Fuck it. Evan's finger clicked play.
The video stuttered to life under Evan's trembling click, the buffer wheel spinning like a noose tightening around his throat. His office chair creaked as he shifted, the expensive fabric sticking to the small of his back where sweat had bloomed, his breath shallow and ragged in the sterile hum of fluorescent lights. The screen filled with the wide expanse of Mr. Henderson's sanctum, a lavish aerie suspended above the city, where twilight bled through floor-to-ceiling windows in bruised purples and golds, casting long shadows across polished wood-paneled walls that whispered of old money and older sins. A pair of leather couches flanked a low glass table strewn with crystal decanters, their amber contents glinting like captured fire, while the mahogany desk dominated the room, na altar of power, its surface scarred faintly from deals struck and perhaps bodies bent.
Perched on the desk's edge, legs crossed with the casual arrogance of aristocracy, was Mr. Henderson himself. His smirk was a masterpiece of restraint and relish, lips curved in that dazzling, predatory arc, green eyes hooded with the quiet triumph of a man who'd just checkmated his prey. Satisfaction radiated from him, not in bombast but in the subtle tilt of his chin, the way his fingers drummed a staccato rhythm on the desk, victory exuded like fine cologne, heady and inescapable.
And there, framed in the doorway like a colossus summoned to battle, stood Mike, his face a mask of carved granite, jaw set like rebar in concrete, bronw eyes burning with a cold, feral resolve. The Armani navy suit Evan had ironed that morning draped his broad frame like a second skin, the jacket tailoring sharp lines over shoulders that could shoulder the world, the trousers hugging the thick swell of his thighs and the heavy, shadowed promise of his cock nestled against one powerful leg. Mike was there, which meant Mr. Henderson had won the war.
"I'm glad you've come to your senses, Hargrove," Mr. Henderson purred, his voice a silken drawl laced with Ivy League polish and veiled venom. "Really, there's no need to inflate this into some tawdry melodrama."
Mike's chest rose on a controlled breath. His reply came out like gravel under boot treads, low and unyielding, a growl forged in the gut of a man who'd hauled steel beams before breakfast. "Had to clear it with my husband first."
Evan's heart thundered in his chest, a frantic drumbeat that drowned the distant honk of traffic two stories below, his free hand pressing flat against his sternum as if to cage the organ before it burst free. The câmera caught every nuance: the subtle flex of Mike's biceps as he held his ground, the way Mr. Henderson's smile bloomed wider, a crescent of white teeth against tanned skin, as he slid from the desk with the languid poise of a sommelier uncorking vintage sin. He approached Mike in measured steps, Italian loafers silent on the Persian rug, closing the distance until the heat between them crackled like static, Mr. Henderson's lean height a mocking echo of Mike's bulk.
"And what did dear Mr. Hargrove have to say on the matter?" Mr. Henderson inquired, his tone pure velt, arching one perfectly groomed .
Mike didn't yield an inch, his stance rooted like an ancient oak, voice dropping to that resonant baritone that had once commanded Evan's surrender in a thousand tangled sheets"He trusts me to do right by us."
A soft, incredulous laugh escaped Mr. Henderson, elegant fingers steepled before him as he circled Mike slowly, a shark in bespoke tailoring, his eyes alight with wicked curiosity. "Was he scandalized, then? Did he dissolve into tears? Begged you not to debase yourself? Urged you to contact HR, or tender your resignation?”
"Evan's no priest,”, Mike shrugged.
Mr. Henderson's mouth parted in a gasp of pretend astonishment, his hand fluttering to his chest eyes widening just so. "Really? I wouldn't have guessed. He strikes one as so... domesticated. So... well, dull," he murmured, the apology in his tone as thin as spun sugar, laced with that posh lilt that turned insult into art, his gaze flicking away as if in genuine regret—though the curl at his lips betrayed the lie.
Mike surged forward then, his voice cracked like a whip, edged with arctic steel. "If you want this to play out smooth, you keep my husband's name outta your damn mouth, sir."
Evan's breath hitched, a soft, reverent sob catching in his throat as warmth bloomed fierce in his chest. Love, pure and scorching, for this unbreakable beast of a man who'd draw blood before letting a snake like Mr. Henderson tarnish what was theirs. Mike's defense was a fortress, his broad back a shield Evan could lean on forever, even as his cock, traitorous, aching, twitched in his slacks at the raw alpha fire in his husband's eyes.
Mr. Henderson paused, genuine surprise ghosting his patrician features, as if he hadn’t expected Mike to defend his husband, but it vanished like mist under sun, replaced by a chuckle. "Don't trouble yourself, Hargrove," he soothed, voice dipping into that honeyed timbre of boardroom seductions, stepping in close enough that his fingertips, long and unscarred, brushed Mike's lapel. With a flourish, he plucked at the suit jacket's button, easing it from those cannonball shoulders in a slow reveal, the fabric whispering down Mike's arms to pool on the rug like shed armor. Beneath, the crisp white shirt molded to every ridge and swell: the meaty pecs heaving with restrained power, the veined forearms flexing as Mike allowed the disrobing, biceps bulging like coiled pythons. Mr. Henderson's gaze feasted, unashamed, his touch lingering on the shirt's placket, tracing a pec's curve with the reverence of a collector unveiling a prize. "By the time I'm through with you, you won’t recall having a husband at all."
Before Mike could muster a response, Mr. Henderson surged forward, closing the scant distance between them in a blur of refined aggression. His mouth crashed against Mike’s with voracious intent, lips parting in a demand that was all silk and steel, tongue darting out to claim territory with the precision of a fencer’s thrust. It was no tentative exploration; it was a conquest, Mr. Henderson’s lean body pressing flush against Mike’s bulk, one hand fisting the shirt at his pec to anchor himself. Evan’s breath snagged in his throat, a soft, involuntary gasp fogging the laptop screen as he watched, transfixed, his heart a wild flutter in his chest. Mike didn’t hesitate. Didn’t recoil or stiffen with reluctance. No, Mike dove into the fray with the same ferocious passion that had scorched their sheets a thousand times, his mouth opening under Mr. Henderson’s assault, tongue meeting tongue in a brutal tangle that was all teeth and heat and unyielding want. Evan blinked, surprise blooming soft and stinging behind his ribs. He’d braced for some flicker of doubt, a moment’s pause where Mike’s mind warred with his body, but no. Mike was no man of regrets, no half-measures. Once his mind locked on a course, he charged it with the brutal efficacy of a bulldozer through bedrock, the same relentless drive that had turned a high school hellraiser into a boardroom titan. And god, it showed: Mike’s massive hand clamped onto Mr. Henderson’s waist, fingers digging into the fine wool like claws staking a claim, the grip so familiar it twisted Evan’s gut with a pang of aching memory, all the nights those same hands had spanned his hips, hauling him close, bruising just enough to mark him as owned.
With a low, guttural growl that vibrated through the speakers like distant thunder, Mike took control. He hoisted Mr. Henderson off the floor in one fluid surge of power, bulging biceps cording under the rolled sleeves of his shirt as Mr. Henderson’s lithe frame rose weightless in his grasp. The CEO’s legs wrapped around Mike’s waist instinctively, thighs clamping tight like a vice, his polished Oxfords dangling forgotten as Mike’s hips ground forward once, hard and deliberate, the thick ridge of his cock pressing against Mr. Henderson’s ass through layers of fabric. Mr. Henderson’s moan muffled into the kiss, a refined keen that cracked his posh facade, but Mike didn’t break stride; without severing their mouths, he pivoted, carrying his boss back to the desk in three prowling steps, each one flexing the meaty slabs of his thighs, the trousers pulling taut over glutes honed from deadlifts and determination.
They collided with the mahogany edge in a symphony of restrained violence, Mr. Henderson’s ass hitting the wood with a thud that rattled a crystal paperweight, Mike’s body caging him there, one hand braced on the desk beside Mr. Henderson’s hip, the other still vise-locked at that waist, pinning him down. The kiss dragged on, passionate and punishing, tongues dueling in wet, obscene slides that had Evan’s cock hard his briefs now, a hot, shameful throb he couldn’t ignore. Saliva glistened on their lips when Mike finally tore free, only to map a trail of fire down Mr. Henderson’s jaw, rough nips from stubble-scraped skin, Mike’s breath hot and ragged against the elegant line of tendon. Lower still, to the throat, where Mike latched on like a man starved, sucking hard enough to bloom a bruise, teeth grazing the pulse point that hammered under his assault.
Mr. Henderson arched back with a dramatic flourish, head lolling against the desk’s edge, the moan ripped from his chest pure pornography, low and throaty, a decadent “Oh, yes, Hargrove, right there,” drawn out in that velvet baritone. His face tilted directly toward the camera then, green eyes locking on the lens with a clarity that punched Evan square in the solar plexus. Even from the grainy distance, through the screen’s glow, Evan knew. Those eyes weren’t seeing the hidden lens; they were piercing straight to him, mocking, triumphant, as if Evan were crouched in the shadowed corner of that office, forced to witness every filthy second, breath held shallow while his husband ravaged another man. Mr. Henderson’s lips parted on another moan, tongue flicking out to wet them, a deliberate tease that said, watch me take what’s yours.
Evan’s finger hit the spacebar so viollently he thought he broked it, the video freezing , the image locked: Mr. Henderson’s head thrown back in ecstasy, throat bared and marked; Mike’s face buried in the crook of that neck, mauling with open-mouthed ferocity, dark hair mussed, one hand vanished from view, god, where? Under the shirt? At the belt? Evan’s stomach roiled, bile rising sharp and sour, his free hand flying to his mouth. He shouldn’t be watching this. Shouldn’t. Mike had come home that dawn buzzing with victory but zipped tight as a vault about the details, no play-by-play, no confessions over morning coffee, just that fucking warrior’s glow. He wouldn’t want this exposed, this raw unraveling of his ambition’s price, not like this, not for Evan to dissect frame by frozen frame, to see the man he loved reduced to a transaction.
He lurched up from the chair and paced the cramped confines of his office like a caged thing, three steps to the window, blinds rattling as he gripped the sill, staring unseeing at the parking lot below, the view so different from Mr. Henderson’s office. His breath came in soft, hitching pants, cock still achingly hard against his thigh, tenting his slacks in a way that made him want to weep. Minutes bled; one, five, ten?; before the pull dragged him back, gaze snagging on the screen like a hook in flesh. There was Mike, paused mid-devour. Evan’s fingers twitched, traitorous, as a dark whisper uncoiled in his mind. Just one more second, what happens next? Does he fuck him raw on that desk, balls deep, grunting like he does for you?
No. Yes. With a trembling exhale, Evan twisted the lock on his office door, sealing out the world, the hum of printers and distant chatter fading to irrelevance. He sank back into the chair, thighs quivering, one hand drifting unconsciously to palm his erection through the fabric. Slowly, oh, so slowly, as if his body warred with his soul, some fragile part of him screaming to delete the file, to burn the laptop if it meant forgetting, Evan’s other hand ghosted over the spacebar. He pressed it, gentle this time, the video stuttering back to life with a lover’s sigh.
Mr. Henderson broke the kiss with a gasp, pulling back just enough to drink in the sight of Mike sprawled there, his body an invitation to ruin, the leather couch cradling his massive frame as if built for gods. He rose slowly, fluidly, perching on the edge of the cushions with knees bracketing Mike's spread thighs, his elegant hands trailing reverent down that exposed torso—fingertips ghosting over the hair dusting those meaty pecs, circling a hardened nipple with a feather-light tease that pulled a low rumble from Mike's chest. "Jesus," Mr. Henderson breathed, voice a husky murmur of genuine awe, green eyes raking every inch with unabashed hunger, from the heaving slabs of muscle to the veined ridges of abs that clenched under his gaze, arrowing down to where Mike's cock tented the trousers like a god begging worship. "Look at you. How do you maintain that body while slaving away ten hours a day?"
Mike shrugged, the motion rolling those boulder shoulders with cocky nonchalance, a smirk tugging at his full lips, predatory, unrepentant, the kind of grin that said he'd earned every scar and swell through sheer, bull-headed will. His eyes stayed locked on Mr. Henderson, heavy-lidded and smoldering, one massive hand coming up to palm the CEO's thigh through his slacks, thumb stroking the inseam with lazy possession. "Gym at dawn, boss. And a husband who keeps me motivated," he drawled, voice gravel-thick and laced with that manly edge, a wink flashing as he watched Mr. Henderson rise fully, stepping back to the rug with a flourish that screamed theater.
Mr. Henderson began to undress, slow, deliberate, like a striptease scripted for an audience of one. First the suit jacket, shrugged off and tossed aside to reveal a crisp shirt that hugged a frame surprisingly chiseled for in his fifties: broad but not bulky, a lean musculature honed by private trainers and privilege, not the grind of sites Mike knew. The shirt followed, buttons flicking open one by one under, peeling away to bare a chest that made Evan's heart stutter... because it not unlike his own, wiry and defined, but where Evan's skin was smooth porcelain, Mr. Henderson's was lightly furred, a dark-dusted pelt trailing down the sternum to navel, framing pecs that were firm swells, nipples dusky and peaked in the office chill.
Then the trousers. Belt unbuckled with a soft clink, zipper rasping down as Mr. Henderson shimmied them off. His ass emerged like a revelation: big and round, perky in a way that defied gravity and years, cheeks full and plush, dimpled at the base of his spine. His thighs were, meaty, powerful, furred with the same dark-hair that caught the light and flexed as he stepped clear, cock springing half-hard and thick from a nest of groomed curls, curving up toward a flushed head already glistening. Evan stared, transfixed, as the pieces clicked with brutal clarity: Mr. Henderson was exactly Mike's type. For the first time, the truth sank in like a slow, twisting knife: fucking Mr. Henderson wouldn't be a hardship for Mike. No grim duty, no gritted-teeth transaction. He'd love it, the conquest, the moans, the way that round ass would bounce back against his pounding rhythm, heavy balls slapping furred skin. Mike's eyes darkened on screen, devouring the view with a hunger that mirrored Evan's memories, and god, it hurt, as Evan's cock throbbed harder in his underwear.
Mr. Henderson's gaze lingered a beat longer on Mike's bared torso, eyes tracing the roadmap of muscle and sinew like a connoisseur appraising a rare vintage. Then, with a sigh that was equal parts reverence and command, he sank to his knees on the plush Persian rug. He murmured something, but it was too low for Evan to hear. Mike watched him from the couch, legs still splayed wide in dominant sprawl, one massive hand braced on the leather armrest, knuckles whitening as Mr. Henderson tugged the trousers down those tree-trunk thighs. The fabric pooled at Mike's ankles, kicked aside with a casual flick of his foot, revealing the black boxers he always wore, the only kind in his drawer, hugging his hips like a second skin. They strained to the breaking point, the dark material tented obscenely by his super-hard cock, nine veined inches of rigid heat outlined in stark, throbbing detail: the thick base pulsing against the seam, the curved shaft angling upward like a challenge, pre-cum already darkening a wet spot at the waistband where the flushed head strained for freedom. Mike's heavy balls shifted beneath, full and drawn tight, the whole package a testament to his arousal—raw, unapologetic, the kind of manly endowment that had Evan on his knees more mornings than he could count.
Mr. Henderson wasted no time, no coy tease from the CEO; his hands hooked the elastic, yanking the boxers down in one smooth pull, Mike's cock springing free with a heavy slap against his abs, veins engorged, head glossy and weeping and Evan could almost smell the musky scent of arousal hitting the ai. One second blurred into the next, and Mr. Henderson's mouth was on him, lips parting wide to engulf the head in wet, velvet heat, tongue swirling the slit to lap up that first salty bead before sliding down, inch by thick inch, cheeks hollowing with refined suction that pulled a guttural sound from Mike's depths.
The moan that ripped from Mike's chest was low and seismic, a primal rumble that seemed to shake the very walls of the office, deep from the gut, like thunder trapped in a barrel chest, vibrating through the speakers straight to Evan's core. "Fuuuck," Mike growled, head tipping back against the leather, hand fisted in Mr. Henderson's silver hair, not guiding yet, just anchoring, fingers threading possessive through the strands. Evan's soft gasp fogged the screen, his own cock jerking untouched in his slacks, a shiver racing down his spine as he glanced at the clock burned into the video's corner: 21:47. It was late, late enough for the building's hum to fade, but not graveyard quiet; Mike had burned the midnight oil plenty of times, blueprints spread till eleven while Evan waited up at home Were there ears pressed to keyholes down the hall? Colleagues lingering over coffee, pretending not to hear the CEO's office echo with that earth-shaking bellow?
Evan's mind spun, soft and frantic, as Mr. Henderson bobbed deeper, throat working around Mike's girth with obscene ease, a muffled hum of approval vibrating up the shaft that had Mike's abs clenching into sharp relief. Did they know? The suits who'd clapped Mike on the back at the promotion party, the ones who'd whispered about Mr. Henderson's "hands-on" management style over scotch? Had Mike let it slip in some after-hours bull session, a casual "Yeah, sealed the deal upstairs" with that cocky shrug, while they nodded knowingly, shocked silent or chuckling into their beers? Or was this business as usual in Steel Vanguard Construction's glass tower, Mr. Henderson's elegant manipulations a poorly kept secret, employees traded like poker chips for favors, another notch on that silver belt for the man who collected conquests like stock options? Mike, though, they be surprised he'd bent for it? Or would heads shake in unsurprised resignation, muttering, "Hargrove? That ladder-climber? Shit, there's nothing he wouldn't do to hit the top. Fuck the boss, sell his soul, whatever it takes." The thought twisted like a knife in Evan's gut as his hand drifted to his zipper, fingers trembling on the tab, arousal warring with the ache of knowing his husband's fire burned for more than just them.
Evan's fingers, trembling with a mix of shame and insatiable need, fumbled at his zipper, the metallic rasp slicing through the office's hush like a guilty secret. He was aching, god, so achingly hard in his underwear, the cotton briefs tented and damp where pre-cum had soaked through, his cock a throbbing betrayal against the confines. With a soft, hitching breath, he shoved his pants down just enough, the fabric pooling at his thighs, fingers pressing firm over the rigid length, a low whine escaping his parted lips as friction sparked stars behind his eyelids.
On the screen, Mr. Henderson kept at it, relentless and ravenous, his polished CEO veneer shattered into shards of raw, animal want. That elegant man who'd schmoozed boardrooms with velvet threats and vintage scotch, was no more. Now he was a street whore in tailored nothing, on his knees like he'd been born to it, feasting on Mike's cock with a fervor that bordered on worship. His head bobbed with obscene grace, lips stretched glossy around the thick girth, sliding down to the root without a hint of difficulty, deepthroating that nine-inch monster in one fluid plunge, throat convulsing around the curve that hit the back of his palate, nose burying in the dark thatch at Mike's base as he swallowed, hummed, milked. Better than Evan ever had, and fuck, that stung. Evan, who'd once prided himself on his cock-sucking skills, the way he'd hollow his cheeks and tease the slit until Mike's heavy balls drew tight, spilling hot down his throat with a bellow. But Mr. Henderson? He owned it, tongue swirling the underside on every upstroke, saliva trailing in thick strands from his chin to Mike's swinging sack, one furred hand cupping those full orbs to knead them gentle and insistent, the other braced on Mike's thigh for leverage.
Mike watched him transfixed, sprawled like a king on his leather throne, one massive hand still fisted loose in that silver hair, not forcing, just holding, thumb stroking the CEO's temple in absent rhythm. Low grumbles rumbled from his chest, manly utterances like distant Thunder, "Yeah, like that, fuck"—his brown eyes hooded and intense, that cocky smirk softened into something darker, hungrier, as Mr. Henderson's gaze lifted, locking on his with a smoldering stare. Evan could almost see it, that electric ray of connection arcing between boss and employee—raw power yielding to rawer lust, ambition twisting into intimacy, Mr. Henderson's eyes gleaming up with a mix of submission and sly command, as if to say this is ours now, while Mike's stare burned back, unyielding.
The sight snapped something in Evan, a dam breaking soft and inevitable; his hand slipped past the waistband of his underwear, fingers wrapping his leaking cock in a desperate, slick glide—skin on skin, hot and urgent, thumb circling the head to smear pre-cum as he stroked, slow at first, matching the bobbing rhythm on screen. Mike's moan swelled again, deeper this time, hips canting up to fuck that willing throat, and Evan jerked faster, breath shattering, lost in the filthy mirror of it all, his husband's pleasure echoing in his veins, a twisted tether that hurt so good he couldn't stop.
Mike surged up from the couch then, his massive hand tightening in Mr. Henderson's silver hair to yank the CEO's head back, exposing that elegant throat, the Adam's apple bobbing on a swallowed gasp. "That's enough playing, sir," Mike growled as he stood to his full, towering height, trousers kicked forgotten to the rug. His cock jutted proud and unyielding from the dark thatch at his groin. Evan's soft moan hitched in the quiet of his office, his fist pumping faster now around his own cock, his free hand clutching the desk edge as if to anchor against the storm building in his veins. The violence in Mike's stance hit him like a slap: this wasn't the controlled dominance Evan knew from their bed—the firm grips and deep, claiming thrusts that left him cherished and spent. No, this was something feral, unrestrained, Mike's hips snapping forward with brutal precision, feeding every inch of that thick shaft into Mr. Henderson's willing mouth in one savage plunge.
Mr. Henderson took it gladly, gladly, the polished facade crumbling into ecstatic ruin as Mike dominated him utterly, fucking his throat with a violence Evan had never witnessed in his husband before. Gagging wet slaps filled the speakers, obscene and rhythmic, glurk-glurk-glurk, as Mike's girth stretched those refined lips to their limit, tears welling fast in his eyes and spilling hot tracks down his flushed cheeks. His face turned red, his hair matted with sweat and grip, but he never pulled back, never tapped out; instead, he hollowed his cheeks harder, tongue undulating frantic along the underside, one hand flying to Mike's thigh for purchase while the other pumped his own thick cock in frantic counterpoint. Sounds poured from Mr. Henderson, pornographic symphonies of surrender, muffled chokes that twisted into greedy hums, a desperate whine keening from his stuffed throat each time Mike bottomed out, balls slapping heavy against his chin. "Fuckin' take it, sir" Mike snarled, free hand clamping the back of Mr. Henderson's skull to hold him impaled, hips jackhammering with that unrelenting force. Tears streamed unchecked now, but Mr. Henderson's eyes begged for more, his body arching into the abuse like it was the air he breathed.
Evan's masturbation surged in tandem, his strokes turning erratic and fierce, breaths coming in soft, shattered. His hole clenched empty, aching for the stretch he knew so well, tears of his own blurring Mike's face into a haze of pleasure-pain, the sight of his husband so savagely owned and owning twisting the knife deeper into his gut, hotter in his groin. God, how could it feel this good to shatter?
Evan's fist faltered mid-stroke, the burn of impending release coiling tight and vicious in his gut like a spring wound too far—his balls drawing up, every nerve screaming for that final, shattering plunge over the edge. But he dropped it, fingers uncurling with a soft, desperate whimper, letting his erection bob untouched against his abs, throbbing in protest as he gasped for air, chest heaving in the stuffy confines of his locked office. No, not yet, not like this, not to this, the image of his husband's brutal pleasure searing too deep, too raw, to chase alone.
On the screen, Mike halted too, yanking free from Mr. Henderson's ravaged mouth with a wet, obscene pop that echoed through the speakers like a gunshot in Evan's chest. His massive frame shuddered once, hips stuttering to a halt as his cock slipped free, bobbing heavy in the air, the flushed head mere heartbeats from eruption, a thick rope of pre-cum dangling from the slit to snap against Mr. Henderson's chin. Evan realized it then, in a soft, gut-wrenching flash: Mike was teetering on the same precipice he was, breathless and undone. Mr. Henderson licked his swollen lips slow and deliberate, saliva dripping in glossy trails from his chin to mingle with the tears streaking his reddened face, a devilish smile curling that posh mouth; smug, sated, utterly unrepentant; as he gazed up at Mike from his knees, eyes gleaming with wicked triumph. "Is that all you've got, Hargrove?" he taunted, voice a husky rasp, breathless but unbroken, like a duke mocking a rival over brandy and betrayal.
Mike's laugh rumbled low, a devilish mirror to Mr. Henderson's; cocky and dark, flashing white teeth in a grin that bared the wolf beneath the man; as he extended one hand, palm up in offering. "Not even close, boss," he growled, voice gravel-scraped and thick with the edge of his near-climax, hauling Mr. Henderson to his feet with effortless power. The CEO rose, his body pressing flush against Mike's sweat-slicked torso. They collided in kiss again, Mike's mouth claiming Mr. Henderson's with a hunger that scorched the screen, tongues tangling deep and unhurried, Mike tasting himself on Mr. Henderson’s tongue, the salty tang of pre-cum mingling with scotch and sin as he groaned into it, low and possessive. It wasn't frantic this time, no clash of teeth and conquest; it unfolded like long-lost lovers finally reunited after years in exile, slow drags of lips, soft explorations turning fervent, Mr. Henderson's hands roaming up Mike's pecs to pinch those peaked nipples while Mike's fingers splayed wide over that round, perky ass, kneading the plush cheeks with bruising reverence. Their hard cocks brushed in the crush—Mike's sliding hot along Mr. Henderson's thigh, the Mr. Henderson’s own length trapping between their abs, hips rolled in lazy, grinding sync, the wet schlick of skin on skin punctuating their moans.
Distantly, through the haze of his own denied ache, Evan noticed it: the chemistry exploding between them, a live wire arcing hot and inevitable, sparks of lust and like-kind fire that lit the office shadows into something almost beautiful. And god, it made sense now, the soft click of revelation settling heavy in his chest: they were the same, Mike and Mr. Henderson, cut from ambition's unforgiving cloth: relentless, unyielding, willing to barter flesh and soul for the summit, to fuck their way up the ladder if it meant the view from the top. Mike's hand cupped the back of Mr. Henderson's neck, tilting his head for a deeper angle, and Evan wondered, if this was love's cruelest mirror. His husband finding an echo in another, a dark twin to chase the high he craved.
Mike broke the kiss with a ragged exhale, his hand sliding from Mr. Henderson's neck to grip his ass, fingers sinking deep into the plush flesh, kneading with a possessive growl that rumbled from his chest like an engine turning over. "Get on the couch," he ordered, voice low and commanding, he steered the Mr. Henderson around, guiding him back to the leather expanse with a firm press between the shoulder blades. Mr. Henderson complied with a theatrical shiver, his body arching into the touch as he climbed onto the couch on all fours. Ellegant knees sank into the cushions, hands braced against the padded armrest, his big, round ass perching high in the air like an offering on a silver platter. The cheeks parted slightly in the pose, revealing the shadowed cleft and the tight, puckered hole nestled there, his thighs tensing with anticipation, his thick cock hanging heavy and leaking between them, swaying with each shallow breath.
Mike knelt behind him, dropping to one knee on the rug with the grace of a predator stalking closer, his own cock bobbing rigid as he settled. For a long minute, he just stared. Hungry, ravenous, devouring the sight of his boss's ass, tracing the dimples at the base of the spine, the way the cheeks quivered faintly under the office chill, the dark hair dusting the crack like an invitation to plunder. Mike's hand flexed at his side before he reared back and slapped, palm cracking against one full globe with a sharp, resounding smack that echoed off the wood panels. Mr. Henderson's ass jerked in the air, the cheek blooming pink under the impact, a ripple traveling through the meaty flesh as he moaned a throaty "Oh, yes, Hargrove" drawn out in that posh lilt, head dropping forward to press his forehead against the armrest, furred back arching deeper to present more. Mike's grin flashed devilish in the low light, a low chuckle rumbling from him as he wound up again, delivering the next slap harder. The crack like a whip's lash, skin on skin, the force sending Mr. Henderson's whole body jolting forward, the pink turning to a heated red handprint that bloomed vivid and claiming. Mr. Henderson keened, a pornographic wail that twisted into a plea, his cock twitching visibly, a fresh bead of pre-cum dripping to the cushions below. Mike didn't pause, didn't relent; his hand flew once more, the third slap landing with full, brutal force on the other cheek, crack, Mr. Henderson's ass bouncing back into the strike, quivering as he gasped, tears pricking anew at the corners of his eyes, but his hips canted back, begging silently for the sting.
Evan's breath shattered soft against his palm, transfixed and torn. Mike had never done that to him, not like this, not with that unrestrained violence, the full weight of his hand cracking like judgment day. The slaps Mike had given Evan's ass in their bed, the playful swats during lazy doggy, or firm taps to spur him on, now felt like caresses in memory, gentle preludes compared to this raw unleashing, Mike giving the full, merciless force of his palm to Mr. Henderson's ass, marking it red and ripe as if it were canvas for his conquest. The realization burned, soft and searing in Evan's chest, jealousy laced with a dark thrill, his hole fluttering empty as he imagined the heat of those strikes, the way they'd make him sob Mike's name.
Mike rose from his kneel like a leviathan surfacing looming over Mr. Henderson's arched form. His eyes raked down the CEO's back, lingering on the dimples at the base of his spine, before Mike leaned in, hot breath ghosting the skin. He started at the neck, lips sealing over the nape in a scorching kiss that bloomed wet and open-mouthed, tongue lapping the salt of sweat as Mr. Henderson shivered violently, a refined gasp escaping him like fine china cracking. Mike's mouth trailed lower, delivering a chain of hot, bruising kisses down the elegant curve of Mr. Henderson's spine, each one a brand, teeth grazing just enough to raise gooseflesh, the hair tickling Mike's lips as he went, pecs pressing firm against Mr. Henderson's back, his own nipples dragging electric trails. Evan shivered in his chair, a full-body tremor that rippled from his scalp to his curling toes, as if Mike's mouth were mapping his skin instead. The familiar heat, the possessive suck that always left him marked and melting. His denied cock jerked against his abs, hand hovering but not daring to touch again.
Lower still Mike went, hands splaying wide over Mr. Henderson's hips to hold him steady, until his face hovered at that perked ass, reddened cheeks still quivering from the slaps, the cleft parted invitingly. Mike's teeth sank in then, biting one full globe with such savage strength that Evan winced, sure he'd draw blood. The flesh compressed white under the pressure, then flushed deeper crimson as Mike released with a growl, a faint crescent of teeth marks blooming vivid, no break in skin but close, so close, Mr. Henderson's body bucking forward on a strangled cry that was half-pain, half-ecstasy. Before the echo faded, Mike dived. His face buried deep into that furry cleft with the hunger of a thousand starving men, no preamble, no mercy, tongue spearing flat and broad against Mr. Henderson's hole in one ravenous lick that started at the base and dragged up, circling the rim with filthy precision. He ate ass like the pro he was, a master of the craft honed on Evan's body in lazy afternoons and frantic nights, tongue working magic he knew so well, thrusting shallow then deep, the wet schlick of saliva and muscle filling the speakers as he rimmed with relentless fervor, lips sucking the sensitive pucker, nose grinding into the taint while his stubble scraped fire along the cheeks. One of Mike's hands snaked beneath then, reaching to wrap around Mr. Henderson's thick length, his fingers engulfing the shaft in a slow, deliberate stroke, pumping base to tip, unhurried and teasing, syncing with the plunge of his tongue. Mr. Henderson was leaking like a faucet now, pre-cum sluicing over Mike's knuckles in hot, endless pulses, the wet fap-fap of the handjob mingling with the slurps from behind, his moans pitching higher, frantic, body trembling on the edge of unraveling.
Mike pulled back at last, only far enough to let his fingers replace his mouth, massaging the spit-slick hole in firm, circling presses, the pad of one thick digit probing the rim, teasing entry as Mr. Henderson panted into the cushions, ass clenching greedily around nothing. He was about to introduce that finger, slow breach, the way he always eased Evan open with patient care, when Mr. Henderson twisted his head, silver hair wild, chest heaving as he gasped, "No. Don't prep me."
Mike paused, breath hot against the welted cheek, voice rumbling low "You sure, sir?"
"Yes," Mr. Henderson panted, his voice a wrecked purr of command and plea. "I want you to wreck me with that cock."
