Wow. Is that what counts for qualifications these days?
I need Nash. I’m starting to think I might be addicted to him. Not just his body and his needy sounds as I slide into him. Lately there are nights where we don’t even have sex at all. He just comes over and we hang out. Having him in my apartment, eating with him, and talking about the things that keep me up at night... I know that’s not what we agreed to, but sometimes I want it almost as much as I want his fingers in my hair while he begs me to come.
We talked about the candidates last night. He went through their resumes with me and shared some of the questions he likes to ask when he’s interviewing people. I felt prepared when I left for work this morning, and then it all went wrong. I need to talk to him about it and figure out what I’m going to do now before hopelessness swallows me completely.
So I hoof it to the festival office as early as I can and, as I go, a very specific fantasy plays over and over in my head. We can talk once I’ve worked some frustration out.
He’s stiff, at first, and I’m probably not much better. The last time, the day I came for the broken extender, we had no plan. We’d been caught up in this thunderstorm of sex and need, never mind that we were in Nash’s office and people might hear us.
Today, I’ve come with a plan—or an idea anyway. And Doug’s polite check-in to make sure we’d found each other is a reminder that we’re not alone.
So we take it slow, once Nash agrees. We kiss and touch for a long time. Every second, every sweep of his lips on mine, blows the frustration of people who don’t know the first thing about job hunting away, scattering it out over the Toronto skyline.
I undo his cufflinks, slipping them into a pocket so we know they won’t get lost. I’m getting better at undoing them without dropping one, which is good, because while we both like having the other one on his knees, being there so I can hunt under his desk for a missing cufflink is not on today’s agenda.
I push his sleeves up. He has strong arms. He likes to lock one around my hips while he sucks me off, holding me in place while he takes me all the way to the back of his throat. I kiss the inside of his wrist, running my tongue over the thin skin and fine blue veins there.
“Brady,” he says, threading his fingers into my hair.
I drop to my knees, nosing at him through the fine material of his pants. I used to think his wardrobe was so fussy, but now I think he wears it like armour or a second skin to stake his place in the world.
Everything makes sense when I’m with him. When our eyes meet and I pull down his fly, I don’t have to think about anything else, and that’s all that I need.
He’s heavy on my tongue. Smooth skin, warm blood beneath, salty fluid at the tip. I love the taste of him.
“Yeah.” He leans back against the desk, arching his hips toward me. His voice is barely a soft whisper, but after so many nights together, I know the noises he makes.
My goal isn’t to get him off, just to make sure he enjoys himself while I get organized. I grab the lube I stashed in his desk drawer while I was waiting—thank goodness my plan worked and no one else found that unexpectedly while they were looking for Post-It notes or pens or whatever—and pop open the cap.
“Turn around,” I say, and he grins while I slick up my hands. One, I use to keep jacking him slowly. Each tug makes his thighs shake and his spine bow. The curve of his back ends in his perfect ass that I know so well. With the other slippery hand, I slowly work him open while he punches out smothered curses between his teeth.
“Jesus. Yeah, Brady. Shit. Good, so good.” For a guy who was such a jerk for so long, he really is liberal with his praise once you get him going.
“I have this idea,” I say, trying to keep my tone conversational, even as my fingers sink deeper and deeper into his ass.
“You’re going to fuck me?” he asks.
“Mm-hmm.” I love the way he softens under my hands and opens up for me.
“Against my desk?”
I dig my teeth into the thick muscle of his buttock. “No.”
“At the window?”
The mental image that suggestion paints has me working my fingers faster. Not here. Even I’m not that much of an exhibitionist. But later, at my place. The windows on the north side of my apartment face the train tracks. No one would see us there, but I like the idea of Nash, willing and exposed, begging for me as commuters and freights zip by below us.
But for now: “In the chair,” I say, sliding my fingers out one more time. He’s open and flexes eagerly for me. The glance he throws over his shoulder is nervous, though.
“The chair?”
I rise, shucking my pants and getting myself ready with a condom and lube. Nash is back to bracing himself on the desk, shirt open, cock out, and his smile goes crooked as I settle myself in his black leather chair, sinking low and letting my thighs sprawl wide.
“Come on,” I say, crooking a finger toward him. He does as he’s told, but he hesitates when our knees knock together.
“I don’t—” He braces his palms on the chair’s arms. “I could—” But the chair tilts and creaks ominously as he lifts a knee.
“Other way.” I turn him, then guide him back toward me. Positioning ourselves still takes a little more work than I expected. Every time he leans back, the chair scoots backward too. We finally have to let it glide all the way to the wall to keep it still.
