31. Derek

It's been ages since I last had Wyn. Ages. My skin is crawling with lust. I have that hyper feeling I get when it's been too long. My blood has run thick, and even the mere sight of the collection of matching stationery on his desk has my dick stiff as a pole. I have to have him. I have to. I can't work when I'm like this. I can't think, and I can't string a simple sentence together. I can't even pretend I'm okay. I ran into Clarissa from recruitment in the elevator on the way in this morning, and she asked me if I was okay.

I almost said no. I almost forgot that saying yes is an unwritten rule when answering that question.

It's been so long since I've been with Wyn that I'm not okay. I'm really not.

It's Monday today.

I haven't touched him or seen him since Friday.

I don't know what his plans were for the weekend. I didn't have time to ask him before he left on Friday. I don't know how Bridget is. I've had no word on her turd of an ex-boyfriend and whether he's leaving her alone or making a nuisance of himself. I haven't heard anything about Gould and the rest of his friends either. I don't even know what the status is on the tiny glass jars he owns. Has he used them to spite me, or are they still all wrapped and untouched?

Fuck. I hate LA.

I hate living here, and I hate my apartment, and I hate all the people.

I should have insisted that Wyn and I stay in Hawaii after the wedding. I should have bought the resort and paid our friends and family to stay longer. I could have had them stagger their visits so there'd always be at least one or two of them there so Wyn would have no choice but to keep being my boyfriend.

I don't know why I didn't think of it.

I must have been crazy coming back here.

The pieces I get of Wyn now are only just enough to keep me going. They keep me sane, but they aren't nearly enough. It's like being drip-fed water when you're badly dehydrated. Just a teaspoon at a time. Just a taste. Just enough to wet your lips and tongue.

The problem is I'm a man who's been wandering a desert for years. Drip-feeding me is enough to keep me alive but not enough to see me thrive.

To thrive, I need to wake up with Wyn's arms wound around my neck and drink coffee with him in the morning—ideally with his hair standing on end or at least with a couple of marks creased into his face. I need to eat and bathe with him. I need to sit on the beach with him at my side, our feet buried in the sand, watching the sunset.

I need to know what crazy shorts he's wearing to sleep in at night.

No. I need to tear his shorts off and carry him to my bed naked.

That's what I need.

I check my schedule as soon as I get in. It's so slammed with back-to-back meetings that I briefly consider selling the whole goddamn company. To make matters worse, it's all time-sensitive, urgent business today. Business I've been putting off and pushing back for weeks because I can't get enough of my pint-sized PA. I try moving this, and then I try moving that. No joy. There are conflicts everywhere, so I create an entry, call it a one-to-one, which is what we call performance reviews at MacAvoy Group, and invite Wyn to it. I book it for six this evening, which is later than I like keeping him here, but it's the earliest my schedule allows, and I know myself well enough to know that the well-being of every person in the building depends on me spending some time alone with Wyn today.

We pass each other like ships in the night all day. At one point, he looks up as I walk through reception on my way to my lunch appointment and says, "I think you may want to reconsider that face, Mr. MacAvoy."

"What's wrong with my face?"

"It's your firing face, and I don't think it's what Ron Sheffield needs to see." He's right. Ron's the head of the Building Standards Commission, and I'm calling in a huge favor today. I pull my lips back and show my teeth. "Better?"

He winces, his pretty, perfect little nose scrunching up in a way that almost has me throwing myself over his desk and tackling him to the floor. "God, no. You look like you're impersonating an attack dog."

The meeting goes well, but it's an awful day. I get through it thanks only to a lot of deep breathing and repeated reminders that firing staff only means having to recruit new staff.

Wyn seems flustered when he enters my office. He has his notepad and pen poised—a turquoise blue one and a non-matching pen—and stands a few paces in front of my desk.

"I know I've fallen a little behind, Mr. Der-MacAvoy. I haven't filed your expense report yet, but please don't worry. I'll stay late this evening and get it done. It was a, uh, glitch in the matrix. I knew I had to do it. I was planning to get it done on Friday, and then I planned on getting it done this morning, but…"

I tamp down the laugh that threatens.

This adorable little man thinks he's here for an actual one-to-one meeting. An official performance review. It's not completely crazy. He's been here for two months now, and I've been so busy sexually harassing him that I've totally forgotten to assess his performance.

The tight, pinched look on his face is doing things for me, so I decide to play along.

"So," I say, motioning for him to sit, "you've been here for two months now, Wyn. How would you describe your performance?"

"Very good," he replies firmly, but the tiny twitch of his bottom lip betrays him. "I mean, I did make a small error on your travel booking for New York last week, but I caught it and managed to talk the agent into dropping the fee for changing the dates, so, you know, no harm done. And yes"—his words are bunching up and running into each other—"I know the expense report is late, but it's the first time that's ever happened in my whole life, and I'm going have it done before start of play tomorrow, no matter what, and it won't happen again. It doesn't…this type of thing doesn't…" His voice trails off. "It doesn't happen to me. I can work on it. I can improve."

I press my lips together and nod slowly, "I disagree." His eyes widen in shock, growing bigger and bluer than I've ever seen them. I'd love to play more. To toy with him and tease him. To rake him over the coals and maybe even bend him over and discipline him for his tiny, insignificant oversights. I can't, though, because of those fucking eyes. And the freckles. And the ski-slope nose. "You can't improve, Wyn. Your performance is excellent. Above reproach, and if not for the, er, distractions I've caused you, it would be faultless." It feels weird to say it. Uncomfortable but good, so I add, "You're the best PA I've ever had." It's the God's honest truth.

He releases a puff of air through his nose, dipping a shoulder and a hip in my direction. He's trying not to preen, but he's not completely successful. "And let's not forget I planned the wedding of the century in only three weeks."

"No, let's not forget that."

"And let's not forget the dire conditions I've been working in. You were a complete ass before I added caffeine and carbs back into your diet. But also, let's forget I called you an ass during a performance review."

The gig is up. I start laughing and can't seem to stop. "I'm sorry," I say when I get myself under control. "I shouldn't have done that. This isn't a performance review. I only meant to block out some time with you for reprehensible purposes, and I couldn't think of a title for the meeting that wouldn't alarm HR."

"God," he says, trying to push the corners of his lips down so he doesn't crack a smile, "my first impression of you was so right."

"I'll make it up to you."

That piques his interest. "How?"

"Well, I was thinking we've tried almost everything. I've had you in every conceivable position. Some more than once, just to be thorough. I'm pretty sure that if I was the one undergoing a performance review right now, you'd be forced to admit that my blowjobs are now well above average. And my rimming skills aren't bad either." He opens his mouth and shuts it quickly. "I'm positive I know how to find the prostate, and if the way you shook after you came when I railed you over the sofa on Friday is anything to go by, I'm pretty sure my fucking is up to par." He rolls his eyes and tosses his notepad onto my desk, all pretense of this being a work meeting now well and truly gone. "In fact, we've done so many things that this weekend, I found myself thinking, gee, what's left for Wyn to teach me."

He shifts in his seat and straightens his back. "There's always something to learn," he says stiffly. "Thinking you know everything will make you"—his head twitches as he searches for the word—"lazy. And you can't afford to get lazy. In gay culture, things change fast. It's important you don't get complacent, or you'll be gay dead before you're even properly gay alive."

I don't know about all that gay dead and alive business, but I say, "I agree," and then I lean back in my chair and let my eyes travel down his chest.

His shirt is neatly tucked in. Bow tie still firmly in place. I can't stand it. I can't stand seeing him like this. All neat and perfect. I can't. I want to see him red-lipped and messed up. I want to see his mouth gaping open. Ass too.

I can't wait.

I can't. It's been so long. So fucking long.

I feel a little bad for scaring him with the performance review, so to make it up to him, I switch things up. As much as I love dictating what we do, I want to give him the chance to ask for what he wants. What he desires. What keeps him up at night and drives him wild.

I want to know, and I want to be the one to give it to him.

"Say you were the one assessing me," I say, "would you say there are any glaring gaps in my knowledge? Any areas of my portfolio I need to work on?"