Chapter 2

Anthony

Even though I’m watching his face, I can’t tell what emotion he’s leaning toward.

Either he’s going to be pissed at the suggestion, or he’s going to brush it off as a joke.

That’s the problem with being bisexual and mostly in the closet. You can flirt with women all day long, and the only repercussion is being told they’re married or in a relationship. We won’t even touch on the trouble if they are in a relationship and don’t mention it.

Flirting with men is different. Although the signs of their homosexuality are there, you never know if they’ll get offended. Maybe they aren’t even a little gay, and you end up with a fist in your face or some other show of machismo to prove just how gay they aren’t.

His mouth, including that top upper lip I want to suck into my mouth, opens and closes several times as he just glares at me.

Seconds tick by so slowly I wonder if time is standing still.

“After,” he answers, blowing me away. Grunting as he shifts in his chair, he lowers his eyes and refocuses on his computer screen.

I was just trying to get him to focus on something other than my fingers as I typed on my computer. It normally wouldn’t be that big of a deal, but the knowledge of what those fingers were doing five minutes ago in the fucking employee bathroom…

Squeezing my eyes together, I take a calming breath only to open them finding the raven-haired man of my dreams, albeit the nastiest type of fantasies, grinning back at me.

“You know, so it’s like a reward for the hard work.”

“Seriously?”

I’m not one to randomly just hook-up, and I haven’t had a one night stand since that keg party my freshman year in college when I dabbled with my own confused sexuality, but if this guy is legitimately offering, I’d be a fucking fool to turn that down.

“No, you schmuck,” he says as he points to the screen on the wall. “Can we get to work?”

Not knowing whether to laugh or cry, my shoulders slump in defeat as I take a seat near my computer.

Three hours later, we’re still at it. First inspection of the design didn’t seem this complicated, but fuck my life if it isn’t the biggest mess ever.

“That won’t work,” Joey spits, not for the first time tonight. “You have to be cognizant of the plumbing location on the bottom floor.”

I feel like I’m in a lower level architecture class back at school, and Joey is the asshole teacher who hates his profession with a vengeance.

“You can run it through here on the second floor,” I offer, pointing my mouse.

“And jack the price up even more? That makes no damn sense.” His hand scratches over the five-o’clock stubble marking his jawline. “We’re already in trouble with this build. Losing even more money for GMQ is out of the question.”

“My design is solid,” I counter.

“Drop the ego, Cowboy. This isn’t our design. It’s Freddie the Fuckups design. We’re here to fix this shit, not go rogue and insert our own spin on it.”

I can appreciate the fact that he used the word our. It’s much less ball-busting than if he’d singled me out.

“Fine,” I concede and point my mouse at the far wall of the digital blueprint. “We can add that waiting area here and leave the restrooms on that far wall.”

He nods his head in agreement, and I try to focus on the work. It’s the words echoing in my head that I can’t seem to let go of. I’m distracted, thinking of his mouth on me, and that doesn’t bode well for me. I’m usually at the top of my game. New at GMQ, I told myself I’d only be all work all the time. After what happened at my last job in Houston, I don’t have the luxury of focusing on anything but the job.

Being placed in the main architectural department was making it easier. I was on the design floor in Houston, and that department is just filled with prime candidates, guys willing and ready to meet sexual innuendo with suggestions of “let’s finish this up at my condo” and “taking the edge off with blowjobs will make our work better.”

“Can you focus?”

The husk in Joey’s masculine voice contradicts the words coming out of his mouth, but I ignore it. What else can I do? Jumping him and shoving my dick in his ass seems like the best alternative, but other than the shifting in his seat when I came to his side of the table to show him something an hour ago, he hasn’t revisited the filthy conversation we used instead of proper introductions.

“Sorry,” I mutter and force my brain to concentrate on the task at hand.

Just over two hours later, the design is corrected, and we’ve managed to save GMQ however many millions of dollars. I’m satisfied with the final product. Well, as satisfied as I can be. I feel the same edge of discontent rolling off of Joey.

“He never should’ve been trusted with something of this magnitude,” he complains as we save the final draft plans. “I swear Macintosh is going senile.”

“He’s sixty,” I argue as I watch the massive screen and see that Joey has emailed the files to our boss. Next, he prints the plans, in reduced form, and stands from his chair.

He replies, but the words are lost in the room as my eyes seer into the flesh below his t-shirt when he arches his back to stretch. My tongue, having a mind of its own, sweeps out and caresses the lower curve of my mouth. I’m normally able to control myself, even in the face of someone so exquisite, but there’s just something about this man and the light dusting of hair below his navel that just scrambles my damn brain.

“See something you like?” he says with a chuckle. My words being tossed back at me should snap me out of my trance, but all I can manage is a quick nod of my head. “And if I told you that you were barking up the wrong tree and I don’t swing that way?”

Doesn’t swing that way my ass. If the outline of his thickening cock is any indication, he not only swings that way, he hangs out in the tree torturing even straight guys.

“I’d promise that you’d enjoy everything I want to do to you,” I say rather than arguing over a moot point.

“Would I?”

By now, I’m out of my chair and rounding the end of the table. “Promise.”

The whisper is pure gravel, and I resist the urge to reposition my cock as it throbs with insistent pressure in my slacks.

My fingers itch to touch him as he straightens his back, done with his stretch, but I know better. Flirting is one thing. Touching is another. Straight guys have been known to tease just to see how far they can take dabbling in a homosexual interaction before they grow nauseous and need to reassert their hetero status.

“And if I told you I’ve never even considered touching a man before?”

“Does that mean you’re considering it now?” My eyes find his, hoping and praying that there’s truth in his words.

I’ve never broadcasted my bisexuality, but guys who want to dabble without announcing their switch to the other side seems like a great idea. I’m keeping things on the down low here, if only to avoid another clusterfuck. Back in Houston, I wouldn’t have even bothered with a man who was merely bi-curious. Those situations are even more dangerous than straight guys.

“Think you’re competent enough to get me to switch teams?”

He’s teasing, toying with me.

“Competent enough to get you to consider it.” I inch closer but keep my itching fingers to myself. “At least for tonight.”

What the ever loving fuck is wrong with me?

I don’t have enough time to consider the consequences or the glorious benefits because a second after he crashes his mouth against mine his hand is covering my cock. The touch is strong, sure, and unlike any touch a woman would provide. There’s no fumbling, no resistance thinking my dick can’t handle such aggressive attention. Only a man confident in another man’s needs can ever make me feel this way.

The sting from the stubble above his top lip lights me on fire, and I close the distance, trapping his hand between us. Moaning at the press of my tongue against his, my skin is awash with goose flesh, my stomach filled with that flutter deep in my gut. You know the one. The sensation you only feel with a new lover or the burning desire felt by teenagers when they’re touched for the first time, experiencing something new and foreign.

It’s more than sexual attraction, and the need to blow my load after one of the longest, most stressful days I’ve had in years weighs me down. It’s guttural and soul-deep, but it’s the ping from his computer that gives me the excuse to step back and reevaluate.

I’m panting, hard as stone, and not even bothering to wipe the taste of him from my lips.

“We can’t,” I hiss, readjusting my cock and getting nothing back but an indignant throb.

Eyes narrowing, he glares at me as if I’ve stolen his thunder or stripped the words from his very own mouth.

“Yeah,” he says with a shrug even though his eyes are burning with desire. “Not good enough for me to switch sides.”

“Sorry,” I mutter and step back even further.

If pretending he doesn’t want more from me is what gets us out of this situation with minimal embarrassment, I’m all for it.

Disappointed as I watch him shoving his computer into his messenger bag, I shove my hands into the pockets of my slacks. It’s the only thing keeping myself from reaching for him. Well, that and the memory of my last workplace fling.

“See ya never,” he tosses over his shoulder as he pushes through the heavy conference room door.

Following his shadow until he’s swallowed up by the darkness of the outer offices, I breathe a sigh of relief before gathering my own things and making a beeline for my truck. I fight the urge to swing by the bar and drink my sexual frustrations away, opting instead to head home to do exactly what my body is demanding.

See ya never? Highly unlikely considering I ease into my bed thirty minutes later and jack off to nothing but the images I’ve conjured from tonight.

Problem is, I’ll be seeing Joey for a long time to come, even if it is in the darkness of my room with my hand glued to my cock.