Evan had always believed in soulmates, but it wasn't until he met Mike in the sticky haze of a high school kegger that he understood what the word really meant. They were just kids then, eighteen and invincible, with Mike as the wild heart of every party, his laughter booming over the thump of bass, his broad shoulders cutting through crowds like a ship through waves. Evan, quieter, more watchful, had been nursing a lukewarm beer in the corner when Mike zeroed in on him, those piercing brow eyes locking like a promise. "Wanna dance?" Mike had asked, and he grinned, and just like that, Evan was hooked. Twenty years later, at thirty-eight, Evan still woke up every morning tracing the lines of that same grin, now etched a little deeper with the wisdom of a man who'd traded frat-house chaos for blueprints and deadlines.
God, Mike was a masterpiece. Six-foot-two of solid, earned muscle, the kind that came from years of hauling rebar on construction sites before climbing the corporate ladder to senior engineer. His chest was a broad expanse of power, meaty pecs that flexed under Evan's palms like warm steel when they fucked, dusted with dark hair that begged for fingers to rake through it. Those arms, Christ, those arms: bulging biceps that could pin Evan to the mattress with effortless strength, veins snaking like rivers over forearms thick as Evan's wrists. Mike's abs were a subtle six-pack, not ripped to shreds like some gym rat fantasy, but honed from real work: hard, flat planes that quivered under Evan's tongue during lazy Sunday blowjobs. And his cock... Evan shivered even now, thinking of it. Thick as his fist at the base, nine inches of veined heat that curved just right to hit that spot inside him, the head flushed dark pink and always leaking pre-cum like an invitation. Mike's balls hung heavy and full, swaying with that hypnotic rhythm when he thrust deep, grunting low in his throat as he claimed what was his.
Their marriage was the stuff of envy quiet anniversaries in Venice one year, a weekend by the fire in the Alps the nex. Mike had proposed on a rainy night in their first shitty apartment, down on one knee in fron of their takeout lo mein, and Evan had said yes with tears streaming, knowing he'd follow this man anywhere. Through Mike's late nights poring over project specs, through the miscarried dreams of kids they'd whispered about in bed, their love only deepened, a fire that burned steady and hot. Evan loved watching Mike evolve from the boisterous party boy who'd once chugged beer from a cowboy hat to the dedicated powerhouse he was now, commanding boardrooms with that same easy charisma. At thirty-eight, Mike was at his peak: salt-and-pepper flecks in his close-cropped hair, a jawline sharp enough to cut glass, and a body that still turned heads at the firm. Evan felt like the luckiest bastard alive every time Mike slung an arm around his waist in public, possessive and proud, or when he'd come home from a long day, strip down to nothing, and pull Evan into the shower for a slow, soapy grind against the tiles.
Tonight, that luck felt like it was cresting. Mike had been buzzing all week about the dinner party at David Mr. Henderson's mansion, the CEO's sprawling estate on the hill, all marble floors and crystal chandeliers that screamed old money. "This is it, Ev," Mike had said that morning, buttoning his crisp white shirt over those glorious pecs, the fabric straining just enough to hint at the power beneath. "Schmooze Mr. Henderson and the board, and that Regional Operations Director spot is ours. Leading divisions across three states. Crews, timelines, unions, the whole headache. But with that raise? Fuck, we could finally talk about that beach house." Evan had kissed him then, hard and hungry, dropping to his knees right there in the bedroom to worship that cock until Mike was cursing, fingers tangled in Evan's hair, spilling down his throat with a roar.
The party was a glittering affair, the kind where waiters in tuxes circulated with trays of caviar and vintage scotch. Evan played his role to perfection, the dutiful husband, charming and unobtrusive, laughing at the board members' golf stories while stealing glances at Mike holding court. Mr. Henderson himself was a silver fox in his early fifties, graying temples framing a face that could sell ice to penguins, his smile dazzling under the low lights. He was polite to Evan all evening, compliment his suit, asking about his art consultancy job, clapping him on the back with jovial compliments about how "lucky" Mike was... but there was something off in those sharp green eyes... a flicker, almost mocking, like Mr. Henderson was in on a private joke Evan hadn't been invited to. Evan chalked it up to the man's snobbery; the CEO's tailored suit probably cost more than their mortgage payment, and his anecdotes dripped with Ivy League polish. Still, the night hummed with success. Mike was magnetic, weaving tales of mega-projects and sustainable builds that had the board nodding like schoolboys. Evan floated on a cloud of pride, sipping his wine and thinking how no one could touch what they had.
That was, until he caught it. The subtle touches. Mr. Henderson's hand lingering a beat too long on Mike's thigh as they sat side by side on a leather sofa, fingers brushing the seam of his slacks. Later, a casual pat over Mike's pecs during a laugh, thumb grazing the swell of muscle. And once, when Mike flexed unconsciously while gesturing, Mr. Henderson's fingers trailed his bicep, light as a whisper but deliberate. Evan blinked it away, heat prickling his skin. Mr. Henderson was just one of those touchy-feely guys, right? Power plays in silk ties. Nothing more. By the time they piled into the car, the city lights blurring past, Evan's glow hadn't dimmed.
"You nailed it," he murmured, hand on Mike's thight, as they sped home. "Director Mike. Has a ring to it."Mike's grip on the wheel tightened, his jaw set in that thoughtful line Evan knew too well. He pulled into their driveway, the engine ticking to silence, and turned, those brown eyes shadowed in the dash glow. "Evan... we need to talk."
The words hung in the air like smoke after a gunshot, thick and acrid. Mike's hand found Evan's in the dim glow of the dashboard, but it felt different this time. Not the reassuring squeeze of their usual after-parties, but something tentative, weighted with the kind of confession that could crack foundations. Evan turned fully toward him, the leather seat creaking under his shift, heart suddenly thudding against his ribs like a caged animal. "What is it?" he asked, voice steady despite the sudden dryness in his throat. "The promotion? Did something go south?"
Mike exhaled, long and slow, his free hand scrubbing over his jaw, the stubble rasping audibly in the quiet car. His eyes, usually so clear and commanding, darted away for a second, fixing on the shadowed garage wall before dragging back. "No, Ev. The promotion... it's mine. Mr. Henderson pulled me aside right before we left, shook my hand, said the board's unanimous. Regional Ops Director, starting next month. The raise is even better than we thought, six figures bump, equity in the next big high-rise." Evan's breath caught, a grin blooming automatic on his face, relief flooding hot and sweet. "Holy shit, Mike! That's—" But the words died as Mike's grip tightened, not in celebration, but in anchor. His husband's face was a storm cloud, that sharp jaw clenched tight enough to etch lines deeper than the ones from years of sun and stress.
"But there's a catch," Mike said, voice dropping low, rough like gravel under tires. "Mr. Henderson... he laid it out plain as day in his study, after the toasts. Said he'd been watching me climb, knew I was the guy for the job. But to 'seal the deal,' as he put it..." Mike paused, swallowing hard, his Adam's apple bobbing under the collar of his unbuttoned shirt. "He wants me. One night. Him and me, no strings, no one else knows. In his office, next week, before the announcement goes public."
The world tilted. Evan's grin shattered like cheap crystal, shards of shock embedding deep. He stared, mouth parted on a breath that wouldn't come, the garage spinning lazy in his periphery. Mr. Henderson? That silver-haired prick with the mocking eyes and the tailored suits that hugged his lean frame like a second skin? The man who'd clapped Evan's shoulder all night with that jovial bullshit, eyes twinkling like he was picturing something filthy?
"What?" Evan finally choked out, the word a rasp. "He... he what?"
Mike's thumb stroked Evan's knuckles, a small mercy amid the unraveling. "I thought... I fucking hoped... bringing you tonight would kill it cold. Show him the ring on my finger, the way we with each other, how solid we are. Figured a guy like him, all polish and power plays, would back off once he saw I wasn't some lonely exec chasing tail. That you're my world, Ev. That we're untouchable." A bitter laugh escaped him, self-deprecating, his broad chest rising and falling too fast. "Backfired like a son of a bitch. He cornered me after dessert, whispered it while you were grabbing coats. Said watching me play the perfect husband all night? Made him want me more. Said I glow when I'm with you, like I'm some forbidden fruit he can't wait to bite."
Evan's mind reeled, fragments of the evening snapping into vicious focus: those touches, the thigh graze under the table that Evan had dismissed as eccentricity, the pec pat that lingered like a brand, the bicep trace that now felt like a claim staked in plain sight. Mr. Henderson's smile, that goddamn mocking curl, as if he'd been toying with Evan all along, dangling the future of their life like a carrot on a string. Nausea churned low in Evan's gut, but beneath it, god help him, something darker twisted, a flicker of heat he couldn't name. Not jealousy, not exactly. They'd played before, after all. Threesomes with lithe twunks who begged for Mike's cock while Evan watched, stroking himself to the sight of his husband's thick shaft stretching them open, those heavy balls slapping rhythmically. That one wild weekend in Vegas, swapping with another couple, Evan buried in some guy's ass while Mike railed the husband beside him, their eyes locking over sweat-slicked backs, the thrill of shared sin binding them tighter. It was heat, it was trust, it was theirs.
But this? This wasn't play. This was transaction. Mike's body, that glorious, hard-won temple of muscle and power, bartered like a bonus clause in a contract. Mr. Henderson's hands on those bulging biceps, not in admiration but ownership; his mouth, fuck, Evan could picture it now, unbidden and vivid, wrapped around Mike's nine-inch cock, that veined monster throbbing against a silver tongue, pre-cum pearling on the flushed head as Mike's abs clenched, fighting the urge to thrust. Mr. Henderson's lean fingers digging into those meaty pecs, pinching nipples to peaks while Mike grunted, selling out for a title, a raise, a step up the ladder he'd clawed his way along since they were kids. It wasn't the fucking that gutted Evan; it was the why. Mike, his unrelenting, ambitious force of nature, reduced to a power play's pawn. Or worse—choosing to be.
Evan knew his husband, bone-deep. Knew the fire in eyes when a project deadline loomed, the way Mike's cock hardened against Evan's thigh during late-night talks about his strategy sessions, ambition bleeding into lust like ink in water. If Mike was voicing this now, voice cracking with guilt but eyes steady, it wasn't for absolution. It was for permission. Because yeah, he wanted it. The promotion, the power, the validation of being the man who could lead divisions and crush unions and build empires.
The silence stretched, electric, until Evan forced words past the lump in his throat, his hand turning to lace fingers with Mike's, holding on like a lifeline. The garage light flickered on overhead, casting harsh shadows across Mike's face—those high cheekbones, the faint scar on his jaw from a bar fight in their twenties, the lips Evan had kissed a thousand times, now pressed thin with the weight of what he'd unleashed. The air in the car thickened, charged like the moments before a summer storm, Mike's cologne, cedar and sweat from the party's heat, mingling with the leather seats and the faint, metallic tang of Evan's rising panic. His hand trembled in Mike's grip, the calluses on his husband's palm a familiar anchor, rough from years of gripping tools and blueprints, now slick with the barest sheen of nerves
.“Jesus, Mike... I don’t... I don’t even know what to say.” Evan's voice cracked on the last word, soft and pleading, his eyes wide and vulnerable in the dim light. Mike's thumb traced slow circles over Evan's knuckles, a gesture so tender it twisted the knife deeper, his eyes locking on like searchlights in the dimness. Up close, Evan could see the pulse jumping at the base of Mike's throat, just above the open collar where a single dark curl of chest hair escaped, begging to be tugged.
Mike leaned in fractionally, his broad frame filling the space. His voice came out low and gravelly, a rumble from the chest like thunder rolling in. “Spit it out, Ev. No bullshit.”
Evan's gaze dropped, unbidden, to the vee of Mike's shirt, the outline the swell of those pec, full and firm, the kind that bounced subtly when Mike fucked him from behind, slamming home with that unrelenting rhythm. Memories flooded in: the way those muscles flexed under his nails during their last threesome, the Brazilian twink from that trip to Rio writhing between them, Mike's thick cock buried in the kid's hole while Evan fucked his mouth slow, their eyes never breaking contact. But this wasn't that. This was Mike's body... their body, the one Evan had mapped with lips and tongue and teeth, dangling like currency. He swallowed hard, his words tumbling out whisper-soft, laced with a quiver.
“Oh, Mike... you shouldn’t. It’s not worth it, please. You’re worth so much more than a thousand beach houses.”
Mike's free hand came up, cupping Evan's jaw with a gentleness that belied the power in those fingers, the ones that could crush rebar or curl inside him just right, stroking that spot until stars burst behind Evan's eyelids. His touch lingered, thumb brushing Evan's lower lip, parting it slightly, as if testing the waters of a kiss that might shatter them both. The garage felt smaller. Mike's voice dropped even lower, edged with that commanding grit, the kind that made Evan's knees weak in boardrooms and bedrooms alike.
“Listen, the gig’s gold, Ev. Regional Ops. Crews, timelines, the whole damn empire. It’s what I’ve busted my ass for, year after year.”
Evan's breath hitched, his own cock twitching traitorously at the raw certainty in Mike's tone, the low rumble of his voice vibrating through them like foreplay. He could picture it too easily—Mike in that corner office, commanding crews with that authoritative growl, his biceps bulging as he signed off on multimillion deals, coming home to Evan reeking of success and sweat, stripping down to fuck the day's tension away against the kitchen counter. But the image soured, twisting with Mr. Henderson's lean hands, those manicured fingers, gripping Mike's hips instead, pulling him down onto a desk, Mike's abs clenching as the CEO rode him, grunting through the betrayal for a title and a check.
Evan's fingers clutched at Mike's shirt, voice breaking into a soft, aching plea. “But... but you wouldn’t be earning it. You’d be... selling yourself, Mike. It breaks my heart to even think it.” Mike's eyes darkened, a flicker of that old party-boy fire sparking beneath the maturity, his grip tightening just enough to send a jolt straight to Evan's groin. He shifted closer, their foreheads nearly touching, Mike's breath warm against Evan's mouth—scotch and mint. Evan's free hand moved on instinct, palm flattening against Mike's chest, feeling the thunder of his heart under. God, he wanted to rip it open, suck marks into that skin, claim what was his before it was auctioned off. Mike growled low, the sound vibrating against Evan's palm, his words blunt and unyielding, like a hammer on steel.
“Come on, Ev, it’s just a sex. Like that time with the Brazilian guy, remember?”
The words landed like a slap and a caress, Evan's mind reeling back to Rio: the hotel room thick with moans, the twink's lithe body sandwiched between them, Mike's cock—flushed and leaking, thrusting deep into tight heat while Evan knelt behind, tongue lapping at Mike's swinging balls, tasting salt and musk as they both chased release. It had been electric, filthy, theirs. But Mr. Henderson? That mocking smile wrapped around Mike's shaft, silver hair tousled as he swallowed him down, those green eyes gleaming up at Mike's strained face? No. Evan's stomach knotted, even as his dick throbbed, the betrayal of his own desire making him hate himself a little.
He leaned into Mike's touch, voice a fragile murmur, eyes shimmering. “I... I’ll stand by you, whatever you choose, my love. I just... please, think it through. Really think.” Mike's hand slid from Evan's jaw to the nape of his neck, fingers threading into his hair with a possessive tug that arched Evan's spine, a low whine escaping unbidden. Mike's body heat was a furnace now, his thigh flexing against Evan's, that subtle grind of muscle hinting at the power coiled there, the same strength that pinned him down and railed him senseless. But Mike's face was a mask of torment, those full lips parting on a shaky exhale, revealing the white flash of teeth. His response came out firm, edged with resolve, no room for waver.
“I already did” The admission hung there, final as a gavel, Mike's eyes steady now, resolute, the ambition Evan had always loved burning bright and unapologetic. No hesitation, no plea for debate, just the man who'd clawed his way from keggers to corner offices, ready to trade flesh for the throne. Evan's chest ached, a hollow throb, but beneath it, a dark thrill uncoiled.
.“So... there’s nothing left to say, then.”
Mike's mouth crashed down then, not gentle, not forgiving, a bruising kiss that tasted of desperation and decision, his tongue plunging deep like a claim staked in the wreckage. Evan melted into it, hands fisting Mike's shirt, yanking it open to palm those sweat-slick pecs, thumbs circling hardened nipples as Mike groaned into his mouth, hips bucking forward to grind that thickening cock against Evan's thigh. The car rocked faintly with their urgency, buttons digging into backs, but neither cared. Fingers fumbling at belts, breaths ragged as Mike hauled Evan half into his lap, that veined length springing free, hot and heavy against Evan's palm. "Take me first," Evan breathed against Mike's lips, voice trembling with need, guiding the head to his entrance, slick with desperation already. "Don’t Forget that you’re mine"
Mike thrust up with a guttural snarl, burying himself to the hilt in one brutal slide, those powerful hips snapping as Evan's walls clenched around him, the stretch burning sweet and familiar. Balls deep, Mike paused, forehead to Evan's, brow eyes fierce. "Damn right I am. No one changes that." And as he started to move—slow at first, then relentless, the car fogging with their moans—Evan clung tighter, wondering if this was goodbye to innocence or the hottest foreplay of their lives.
PART 2.
The days blurred into a haze after that garage reckoning, each one a tightrope walk over the chasm Mike had cracked open between them. Evan threw himself into work, spreadsheets and client calls that blurred into nonsense, but his mind kept circling back to the image of Mr. Henderson's hands on Mike's body, those manicured fingers tracing the ridges of abs Evan had worshiped for years. Mike was steady as ever, kissing him deep the next morning with that gravelly "Love you, babe" before heading out, his broad back filling the doorway like a promise. But the air between them hummed with unspoken static, touches lingering a beat too long, fucks turning frantic and fierce, as if Mike was imprinting himself one last time before the deal was sealed.
Monday morning dawned crisp and unforgiving, the kind of autumn bite that seeped through Evan's sweater as he sipped coffee at the kitchen island. Mike emerged from the shower, towel slung low on his hips, water beading down the deep V of his hips to where that thick cock hung heavy. Even now, Evan's mouth watered at the sight of his husband. Mike leaned down, pressing a kiss to Evan's temple. “Gonna be late tonight, Ev," Mike rumbled, voice low and matter-of-fact, like he was discussing overtime on a site. His hand squeezed Evan's thigh under the table, thumb stroking the inseam in a way that sent traitorous heat pooling low. "Mr. Henderson stuff. Don't wait up."
Evan's stomach dropped, a cold fist twisting inside, but he nodded, forcing a soft smile that felt like glass in his cheeks. "Okay, love. Just... text me when you're on your way?" His voice came out small, breathy, fingers trembling as they toyed with his mug. He knew. Christ, he knew. It meant Mr. Henderson's office, that polished den of oak and leather where Mike would spread those powerful thighs, let the silver fox unwrap him like a prize. Evan's cock twitched despite the ache, a shameful pulse at the thought of Mike's biceps flexing as he braced against a desk, that nine-inch beast sliding into Mr. Henderson's greedy mouth, pre-cum slicking a stranger's tongue.
The day unraveled him thread by thread. At his desk, emails swam in a fog; a conference call droned on while Evan's mind conjured vivid horrors: Mike forcing Mr. Henderson to his knees, those meaty pecs heaving as he face-fucked the CEO, grunting like the alpha he was, balls slapping against a stubbled jaw. Or worse, a delusional, insane imagine of total top of a husband bent over, ass up, Mr. Henderson's lean hips snapping forward, claiming what wasn't his with thrusts that made Mike's abs ripple, his cock leaking untouched onto the carpet.
Evan bit his lip until it bled, shifting in his chair to hide the half-hard bulge in his slacks, hating how the images in his mind twisted into this dark, throbbing want. By five, he was a wreck, palms sweaty, heart jackhammering, bolting home to pace their empty living room, the clock's tick a metronome to his dread. Dinner time crept in like a thief, the kitchen clock mocking him at seven, then eight. No Mike. No text. Evan's hands shook as he uncorked a bottle of cabernet, the glug-glug echoing too loud in the silence. He poured a glass, then another, the rich red staining his lips as he slumped at the table, picking at a cold plate of pasta he'd nuked out of habit.
Don't think about it, he whispered to the empty air, but the wine loosened the floodgates. Mike on his back now, probably, as Mr. Henderson rode him slow and smug, silver hair falling forward while Mike's cock stretched him wide, that perfect curve grinding against prostate until the boss shattered with a moan. Whoring himself out. Mike, his unbreakable man, reduced to a power play, heavy balls emptying into a condom for a title, a raise, a future that suddenly tasted like ash.
He drained the bottle. He crawled to bed sometime after midnight, the sheets cold without Mike's furnace body, and let the wine drag him under into fitful dreams of hands that weren't his. A creak at the door yanked him awake at six a.m., the first gray light filtering through the blinds like a guilty dawn. Evan bolted upright, heart slamming, sheets tangled around his legs as footsteps thudded heavy in the hall.
The bedroom door swung open, and there was Mike, framed in the threshold like a god carved from exhaustion and triumph, his shirt hanging open to bare expanse of his chest, rising and falling with breaths, nipples dark and peaked from the chill or memory. His belt dangled loose, slacks unzipped just enough to hint at the dark trail leading down to where his cock nestled, spent but still thick against his thigs. Bruises bloomed fresh on his collarbone, thumbprints from desperate grips, and his neck bore a red mark, hickey or bite, Evan couldn't tell. while his hair stuck up wild, as if fingers had ravaged it for hours.
Mike's eyes met Evan's, stormy with fatigue but lit from within, that post-battle buzz humming under his skin like live wire. He stood taller somehow, shoulders squared in the posture of a conqueror, the kind who'd stormed the gates and claimed the spoils, his jaw set with that unrelenting grit Evan had fallen for all those years ago. A slow, wicked grin tugged at his lips, the kind that promised stories filthy enough to scorch, as he toed off his shoes and prowled toward the bed, shedding his shirt with a shrug.
“Mornin', babe," Mike growled, voice hoarse from moans or commands, collapsing onto the mattress with a groan that vibrated through Evan's bones. He hauled Evan close, manhandling him effortlessly against that chest, the scent of sex and scotch and victory clinging to him like a second skin, musk and salt, Mr. Henderson's cologne faint but unmistakable on his skin.
Evan's soft gasp muffled against Mike's pec, lips brushing the warm, hair-dusted swell as his hand drifted lower, fingers ghosting the undone zipper, feeling the heat of that spent length stir under his touch. Mike's arm banded around him, possessive and iron, thigh slotting between Evan's to grind lazy and insistent."Miss me?" Mike murmured, nipping Evan's ear with teeth that grazed just shy of pain, his free hand sliding under Evan's sleep shirt to palm his ass, kneading with the strength of a man who'd just fucked his way to the top. Evan's body arched into it, soft and yielding, cock hardening against Mike's hip as the details burned unspoken between them. How many times had Mike come? On his knees, or riding hard? Did Mr. Henderson beg like the power-hungry slut he was? But Mike's buzz was infectious, that warrior's glow seeping into Evan's veins, turning dread to a twisted hunger. He didn’t dare asked, and Mike never offered the answers. The morning light gilded them both, and as Mike holde him close to his chest, cock flacid against Evan's thigh, and they both surrendered to sleep, wondering if he would ever hear the stories about what happened that night.
The weeks melted into a golden blur after that raw, victorious dawn, the kind of season where the air crisped with falling leaves and possibility, wrapping their life in a cocoon of what felt like redemption. Mr. Henderson kept his word. No leaks, no smirks in the boardroom shadows. The announcement hit the wires on Tuesday, Mike's name etched in bold across the company intranet: Regional Operations Director, Michael Hargrove. The raise cleared faster than a cleared site, fat deposits hitting their joint account that let Evan breathe easy for the first time in months, visions of debt-free sunsets dancing in his head. Mike strode into that corner office like he'd built it himself, shoulders back, that six-foot-two frame commanding the space as naturally as he commanded Mr. Henderson body in his office.
Mike thrived. He barreled through the door each evening like a force of nature unchained, tie yanked loose around his thick neck, sleeves rolled up to expose those veined forearms that flexed with every emphatic gesture. "Babe, listen to this," he'd growl, brow eyes alight with a fire Evan hadn't seen since their honeymoon in Paris , wild, infectious, the kind that made Evan's soft heart swell until it ached. New ideas spilled from him in a torrent: streamlining union contracts, green retrofits for the firm's next high-rise that could slash timelines by months, poaching talent from rivals over steak lunches where Mike's charisma sealed deals like his cock sealed Evan to the mattress. Evan would curl on the couch, legs tucked under him, chin in hand, watching his husband as he paced. You're brilliant," Evan would murmur, voice breathy with awe, reaching out to trace the ridge of Mike's bicep, feeling the muscle jump under his fingertips. Mike would pause, grin that wicked, conquering slash, and haul Evan up into a kiss that tasted of coffee and conquest, tongue deep, hands possessive on his ass, grinding their hips until Evan whimpered, cock leaking into his jeans.
And the romance? It bloomed like never before, Mike's ambition channeling into a tenderness that left Evan boneless and cherished. Mornings started with lazy sixty-nines, Mike's heavy balls dragging across Evan's forehead as he swallowed that nine-inch curve down his throat, gagging softly while Mike's gravelly moans vibrated against his own hole, tongue spearing deep and relentless. Evenings ended with Mike drawing a bath, those strong arms lifting Evan in like he weighed nothing, settling him between thighs corded with power, soaping his chest with hands that knew every sensitive inch. "You're my world, Ev. You’re everything.", Mike would rumble against his ear, fingers curling around Evan's length to stroke slow and firm, thumb circling the slit until pre-cum beaded like pearls. "All this? It's for you." Evan would arch back, soft gasps turning to pleas, coming with a shudder that Mike chased with his own release, hot spurts painting Evan's back as they sank under the bubbles, spent and sated.
They stole weekends away, packing the Jeep for the mountains, cabins tucked in pine shadows where the only deadlines were the ones Mike set for how many times he'd make Evan scream his name. Fog-shrouded trails by day, Mike's hand engulfing Evan's as they hiked ridges, his husband's body a sculpted lure in fitted thermals, pausing to fuck against a Boulder, Evan's back to the rock, legs wrapped high, Mike's thrusts pounding deep and unyielding, the wilderness echoing their grunts. Nights by the fire, Mike's fingers lazy in Evan's hair, planning the beach house hunt: coastal listings scrolled on a tablet, Mike's free hand absently kneading Evan's thigh as they debated ocean views versus private docks. "Something with a hot tub," Mike would say, voice dropping husky, nipping Evan's lobe. "So I can kiss you under the stars."
Evan would melt, whispering agreements, his world narrowing to the dream they were Building, sun-bleached decks and salt-kissed mornings, Mike's laughter booming over waves, their bed a tangle of limbs and forever. It was paradise, the kind Evan had only glimpsed in stolen moments before. The price Mike had paid faded to a scar, tucked away like an old bruise, irrelevant against the glow of this life. Evan forgot the touches at the party, the late-night shadows in Mr. Henderson's office; forgot the whoring bargain when Mike came home reeking of sawdust and success. They were unbreakable, soaring.
Until the email.
It landed in Evan's inbox on a Thursday afternoon, ordinary as rain, while he nursed a lukewarm latte at his desk, scrolling beach house comps between meetings. The sender: [email protected]. SVC. Steel Vanguard Construction. Mike's firm, the domain a punch to the gut. Evan's thumb froze mid-swipe, heart stuttering like a skipped beat, the office hum fading to white noise. Mr. Henderson. It had to be Mr. Henderson. No subject line, just an attachment: video.mp4. The body held seven words, stark black on white: "Enjoy."
Dread uncoiled slow and serpentine in Evan's belly, cold fingers wrapping his spine, choking the air from his lungs. His hand hovered over the trackpad, trembling, as forgotten visions clawed back: Mike's exhausted triumph that dawn, the hickey blooming on his neck, the musk of another man's release faint on his skin. What the fuck was this? Blackmail? A taunt? Evan's cock, fucking traitor that it was, twitched faintly at the edge of fear, a dark curiosity flickering. He glanced at his phone. No texts from Mike, just a heart emoji from their morning goodbye kiss. I love you, Mike had growled, palm cupping Evan's face like fragile glass.
Fuck it. Evan's finger clicked play.
