Page 19 of Puck You Both

Petrov leans toward me. "What?"

"Nothing."

"You gasped."

"I…saw the budget."

At the head of the table, Wall says, "Your transport tab has duplicate costs."

Patrick spins back to the screen so fast the projector cable yanks tight.

I bite my own fist.

Unbelievable. And nobody in this room can see it but me.

***

MAMA PAWS ENDS the spreadsheet war by assigning labor. Patrick gets sponsor packets with a volunteer coordinator. Becker and Petrov get sent to sort donated dog food, which I choose to believe is punishment.

Then: "Wall, Theo, the new crates are in the storage alcove. Big job, two people."

I look at Wall. Wall looks at a point four inches to the left of my head.

Cool. Great. Totally normal. Just me and the man who watched Patrick jerk me off on a desk, alone, in a closet, having acknowledged it with a grand total of zero words. What could possibly go wrong?

The alcove is genuinely tiny, metal shelving stacked with towels, a bag of dog biscuits leaking onto the floor, one bare bulb. The crates lean flat-packed against the back wall. Wall has to duck through the doorway and then keep his head bent under a shelf bracket.

He picks up the instruction sheet and reads it, sleeves pushed up, and I watch his forearms because they're right there and I'm only human. There's a vein running up from his wrist that disappears under the cuff.

And still, nothing. Not a word about the video room. He watched. I came. And now he's standing six inches away, studying assembly instructions, treating me with the warmth he'd extend to office furniture.

You know what? Fuck that.

If nobody's going to name the thing, I'm going to poke the thing.

"Hold these panels," I say sweetly. "Steady. I need to work the latch."

He takes both panels with one hand. One. The panels are nearly as wide as I am.

“Spread them wider.”

His gaze lifts from the instructions. “The panels?”

“Unless you have another suggestion.”

A faint flush reaches his ears.

He moves the panels apart while I crouch to attach the bottom latch. His thigh ends up beside my shoulder, solid beneath black sweatpants.

I am one bad decision from biting a Chicago Wolf in a supply closet.

“You need to hold it steady while I work down here.”

“I am holding it steady.”

“Tighter.”

The metal bars creak beneath his fingers, and my cock attempts to join the project. “You have excellent hands.”