1. 1

Chris was balls deep in the guy—slim, blonde, handsome—when he felt the rush of his climax coming on.

"Jesus, there, there, fuck, right there," the guy said. He'd been keeping up a stream of words the whole time, his body twisting and pushing to get the angle he wanted, the touch that made him feel good.

Chris felt a flicker of annoyance, but it flamed out as he started to come in the condom, his head dropping, hands tightening on the guy's hips to hold him still.

"Give me a hand, fuck," the guy said.

Nate, his name was Nate, Chris thought as he caught his breath and reached under him.

Nate's cock was thick and hard in his hand, already moving to get the friction he needed to get there.

"Tighter, fuck, tighter, c'mon," Nate said as he rolled his hips back and forth on Chris' dick.

Chris felt the skin sliding over his palm and it repulsed him. He wanted to pull out, but Nate was shoving against him like the feel of a still hard cock in him and a hand on his own cock was really doing it for him, and Chris just wanted him to finish, so he stayed where he was and let Nate get there.

"Oh, fuck, yeah, fuck," Nate bit out and started to come. He grabbed Chris' hand around him and crushed them together to work himself through it, his come squelching through their fingers.

It took every ounce of manners Chris had not to shove Nate forward, spring off the bed and run into the bathroom to get it off himself.

"All done?" he asked after Nate had stopped shooting for at least ten seconds, though he was still working Chris' hand over his dick and rocking back into his groin.

"Yeah, fuck, yeah, that was amazing," Nate said.

Chris wriggled his hand. Nate took the hint and let him go. He worked his hips back in polite increments. Nate pushed back again with a groan.

Chris bit back his curse. He held Nate's hip firmly and pulled out.

"Shit, man," Nate said and flopped onto his stomach.

Chris sprang off the bed. He blushed but Nate wasn't looking at him. He dashed into the bathroom and washed his hands, careful not to look at himself. He took a deep breath, went back out and started looking for his clothes. The bed creaked and he didn't look.

"No need to rush off, eh? We could go again in the morning if you wanna stay."

Chris yanked his boxers on, reached for his pants, got those on, conscious of doing it in a way that appeared relaxed—he slowed down on this particular buttonhole, blew his hair out of his face.

"I've got an early meeting," he said, eyes on the next button. This was true. He was so fucking nervous about it, he'd allowed himself this hook-up. He'd told himself he was testing the product so he'd be better equipped for the meeting. He wasn't entirely sure that wasn't what he was doing, but something about it felt like a lie.

"I can set an alarm," Nate said, the bed moving again.

Chris glanced at him. He was a handsome enough guy, but he was a caricature of the guy from over a year ago. Chris had always had a type, but since then that type took on very specific dimensions.

"No, thank you," Chris smiled; he was going for easy going and not sure how well he was pulling it off. "I like my own surroundings."

"I hear that, man," Nate smiled and sat back, hands behind his head. "You wanna hit me up after? Maybe get some dinner, then, you know," he reached down and squeezed his dick.

Chris was accosted with the thought of going down on him—imagining the smell of his groin alone made him suppress a gag. Then he imagined Nate's hand landing on the back of his head—too heavy, too demanding. God, what if he wanted to kiss? What if he wanted to kiss right now? The thought of that fat tongue and saliva in his mouth made him feel sick.

"Maybe," he smiled. It felt strained.

"Well, look, here's my number so we don't have to go through the chat again," Nate said as he rolled over for his phone.

Chris was dressed, his phone in his pocket; all he needed to do was get his shoes on at the door and he'd be out of there.

"The chat's fine," he said. "Later."

He turned and headed for the door with long strides.

He thought he heard Nate saying something as he got his shoes on, but he was caught up with the fuzziness in his head, the need to get out.

By the time he was on the street in the cool night air, he could breathe again.

God, he was such a fucking asshole, he thought as he pulled his phone out and called for a car. That thought was quickly pummelled by the alternative—the horror of staying, of seeing the guy again.

He didn't want to be this guy, he hated being this guy, but so far, every sexual encounter went this way. Once he'd come, he wanted to get out, get as far away as he could.

Why in the fuck he thought it was a good idea to remind himself of that the night before the most important meeting of his life was anyone's guess.

Chris shook his hand out, stuffed it back in his pocket. He was on a direct path to the boardroom that would decide his fate. His dress shoes clicked on the concrete and his suit imbued him with a feeling of confidence. It always did. When he shrugged off the casuals and slipped into the sharply tailored lines, he felt his demeanour change with it, felt every inch of the heir he was born to be. Never mind he'd been born into the mess his father was creating—squandering their money and their legacy with his inability to understand money, his alcoholism—Chris was still, as his grandfather would say, "a McLachlan."

"And that means something," the old man's words reminded him in his memory now; the way he'd stare after speaking as if assuring himself Chris got the message. Chris did. Didn't mean he wasn't nervous as fuck right now, on the cusp of discovering if his gamble had paid off.

Just before the corner that'd take him to the investment bank and the board convened just for him, he turned down a laneway and beelined for his favourite coffee place. He didn't have time for this, nor did he need the caffeine, but he just, he needed a moment.

It'll work, he told himself. It has to. It's a great product.

He was so far in his head he was crashing into another guy heading for the counter at the same time as him before he saw him.

"Shit, sorry," he said, his hand on the guy's bicep to steady them both.

"No, I think it was me," the guy replied smoothly, and Chris looked down into a face he'd been thinking about for over a year.

"Hi," he breathed out.

"Hello," the guy replied like he hadn't expected the greeting. "You go," he jerked his chin ahead of him and Chris realised the guy didn't recognise him.

"We've met before," Chris said.

"Have we?" the guy replied, closed off and polite; as if even if they had met, he didn't want to know.

"Rooftop, March last year," Chris insisted. He searched the guy's eyes, waiting for the recognition. He was even better looking than Chris remembered, way better than every piss poor hook-up Chris had met in an attempt to chase the memory of him—eyes a cold blue, skin so smooth, and his muscled arm felt firm under Chris' hand.

Chris let him go and stepped back to give him space.

The guy was shaking his head. "I think you've mistaken me for someone else," he replied. It was friendly enough, but it was like he was lying too. He went to go for the counter as Chris' phone started ringing.

He ignored it—it'd be Brendan, asking where the fuck he was.

"Long black, double shot, to go," the guy said to the young hipster at the counter.

Chris stepped up behind him, shoved both hands in his pockets and debated what to do. He'd been thinking about this guy for over a year.

He'd imagined a pleasant date and a good fuck; like a workout, one of those fucks that used your whole body and felt thoroughly enjoyable. He jerked off about it and as he came, each time, he couldn't stop himself from feeling like that'd be it then.

He wanted to do it anyway.

The guy stepped aside, pulled out his phone like last time. But unlike last time, Chris got the feeling he wanted Chris to get the message not to talk to him.

"Latte, double shot, oat milk, to go," Chris said to the young guy at the counter.

He shouted it to the barista, Chris swiped his card, and stepped beside the guy, a little too close.

The guy twitched but didn't look up from his phone.

Chris' phone started ringing again. He shoved his hands in his pockets and ignored it.

He was aware of the guy beside him registering that, but he said nothing, continued to read something on his phone.

It was so similar to last time and yet not—Chris felt distinctly shut out; he should've taken the hint, but he couldn't help himself.

"I think you do remember me," he said quietly, creating a conversational space between them over the rush of people darting in and out of the laneway coffee places, the hiss of the coffee machine, the clink of spoons on china and voices talking over tables where some people were enjoying their morning coffee on the street before heading to work.

The guy glanced at him. Chris met his eyes. Now the guy was actually looking, sweeping his gaze up and down Chris' body as if he was trying to remember if he did, so that Chris wondered if he actually didn't. So what was with the look like he was lying?

"Have we fucked before?" the guy asked conversationally.

Chris' eyes widened. It was the last thing he expected.

"No," he replied, completely lost for words.

But the guy just shrugged and went back to his phone. "I really think you've mistaken me for someone else."

Chris was still reeling from that comment—how many guys did this dude fuck to have to ask that? Chris was no prude, but at twenty-seven he could still count his number.

"Jesus, how many guys have you slept with?" he asked without thinking.

The guy looked at him. And Chris forced himself to look back even though this was going terribly and he felt like an asshole.

"Sorry," he said before the guy could say anything. "That sounded like I think," he pulled a hand out of his pocket and waved it around, "I just, we met, and I thought about you, so, you know."

The guy stared at him for a moment, but if he was offended, he wasn't showing it; in fact, he looked like he was smiling to himself, not smug, but certainly not ashamed.

"Long black, double shot!" the barista shouted.

The guy pocketed his phone and gave Chris one last look before he moved to get his coffee.

Chris watched him, his hands flexing and releasing inside his pockets. He wasn't sure if that was shooting his shot, but if it was, he just missed horribly.

He watched the guy take his coffee and move into the laneway.

He wanted to follow him.

His phone rang again as the barista shouted, "Latte, double shot, oat milk!"

Chris took it, thanked him, and strolled briskly in the direction the guy was heading. The opposite direction he needed to go. His long legs ate up the cobblestones as he followed the black suit and blonde head.

He could shoot better than that.

"Hi," he said breathlessly as he came up beside him.

The guy gave him a surprised look. "Hi," he replied, slightly amused.

"Can I get your number?" Chris asked because, fuck it.

The guy actually laughed. "You wanna be a notch on my bedpost?" he replied, smiling.

Chris huffed a startled laugh. He would actually.

They were walking briskly, and as Chris looked down at the guy, he found him looking back evenly. He was still closed off, and Chris thought he seemed tired, washed out.

"Well?" Chris asked and grinned at him. His heart was pounding.

The guy stopped suddenly and Chris had to backtrack a few steps.

"We haven't met," the guy said and sipped his coffee. He lowered his voice, even though people were streaming around them, annoyed at the break of the morning rush hour flow. "But if you're looking for a hook-up, I'm not your guy."

Chris deflated. He didn't want to lie to the guy. But, well, he really wanted to see him again.

"A date then?"

Chris usually took his hook-ups out first anyway; he'd just not mention he was a one and done kind of guy.

But the guy smiled, humourless. "Definitely not."

Chris was taken aback. And his fucking phone was ringing again.

"You gonna get that?" the guy nodded at Chris' suit coat, where his phone was blaring.

"It can wait," he said, even though it really couldn't. "How about coffee?"

"Look," the guy said, but he said it like he was about to push a boulder up a mountain and really couldn't be bothered.

"Don't answer now," Chris decided. "I'm not gonna hound someone who's not into it," he peered at the guy and even though he was giving off a cold vibe, Chris got the feeling he was maybe, possibly interested. "But I get coffee there most mornings. And look," he pulled out his phone—seven missed calls from Brendan—and opened up his contacts. "What's your name?"

The guy stared at him, but eventually blew out a breath and answered. "Joaquin."

Chris searched, found it, and air-dropped his number. He heard the guy's phone ping.

"Call me," he said as he started walking backwards. "I wouldn't mind being a notch on your bedpost."

Joaquin huffed a short laugh, shook his head and turned to head wherever he was headed.

Chris watched him go, a little breathless, a lot embarrassed.

Joaquin looked over his shoulder.

Chris held his breath and met his eyes.

Joaquin shook his head again and walked on, binning his coffee with a carefully aimed flick of his wrist.

Chris exhaled. His phone rang. He answered it, eyes on Joaquin's back as he disappeared around the corner.

"Where the fuck—"

"On my way," Chris said and hung up.

He chugged his coffee, binned it, and jogged for the boardroom.