch flickers in Dennis’s chest.

No, no, nonono . Absolutely not.

He's not acknowledging whatever that feeling is.

This is simple and uncomplicated. Things are good and fun. They're just casual hook-up buddies who happen to really enjoy each other's company.

Most people these days don't even get that much. He’s on to a real great thing, in all fairness. One that he's not about to mess up for himself by getting dumb feelings involved.

More importantly, he refuses to fuck things up for Chris who’s already established that none of this means anything.

Bzzz.

New message:

If you know what I meannnnn! :

Dennis shakes his head, laughing. Fond, fond he’s getting too fond. Stop getting all sappy and stupid, you idiot.

His thumbs fly across the screen:

Need you to drive me home. Files emergency.

Bzzz.

Quickie in your FACE emergency. My cock’s hard already.

Shut up and get here!

"Goddamn pervert," Dennis mutters to the empty room, but he can't wipe the smile off his face.

He saves everything on his computer, shuffles papers into his bag, tucks his tablet away. Flicks off the lights and heads downstairs. Chris won't be far.

He could've called an Uber, but this is going to be much more fun.