27. Wyn

I'm a full five minutes late to work today. Zero fucks given. This is what I'm like now, just a chill guy who doesn't live for his job. Just comes in, works, and goes home. If I'm late, I'm late. No biggie.

And no, I'm not doing it in the hope my asshole boss will call me into his office and scold me.

I mean, yes, I did like having his full attention while we were away, but I'm not desperate for it. Please. I'm not that pathetic.

"Wyn," he calls as soon as the elevator doors open. My stupid, pathetic heart starts racing.

I trot hurriedly to his office, not even bothering to put my bag down.

"Yes, Mr. MacAvoy," I say hopefully.

His face is unreadable. Mouth a straight line. Two deep lines run parallel between his eyes. Those two lines should give me pause. Instead, they make me feel infinitely buoyant—it looks like there's a scolding on the horizon. Yay.

Okay, okay, maybe I am that pathetic.

But I'm not proud of myself for it.

My lips quirk at the corners, threatening to break into a smile from how happy I am as I await my scolding.

"Wyn." Say what you will about Derek MacAvoy, but the man has got my name down to a tee. The soft Y, the breathy exhale, the low, soft voice, it's all there. All of it. It vibrates through me and makes my thoughts glitch.

"Yes, Mr. MacAvoy."

"How do you feel about sexual harassment in the workplace?"

Huh?

Wait. What did he just say?

Oh, fuck me, this is so much better than a scolding.

"I, um, oh, it's bad. It's very bad. Frowned upon. Illegal, I think. No, yes, definitely illegal, but, but I support it nonetheless," I splutter.

The parallel furrows between his brows fade and are quickly replaced by fine lines that fan out at the corners of his eyes.

He leans back in his chair, arms crossed over his chest, and takes me in. I feel his eyes track down my chest, hovering at my belt buckle and dropping lower. They flick back up again and make my brain matter sizzle.

"It occurs to me that while I have researched the matter at length, I don't have any hands-on experience finding the prostate."

My jaw drops. My asshole clenches in anticipation as my entire blood supply flows rapidly downward.

"Meep," I say, though I'm not proud of that either.

"And it's occurred to me that, as a gay man, that's completely unacceptable. It's as bad as a straight or bi guy who can't find the clitoris."

"Bad," I choke, "very bad."

He takes his wallet out and flips it open, taking out a wad of bills and counting them out as he lays them on his desk. "Tell me when to stop," he says as he softly counts.

I watch in removed disbelief as the pile stacks up.

"Stop," I say when he gets to one thousand two hundred and twenty dollars and the fear that he'll realize Grindr is teeming with men who'd let him pummel their prostates free of charge becomes too much.

Derek smiles and hands me the money. He reaches for the switch under his desk, changes the window from clear to frosted, and tells me to lock the door. I do as he says and jog back to where I was standing as fast as possible.

"N-now?" I ask dumbly, watching as he pulls a bottle of lube from his top drawer.

"Pants off" is as close as I get to an answer. "Shoes too."

I drop my pants like they're hot and wrestle with my new shoes. I tied them in a double bow this morning.

Jesus Christ, what's wrong with me?

Why would I do something like that?

As soon as victory is mine, I fall into a deep pit of doubt about what to do with my socks. I don"t know. I can't fucking catch a thought and follow it from start to end.

Do I take them off? Do I leave them on?

In the end, I leave them on, not because he didn't expressly tell me to take them off or even because I managed to come to a sensible conclusion about the matter. I do it because Derek is on his feet, lube in hand, and he's all but marching me to the sofa.

As soon as we get there, I attempt to get on my knees to offer him access to my ass.

"On your back," he says gruffly. "I want to see your face." The stupidest, most pathetic part of me hears that and thinks Gah, how romantic. My boyfriend, Derek, a very handsome and important man, wants to look into my eyes as we fool around. "That way, I'll know when I hit the spot. Need to see so I can learn."

Oh yes.

That's right. Derek's experimenting on me so he can blow some other guy's mind in the future.

You might think that would put me off. You might think it would give me pause and make me question whether this is something I should be doing.

You'd be dead wrong.

I lie back, head resting on the arm of the sofa, and spread my legs, bending them at the knees. The leather beneath me is smooth and cool, almost icy, but quickly warms to my skin. Derek sits at my feet, twisting himself so he's as close to me as possible. He's doing that confusing thing again where he looks at me as if he can't believe what he's seeing. As if he likes it. As if it makes him happy.

I'm doing that thing where I melt into a puddle.

Derek cranes his head to get a better look at me, reaching down and stroking my balls gently, humming when they pull up close to my body, and then lifting them slightly.

His eyes are fixed on me, but they're nowhere near my face. His gaze is hot and intense. Brow furrowed, lips parted. His hair, dark and usually perfect, falls into his face. He bats it out angrily.

"Such a sweet little hole," he murmurs. "So little. So pretty."

Okay, I admit this kind of talk does it for me. Being splayed out, pantless, while my fully dressed boss comments on my anus is the exact turn-on I didn't know I needed in my life.

He moves slowly, hands steady, as he opens the lube and spreads it over two thick fingers.

Two dick fingers.

I clamp my lips shut and try to breathe out of my nose to stifle the whimper that threatens.

Time for a stern pep talk, I think.

Pull yourself together. Right now, Wyn. I mean it. Pull yourself toward yourself. Get real…professional. That's it! Get professional, no, be professional. You're in the workplace with no pants on. You're being willingly sexually harassed by your boss… Wait, it is still harassment if you're gagging for it? Hmm, I don't know…he is still my superior, and there's definitely a power imbalance. Oooh, a big power imbalance. A big, thick power imbalance.

God, that's hot.

Stop!

That's not the point. You're about to have your prostate pummeled by a man who's new to this, and not only that, you're being fucking well compensated for it. It's time to put your best foot forward.

Well, not your foot, but you know what I mean.

I spread my legs a little more, one leg smooshed against the back of the sofa, the other hanging half off.

It doesn't seem to bother Derek at all. He reaches down and runs his slick fingers over my hole. A strong bolt of electricity enters my body exactly where he touches me, running up my spine and short-circuiting my brain. It shocks me to my senses.

"Good," I say, suddenly remembering my capacity as Derek's teacher, nay mentor. I didn't teach him jack about rimming, but when it comes to romancing a prostate, I know my stuff. I've got him covered. "Approach slowly. Mm-hmm, yeah, that's right. Tease the opening like that."

He does as I say. Oh God, believe me, he does exactly as I say. He does it slowly, touch firm and then light. He circles my opening, nudging at it and then retreating again. He shows no signs of boredom, no signs he finds it tedious. In fact, he shows no signs he's ever going to stop.

Oh God.

Help!I'm going to lose my entire fucking mind, and Derek will still be here, suited and booted, calmly teasing my hole.

"Stop! T-that's enough teasing!" My words are sharp, my tone nasal and affected. "Use one finger to…" Oh fuck, oh fuck, what's the word? Come on. I know this. "Penalize, I mean p-penetrate me."

Derek leans forward and looks down at me. His gaze traces lines up and down my face. He takes in my lips, my jaw, my cheeks, my nose. His finger breaches me at the precise second his eyes meet mine. It feels amazing. Thick, it feels thick, thicker than a finger has any business being. He presses it in and withdraws. He does it again. My ass clenches and winks at him, clamping down and trying to swallow his digit every time he dips it into me. He takes his time playing with my opening, sensitizing that part of my body until the rest of me ceases to exist.

"Deeper," I instruct, though I admit it could pass for a plea to an untrained ear. He does as I say. His finger slides into me. "Angle," I gurgle. "Up." He does that too. The second he makes contact with my gland, my back arches and my ass lifts clear off the sofa.

Derek's mouth is a perfect O. Round and circular just like his eyes. "Wow," he pants. "Really? There?" He hits my spot again, and I groan horrifically in the affirmative. "I thought it would be deeper."

"No, no," I trill, dimly aware that I'm beginning to feel more and more delirious with each explosion of sensation Derek drills into my prostate. "That's it." He hits it again, moving slowly and gently until I'm ready for more. "Yep, yep." He withdraws fully, leaving me empty and panicked, and then slides a second finger in. White spots cloud my vision as he beckons inside me. "Yep. That's definitely it."

He does it again.

Again.

Again.

Words fail me.

I should probably think about whether it's appropriate for me to touch my dick. Derek paid for my prostate, and we didn't discuss anything else. I'm not all that sure about the ins and outs of the matter.

Is it a bonus if I come on his time, or am I taking liberties?

That's what I should be thinking, maybe even asking.

I don't because, sadly, thoughts fail me too.

My hand clamps onto my dick with the force of a strong magnet, and I start tugging it as if my existence depends on it. Derek watches the whole time, my face, not my hand or even his.

His eyes are still on mine when I feel his big hand envelop mine. He wraps his hand around mine and moans softly as we move together. I can't feel his hand on my dick, only on the back of my hand. I know it's because Derek wouldn't do that. He won't take liberties. He won't touch me unless he's asked first.

His touch is there but not there, and for some reason, that makes it even hotter. It's intense. Forceful and concentrated. I feel vulnerable. Laid bare. Spread out and experimented on. Used in the best possible way.

That's not all though. I also feel beautiful, mystical almost. And lying there, splayed out and probed, I feel more powerful than I can ever remember feeling.

"Can I taste you?" It's a question, not an instruction, but it sounds like mine did earlier. Like a plea.

I nod drunkenly, head lolling up and down more than I intend.

Derek slides our hands down to my base and sinks his mouth onto me, sinking down and pulling back with exactly, precisely the amount of suction I like.

I come instantly.

It's explosive. A violent eruption that shows no sign of stopping. It's long and hard, a primal force that makes me feel like I'm floating and on solid ground.

Swimming and flying.

Free and found.

It's early, but I'm in bed. I was sent here by Bridget after failing to pay attention to a story she told me about Kiki, her whom we both loathe. Of course I haven't actually met her, but from what Bridget has told me about her, I'd hate her on sight. Anyway, when I wasn't suitably horrified about Kiki calling a meeting that so should have been an email, Bridget diagnosed me with post-wedding blues and sent me to bed early.

I know I'm off my game, and I feel bad about it. But when Derek and I got into the elevator together at the end of work today, he hit the button for the ground floor, looked straight ahead, and calmly asked, "How much to put my dick where my fingers were earlier?" So, I don't really think I can be blamed.

I think anyone's grip on reality would be a little wobbly under circumstances like these.

Still, I feel bad about Bridget. None of this is her fault, and she deserves better. Maybe I'll go back to Gucci tomorrow and buy a pair of sneakers for her too.

No. Can't do that. She'd want to know why and how I've suddenly become a wealthy man.

No, I definitely shouldn't do that.

To reduce the temptation, I remove the wad of cash from my wallet and shove it into my top drawer. In addition to sexual services rendered, Derek paid me for being his fake boyfriend in cash the day after the wedding. Seeing all the bills together like that makes my ass sweat. It's a lot, and while Bridget doesn't go through my things, she is welcome in my room anytime.

What if she needs something—small- to medium-sized jars, for example—and decides to open my drawers to see if they're here.

What the hell would she think if she saw all this money?

She'd interrogate me for sure, and I'd crack and tell her everything. I know it.

She'd be appalled. Truly, truly shocked. I think she'd be so worried she might call my mom, and that's something we've both sworn to each other we'd never do. She might even call my friends and stage an intervention. That's how worried she'd be. They'd all be shocked shitless. I mean, Trouble would definitely support me. He'd be totally cool with something like this. He'd probably encourage it, especially if he heard Derek hadn't been with a man before. He loves that kind of thing. And Gould would probably be pretty good about it, if I'm honest. I don't think he'd bat an eye. He'd probably find it funny. In truth, if Trouble was fine with it, his dude-bros, Mat and Will, would be fine with it too, and Luke and Jessie are generally cool with everything as long as it doesn't hurt anyone else, so they'd probably be fine as well.

They'd probably actually all be quite supportive.

Ugh.

I need an entirely new group of friends.

Mine are complete animals.