32. Christian

32

CHRISTIAN

H e’s late, which shouldn’t get to me the way it does, but it does. I’m currently extremely sick of waiting for Gibson to show up where he’s supposed to be.

I’ve already sorted his emails, fixed the double-booked disaster he made of his schedule, and brewed a second pot of coffee because I mainlined the first one.

He finally comes into his home office around one, dressed in a hoodie with a pocket across the front—unexpected—and pajama pants. Shocking. His hair is a disaster, and he hasn’t shaved.

“I’m hungover,” he says. “Don’t give me shit.”

“I wasn’t.”

“You did earlier.”

I roll my eyes and get back to the spreadsheet I’m trying to make sorting all his employees, properties, and relevant contacts. I’m not great at spreadsheets, but messing with this one gives me something to do when I’m having trouble focusing. “I’m a little hungover, too,” I mumble.

He collapses onto his seat behind the desk and taps his mouse to light up his desktop screen .

“How’s your friend?” I ask after a few minutes.

“A little fucked up.”

“Were you able to help?”

“I will be, I think. I hope.”

“How old’s his kid?”

Gibson drops his hand on the desk and gives me a flat stare. “What are we doing today, Christian? Are we working, or are we taking the day off?”

“You’re not dressed for work.” I sincerely wish I could keep my mouth shut sometimes. “Is there some reason we can’t work and have a conversation at the same time?”

He sighs. “No.”

“I was just curious.”

“He’s six. Vaughn is six.”

I nod. “Cool. I hope everything works out.”

“Thank you,” he says curtly.

I get back to my spreadsheet, and he starts clicking away. After about half an hour, he leaves the office and comes back with a bottle of water and a fresh mug of coffee. He’s chugging the water by the time he sits down, and I get caught up watching his throat for a few seconds too long. I’m tempted to offer to get him something to take for his hangover, but I remain quiet.

I’ve begun to wonder whether I fucked up at the door this morning. I’d been shitty, and he obviously had a rough night. Mine wasn’t as bad as I told him it was. I did sleep for more than an hour. Not much more, but technically, sleep happened. I got a lot of writing done, too. It’s actually not that hard to make blue balls poetic. Desire, it turns out, is more fun to write about than regret or grief. And blue balls marry the themes nicely.

At some point in the afternoon, he strips off his sweatshirt, leaving an old Pearl Jam concert t-shirt he must have gotten when he was a little smaller because it’s snug. His clothes have me confused—compartment-wise. He’s way too approachable-hot instead of corporate-hot. Neither is resistible, but this one isn’t my boss. He’s more like a friend who had a rough night, and I missed.

I set my laptop aside. “Can we talk for a minute?”

He looks at me and sets the empty water bottle down.

“I’m sorry about earlier.”

“Why?” he asks, with genuine confusion.

“Because I was a dick.”

“You were fine. I should have texted. I apologize. Time got away from me.”

“How much of that vodka did you drink?”

“We split the bottle,” he says.

I raise my brows. “You sure you don’t want to go back to bed?”

“Oh, I do.”

“You want to switch places? You can have the couch?”

It’s such a stupid offer because his bedroom is probably fifty feet away. But he gets up, and I start to stand. He holds up a hand to stop me. When he gets to the couch, he puts that same hand on my chest to keep me still and sits next to me. “You’re not dressed for a nap,” he says, “but I’ll allow it.”

“I think I’ve had too much coffee to sleep.”

“Humor me. I’m paying you.”

“Worst boss ever.”

“You didn’t read the paperwork did you?”

“Naps were in the paperwork?” I ask.

“No, but there was absolutely nothing in it that said I couldn’t harass you.”

“Was that on purpose?”

He laughs softly. “You can quit at any time for any reason.”

“But how will I sue you?”

“Just blackmail me. I’m easy.”

“I should be recording this, I guess.” I say as my face drifts closer to his.

“I’ll wait,” he says, gaze dropping to my mouth .

My dick swells in a rush as he leans in and presses a soft kiss to my lips. “I missed you,” he whispers.

“You too.”

“What the fuck are we doing?”

“I don’t have a clue,” I say.

“Are you okay with it?” he asks, serious.

“Of course.”

“You don’t feel like I’m making some power play, or you can’t say no?”

“I have a safe word.”

He gives his head a small shake. “I don’t want this if you don’t want it, too.”

“Just to be really clear—I wouldn’t have agreed to work with you if you hadn’t tied me down in Rome. I already have a boring job. Why take on a new one?”

“Money?”

“I’m fine,” I say and remind him, “I don’t even pay rent.”

“You want to learn the ropes of major real estate?”

“Probably not,” I hedge. His work’s not un interesting.

“So, you’re saying if it gets boring, you’ll quit?”

“Yeah.”

“I can’t have that. But for the record, I offered you the job in good faith.”

“And now?” I ask.

“Now I’m willing to play dirty.”

“You have a conference call in an hour,” I tell him.

“Do I get to sleep until then?” he asks. “Or is that too boring?”

I smile, seeing up close how exhausted he is, but also this close, it seems deeper than just having stayed up all night. Like he’s been under constant assault. “It’s okay if you need to sleep.”

“And it’s okay if I want to keep you on the couch with me?”

I nod.

“Then make yourself comfortable. I’m going down.”

He leans away from me, drawing up his knees. I stand while he’s getting himself situated on his side with his head on one of the cushy throw pillows. It only takes a second, and then he takes my hand and arranges me the way he wants me—tucked tightly against him—my back to his chest. He sighs as we settle.

It should be impossible to be this comfortable with a more than full-grown man on a normal-sized couch, but I am—other than my raging erection. “Set an alarm,” he murmurs.

“I’ll set it for forty-five so you can fix your hair before the call,” I say as I check the time on my phone.

“It’s a video call?”

“Yeah.”

“You didn’t say that,” he whines.

I laugh. “Shh…don’t worry about it. Go to sleep.”

“You feel so good, though.”

“Unless you’ve got lube in your pocket, nothing’s gonna happen, so you might as well close your eyes and make the best of it.”

“Mm…turn over.”

“Bad idea,” I warn him, putting down my phone, alarm set.

He forces the issue, grabbing me by the hip that’s against the couch and trying to forcibly flip me. I do what he wants—as usual.

“Oh.” He lifts his brows when he feels my rigid boner grind up against his crotch.

“Told you.”

He grabs my ass and presses his semi to my hard on. I kiss him because he started it.

“We’re gonna stain your pants,” he says as we mindlessly dry hump each other on our sides.

My response to that is to kiss him harder. He grabs my ass and traps my legs with one of his. His mouth is hot on mine, his tongue both lazy and greedy. It’s so good. Maybe the best he’s ever kissed me. Probably the best I’ve ever been kissed. I’m so hooked on him—so fucking hot for him—that who he is to me has stopped mattering. In his Pearl Jam t-shirt with his sleep-mussed hair and scruffy face, he’s just Gibson. Just a man who’s as into me as I’m into him.

And as far as getting sick of him or bored or whatever, I can’t see it. Like he gives me just enough to make me want more. We won’t have sex now, but maybe later. Maybe it’ll be so good, I’ll want it again. Maybe the next time I see him in a suit, I’ll want to slide the jacket off him and wrinkle his starched shirt by grabbing fistfuls of it. Maybe I can unbuckle his belt with my teeth. I don’t know, but already I’m looking forward to it.

We’ve barely scratched the surface of this fiery attraction. I can’t name a time when I’ve felt vital to someone. As well as I understand that he was getting along just fine in life before I hopped a plane with him to Rome, he makes me feel like I got to him just in time. Like the first breath someone takes after drowning. Air hungry. Like I’m reviving him, and if that isn’t enough to make me not only want but need to be here, I don’t know what is.

“Get your cock out,” he breathes.

I would, but between the erotic kiss and the crazy friction, I’m so worked up I’ve forgotten to check myself. My release is imminent and there’s no stopping it. “ I…fuck…shit .”

He must sense I’m tipping over the edge because he thrusts his tongue back into my mouth and grinds with me harder. I come with a long groan and rough shudder. My load soaks my shorts and coats my throbbing cock. He uses my body to get himself there with me, and when he falls apart, I’m still jetting cum.

I told him it was a bad idea.

But then again, as our kiss goes on and on, getting shallower and even lazier, the adrenaline slowly leaches from my body. I could absolutely sleep.

As our lips finally break apart, and I settle my head on the pillow beside his, he gazes at me with sleepy eyes. His hand is still on my ass, his leg still locked around mine. Pressed this tightly to him, the wet spots we made are warm and hardly annoying at all.

Next thing I know, the alarm’s going off, and I’m running my hand over his hair, trying to make some sense of it. His eyes flutter open, and he smiles softly when he finds me staring at him.

“You’re the best assistant I’ve ever had,” he mumbles, his voice gritty and low.

“You’re still the worst boss.”

“On paper, maybe. Can I get you something else to wear?”

“You’re gonna dress me up like you, too? How many kinks do you have?”

“All of them,” he says.

“How lucky are you that I’m so slutty?”

“Lottery lucky.”

“Damn right. Yeah, I’ll wear your clothes. But you’ve got about ten minutes to get your shit together. I can’t reschedule this one.”

“Let me make last night up to you. I’ll skip the club.”

“You’re gonna make it up to me as soon as you get off the call. I made plans for tonight because I was pissed at you.”

“Of course you did. All right.” He pries our hips apart, releasing me from the leg lock. “One condition.”

“I shouldn’t allow it, but I’ll give you one—make it quick.”

“While I take this call, you do nothing. You lie on this couch in whatever I dress you in and take notes.”

“Lying down? That doesn’t feel very professional.”

“It’s what I want.”

“Then that’s what you’ll get.”

He dresses me in a tank and thin gray joggers and tells me he wants my feet bare. Meanwhile, he’s put on a dress shirt and another pair of pajama pants. On the coffee table next to the couch, he drops a few condoms and a tube of lube.

“Your hair,” I warn him as I get into position.

“I’m getting to it. They won’t start the meeting without me.” He disappears into the adjacent bathroom. When he comes out, he still hasn’t shaved, but he looks perfect. I’d be willing to bet he used some eye drops, too, because he appears wide awake. Settling behind his desk he fires up his screen and logs onto the meeting with the link I sent him.

I open up the notes app on my phone and stare at him until he looks over at me. He gives me a faint nod of approval and begins the meeting.

Gibson locks the office door while I stare at the condoms and lube. My dick plumps behind the thin sweatpants, as eager as the rest of my body for whatever comes next.

He hasn’t fucked me since our scene in his club, and I haven’t begged—much. The first time really did a number on my asshole, and the bruises on my ass were no joke. I hope this means we’re trying again. Frotting is great and all, but it’s not the same as feeling him move inside me—to the degree that he can.

I run a hand over the back of my neck, the memory of the burn making my hole twitch. I want to ask if this is a scene, but I’ll know soon enough.

“I’d like you on your hands and knees,” he says in a low voice.

“On the floor, or…”

“The couch. Hands on the back, knees on the seat.”

I don’t argue or hesitate even though his delivery makes this feel like I’m at the doctor’s office. Once I’m positioned as instructed, I feel his hands on either hip, peeling the sweatpants down to reveal my bare ass. He makes a low noise as his hands caress my healing flesh.

“I don’t ever stop thinking about this,” he tells me.

My eyes close, and I bite my cheeks so I don’t parrot the words right back. Instead, I lower my face to rest on my folded arms, putting an arch in my back to present myself better .

“Christian…” he whispers.

He said my name like that at the desk earlier when I was being an idiot, and it felt so unfair then—like he was invoking our connection to use it against me—soften me toward him. It reminded me how much I want him and how that want only multiplies and expands. And now it makes me realize that I want access to all his time, which is an extreme desire and unlike me, but I can’t stop it anymore than I can stop the sun from rising.

“Relax,” he says with a few more gentle caresses. “I’ll be careful.”

It doesn’t sound like a scene. I hear the coffee table moving, and then I feel the press of his mouth on my hole—the heat of his warm breath gusting inside.

God, I fucking love this. I do relax, pressing my ass to his face and making a satisfied sound. His kisses are careful and long, his tongue lightly circling my rim and barely penetrating. It’s electric, slow, and I’m rock hard within a minute. He takes his time as he eats me out at a pace that makes me wonder if this is all he has planned. His hands knead my glutes, and his mouth soaks my hole, in no rush at all.

“Gibson…” I sigh as a spurt of precum hits the leather sofa cushion.

“So wet,” he murmurs, replacing his tongue with a fingertip. He traces the ring of muscle without overstretching it—lighting my body up with anticipation.

Moving in a half-circle, he massages the lower half of my rim, building pressure and stretching it over long minutes of drugging, repetitive motion that has my mind soft and blank and my body totally relaxed.

“Is this good for you?” I ask, worried he might be bored.

“I can’t have you swelling up every time I fuck you. I need you too often. I won’t even tell you how often because it’s embarrassing.”

I grin to myself .

“You’re tight,” he says. “Inside and out. These narrow hips of yours don’t give me a lot of space to work with.”

“Sorry…”

“Mm…no. Nothing to be sorry about. I like a challenge.”

“Do you know what you’re doing back there?”

“I know what I’m trying to do. No idea whether it’ll help or not.”

“I don’t mean to be so much trouble.”

“No trouble at all.” He replaces his fingertip with his mouth again and presses his tongue inside me. I groan at the more intense stretch, but my body is ready, and I groan when he curls and circles just beyond the rim.

I groan, shifting so I can wrap a hand around my cock. It throbs at the pressure I give it, but my strokes are slow and lazy, determined to be as patient as Gibson. I wrap my own lips around my forearm, moving my mouth in the motion of a kiss.

His next touch involves lube and two fingertips, still hyper-focused on my rim and applying more pressure. It’s all burn with none of the fullness I’m craving. It’s got me rocking my hips toward him, begging him without words to stuff my ass.

“Aren’t you hard?” I ask, bordering on desperate.

“I’ve been hard for an hour.”

“Fuck me.”

“I will. Patience, beautiful boy.”

My thighs shake, and I take a deep, fortifying breath. “I’m trying.”

“Does this hurt?”

“A little.”

“You need more or less?”

“More. Fuck. I need more .”

The sound of a condom packet ripping is music to my ears. I shudder so hard, my hand tightens around my cock, and I almost come.

I bite my arm, yank on my balls and manage to hold it off .

With a glance over my shoulder, I see that he’s naked from the waist down, his dress shirt open, his cock jutting up like a baseball bat as he rolls the condom over it. Our eyes meet, and he gives me a self-conscious half-grin. It makes my face heat. “I want you to sit on my cock,” he says.

“Now?”

“Whenever you’re ready,” he replies even as he lathers himself with lube.

I shift my position, bracing my hands on the sofa cushions and lowering my toes to the floor.

While he holds me steady with one hand and aims his dick with the other, I stretch back until my hole meets his crown. “ Mmph …” The sound escapes me—my anticipation as sharp as the pressure of him on my rim. I let myself adjust to the broad stretch by rocking back and forth on my hands.

“More lube?” he asks.

“Inside me,” I say.

“Hold still.”

I do, allowing him to stuff a finger full of lube deep in my hole. I groan, immediately needing more. “Fuck, yeah.”

“So fucking hot,” he breathes. “Christian, I need you.”

Those are magic words. Fuck, they do things to me I am not familiar with. I sink down again, taking more of his length inside me, and gasping the moment his crown hits my sensitive prostate. I play with the spot for a while, taking nothing more and nothing less. He only gets thicker from here, and everything about this depth is so fucking good.

“How’re you doing?” he asks, voice strained.

“Fuck,” is all I say, and again. “ Fuck .”

“Take your time.”

I massage that spot until I’m positive I’m about to come and then pull off him, taking a few deep breaths and walking myself back from the edge .

“Chris…I…Christian…” The need in is voice is a direct hit to my chest.

It’s a fuck it moment for me. Using my hands as leverage, I plunge back, impaling myself on his cock. Our shouts ring out in unison, but I don’t give myself time to think. It’s sharply intense, but my endorphins are flowing. I work his cock like I’m channeling a porn star.

His grip is light on my hips, allowing me full range of motion, and I use all of it, sliding up and down the thick pole of his cock, relishing the burn when my ass hits his lap and groaning with every stroke of his crown on my sweet spot. I swivel, I grind, I work myself into a dripping sweat.

“Easy—” he gasps. “Don’t hurt yourself.”

“So good,” I argue, shaking my head. “You feel so fucking good.”

“Mmm…” he moans, like he can barely take it. It is a tight fit—genuinely feeling like my hole is choking his cock. Even I can tell I’m not stretching like a woman can, but the pain gets me off, too. I move faster, jerking my cock and relying more on my legs to keep me in position.

My body has a mind of its own—seeking him out with laser precision as my pleasure builds, sending liquid heat up my spine and down my legs, pressure mounting in my groin in need of a way out. “Close, close, I’m close…” I pant, now pounding his lap.

A growl rips from his chest, and he spasms inside me. As he comes, he wraps his arms around my waist, holding me with his cock fully seated as it continues to throb and gush. With two more strokes of my hand, cum shoots from my dick, spaying my chest as I milk myself for every drop. My hole spasms around him, and he lets out a sharp gasp.

I can’t control it. My orgasm bleeds through every cell and muscle fiber. My brain goes offline, leaving only static and ecstasy, elevating my existence into a realm I’ve never visited.

And then, as the aftershocks begin, the burn in my ass returns, and my processing speed picks up, I’m positive I did, in fact, hurt myself.

“Fuck, you’re bleeding.”

Yeah, I kinda figured.

Damnit.

“Easy, easy,” he says, slowing me down as I try to rise off him.

“Sorry,” I tell him. Because I truly am. I don’t know if going slower would have changed the outcome, but still, he wanted to be careful, and I couldn’t manage it.

“Give me a minute, and I’ll get you taken care of.”

I stumble forward onto the couch, not realizing until it’s too late that my legs are useless. “Is it bad?”

“Not too bad. Lie down, and I’ll be right back.”

I watch as he stands, removes the condom, and ties it off before crossing to the bathroom. He returns shortly with his shirt off and a towel around his waist, a damp cloth in his hand.

He sits on the edge of the sofa, his hip against my outer thigh, and presses the cloth to my hole, holding pressure. It’s warm. I close my eyes, rest my head on my folded arms, and sigh.

“This is going to be a process,” he says.

“Apparently.”

“We’ll go slower next time. If…”

“Yes, Gibson. I want there to be a next time.”

His relief is evident in his next breath. “We don’t have to force anything if?—”

“Hey,” I cut him off before he can spiral. “I’m willing to work on it.”

He doesn’t say anything for at least a minute, and when he does, his voice is thicker, and I realize I touched a nerve. “That means a lot to me.”

Because I’m me, and awkward comebacks are my brand, I quip, “I hear kissing it makes it better.”

“What the fuck are you doing to me?”

I don’t know, but whatever it is, I really like it.