"Yes," Mr. Henderson panted, his voice a wrecked purr of command and plea. "I want you to wreck me with that cock."
Mike's lips curled into a cocky smik and nodded. "You're the boss," he rumbled, voice a low, laced with just enough edge to make it clear who truly held the reins, even in concession. He rose fluidly from his kneel. Evan watched Mike prowl to where his discarded jacket lay crumpled on the rug and and fished into the inner pocket with deliberate nonchalance, retrieving a small bottle of lube, clear, premium stuff, the same that he could usually find at their bedside table, twisting the cap open with a pop. He poured a generous stream into his palm first, then wrapped his fingers around his shaft, stroking slow and thorough, making his cock glossy and sheathed in Shine. Excess dribbled down his knuckles as he stepped closer, one hand parting Mr. Henderson's reddened cheeks with unyielding possession, the other slathering the cool gel over that puckered hole.
Evan's eyes widened as he realized.No condom. No condom. They'd always played safe in their adventures, even the wildest threesomes where Mike's raw power had Evan's hole fluttering in memory; barriers between skin and risk, trust wrapped in latex. But here? Mike bare, that monster cock poised to claim without veil, sliding raw into another man's heat. The intimacy of it twisted Evan's gut, but his own denied erection twitching, hot and undeniable.
Mike planted himself then, knees bracketing Mr. Henderson's on the couch, one hand splaying wide over the CEO's hip for leverage as he aligned. The flushed head nudged the lubed rim, pressing with slow, inexorable pressure. Mr. Henderson grunted, a sharp bark more pain than pleasure, his frame tensing like a bowstring drawn taut, his back arching as the stretch began, that tight ring yielding grudging to Mike's girth, inch by thick inch forcing entry. Mike didn't stop, didn't falter; his grip tightened on Mr. Henderson's waist, fingers digging bruises into the lean flesh like iron clamps, holding him pinned and immobile, not letting him flee the invasion... though Mr. Henderson showed no sign of wanting to. No, the man shoved back against it, greedy and unashamed, devouring the burn as his face strained, jaw clenching, eyes slitting with the exquisite torment, a low whine threading through his gritted teeth.
Mike pushed deeper, his hips canting forward with controlled power, abs flexing into those etched ridges as he sank to the hilt. His balls nestled snug against Mr. Henderson's taint, the full nine inches buried raw and pulsing inside. A beat of stillness, Mike's breath sawing rough from his chest, then he drew back slow... agonizingly so, the slick drag pulling whimpers from Mr. Henderson's throat, his voice pitching higher in a cry that cracked the elegante veneer, his fingers clawing the armrest as he bit down on the leather cushion, muffling the grunts into bitten-off sobs.
Mike smirked down at him, a dark, triumphant slash across his jaw, eyes gleaming with that unrelenting fire as he gripped tighter... and thrust in one more time, deep and claiming, the slap of skin on skin resounding like a gavel's fall. Slowly but surely, Mike found his rhythm, hips rolling back and snapping forward in a building cadence that started deceptively languid. Deep, claiming drags that bottomed out with a wet schlick, his thick cock stretching Mr. Henderson's walls around its unrelenting girth, the lube easing the burn into something molten and inevitable. But Mike was a machine of pure intent, and the pace escalated, harder and harder, each thrust gaining force until that nine-inch jackhammer was pounding against Mr. Henderson's ass like judgment forged in fire—slap-slap-slap—the impacts echoing off the wood panels, Mike's heavy balls swinging to smack the CEO's taint with rhythmic insistence, the round cheeks rippling with every brutal invasion.
Mr. Henderson's moans swelled unrestrained, a symphony spilling from his bitten lips, high, keening cries that twisted into guttural pleas, "Oh, God, Hargrove, yes, deeper, you brute", his posh baritone cracking under the onslaught, silver hair matted to his forehead as his back bowed, pushing back to meet each plunge with greedy abandon. Evan’s forgotten cock was steadily. If there were other souls haunting the SVC office halls that night, there was no way they weren't hearing this: the filthy percussion of flesh on flesh, the CEO's debauched wails. Did they smirk in the shadows, whispering about the new director earning his stripes? Or did they avert their eyes, knowing Mr. Henderson's games all too well?
Mike fucked like a god, brutally, mercilessly, his massive frame a piston of power, his bulging biceps cording as he gripped Mr. Henderson's waist like handlebars, pulling him back onto every savage thrust, abs flexing into armored ridges that glistened under the chandelier's glow. Evan failed to recognize his husband in that beast, the man who'd always taken him with firm, loving intensity. Hard, yes, pinning him to the mattress and railing deep until Evan sobbed his release, but never like this. Not savagely, not with this violent, animal edge that bordered on wrath, Mike's hips blurring in a frenzy that shook the couch on its frame, the leather creaking in protest as Mr. Henderson's body jolted forward with each impact, his thick cock flopping spewing pre-cum in endless ropes onto the cushions below. Mike's hand reared back mid-thrust, palm cracking down on one reddened cheek with a whip-crack that split the air, even harder than before, the force blooming a fresh welt that had Mr. Henderson crying out, a raw, elegant sob that pitched high and broke, his face contorting in exquisite agony as tears streamed free. "More, please, Hargrove, harder," he begged, voice a wrecked velvet plea, ass clenching vise-tight around Mike's invading cock as if to milk him for punishment. Mike gladly complied, his next slap landing twin to the first, smack,the cheek jiggling under the assault, Mr. Henderson's cry devolving into a wail that rattled the windows, but he shoved back harder, greedy for the sting, the stretch, the dominance that cracked his world open.
Growls poured from Mike now, low and lionine, rumbling from the barrel of his chest like a beast unchained. Sweat glistened his body in rivulets, dripping from his jaw to splatter Mr. Henderson's back. One hand shot forward, fisting Mr. Henderson's silver locks in a brutal yank that snapped the CEO's head back, arching his spine into a bow of submission, throat bared and straining as Mike leaned over him, breath hot against his ear. "Whore," Mike snarled, voice gravel-rough and virile, thrusting deeper to punctuate the word, hips grinding the hilt against that plush ass. "You fuckin’ slut. Little fuckin' slut." Another snap forward, the sledgehammer burying to the balls, Mr. Henderson's moan choking off into a gargle. "You wanted that married cock, didn't you? You fuckin' whore. Fuckin' rich boy." The litany spilled filthy and fierce, Mike's free hand clamping Mr. Henderson's hip to hold him impaled, yanking the hair harder for leverage as he railed on, merciless and magnificente.
"Come here," Mike growled, thick with command, hand sliding from Mr. Henderson's hip to cup the CEO's jaw, tilting his face back . "I wanna see your face."
Mr. Henderson's response was a decadente smirk, elegant even in ruin, and Mike was already moving, hauling the his boss’s body with effortless strength, helping him twist beneath the onslaught without ever pulling free. Mr. Henderson rolled onto his back, legs hooking high and wide over Mike's broad shoulders, his ankles crossed at the small of that powerful back, heels digging into sweat-damp skin. The new angle bared him utterly. Round ass clenching around the buried cock, his own thick length slapping wet against his abs with each residual twitch, pre-cum pooling in the ridges of his navel. Mike renewed the assault then, hips slamming home with a wet schlurp that punched a guttural moan from Mr. Henderson's throat, the jackhammer driving deeper, raw, stretching that posh to its limits. He lowered himself slow, caging Mr. Henderson's lean frame under his bulk and Mike's mouth crashed down in a kiss that was voracious, depraved, a filthy show of tongue and saliva: lips sealing bruising, Mike's tongue plunging deep to claim every inch, sucking on Mr. Henderson's with lewd pulls that drew strings of spit between them when they broke for air, only to dive back in, grinding their mouths together like they could fuck that way too.
The tempo spiked even higher under the kiss, Mike's thrusts turning piston-frantic, harder, faster, the couch groaning in protest as his heavy balls slapped relentlessly against Mr. Henderson's ass, the room filling with the obscene slap-slap-slap of skin on skin, They fucked like that for what felt like hours to Evan, time blurring in the video's merciless march—the timestamp crawling past tem pm, the city lights outside the windows twinkling like distant witnesses to the debauchery. Mr. Henderson was completely out of it now, eyes glassy and unfocused, his moans devolving into babbling pleas, "Please, Hargrove, oh God, yes"as he held on to Evan's husband for dear life, one hand clamping Mike's bicep like a lifeline, fingers sinking into the flexed muscle until the veins popped stark, the other clawing down that massive back, nails raking red furrows over sweat-slicked lats, scratching almoos deep enough to draw blood.
Evan's hole clenched in raw need, fluttering empty and desperate around nothing, broken sob escaping as jealousy burned hotter than ever before, searing through his veins like acid-laced fire, his cock leaking untouched, balls aching with the denied build. He could almost feel it, Mike's cock breaking Mr. Henderson apart from the inside, that perfect curve grinding relentless against prostate like lightning forking through nerves, driving the CEO over the edge with electric jolts that made his thighs spasm around Mike's pounding hips. God, the envy twisted deep, Evan, who'd taken that stretch a thousand tender times, now watching another man shatter under it, claimed in ways that felt stolen.
Mr. Henderson's body started convulsing beneath Mike then, a full-body quake that rippled from his core—lean muscles seizing, toes curling tight in the air above Mike's thrusting shoulders, chest heaving as his throat went hoarse from the endles moaning, voice cracking into ragged screams that surely pierced the office walls. Evan knew what was coming next, the telltale signs etched in his husband's every conquest: the frantic clench, the arch of spine, the way Mr. Henderson's thick cock pulsed untouched against his abs, untouched but erupting. He came violently, shaking like a leaf in a gale, ropes of cum arcing hot and thick across his own pecs, splattering up to his chin as his hole spasmed vise-tight around, milking him in rhythmic pulls that pulled a savage bellow from Mike's throat. "Fuck, yes, boss, give it up," Mike snarled, hips never faltering, pounding through the climax with brutal mercy, while Mr. Henderson begged in broken velvet, "More, please, don't stop, Hargrove, oh Christ”, crying openly now, tears carving fresh paths down his temples, body writhing in the throes, utterly, beautifully undone.
Mike's fucking became more erratic then, hips losing that godlike precision in favor of raw, stuttering frenzy, thrusts jackhammering deep and uneven, his cock slamming home with desperate abandon, balls slapping frantic against Mr. Henderson's ass as sweat poured off his brow, tracing rivulets down the heaving slabs of his pecs. Once again, Evan knew what was gonna happen before it did. Mike was close now too, teetering on the razor's edge,shuddering with the strain of holding back, breath sawing rough and animal from his throat. He lowered his face into the crook of Mr. Henderson's neck, stubble scraping skin as he nuzzled deep, lips brushing the pulse point that hammered wild under his mouth, that silver hair tickling Mike's nose as he buried himself there, a fortress of intimacy amid the storm. Evan strained closer to the screen, heart fracturing soft and sharp, catching the low mumble vibrating against Mr. Henderson's flesh, gravelly words lost to the speakers' hiss, too muffled, too private, like secrets traded in the heat of battle. What was his husband saying? A growled confession of triumph? A filthy promise for the empire they'd fucked into being? Something tender, maybe mine now, boss that would forever belong only to them, a bond that Evan could never touch, never share.
Mr. Henderson looked like he was having an out-of-body experience, his elegant shell cracked wide into something ethereal and broken. Evan wasn't sure he was alive anymore, not in the corporeal sense, adrift in a sea of overstimulation that had fried every nerve to screaming white-hot. His screams had lowered to pathetic mewling, soft and wrecked whimpers that bubbled from his slack mouth like a porcelain doll gone haywire, “H-Hargrove”, the vowels slurred into nonsense, eyes crossed and unfocused, rolling back in his skull as his tongue lolled out, drool trailing down his chin to mix with the cum streaked across his chest. His body jerked boneless under Mike's onslaught, thighs locked high and trembling ,nails still raking futile down Mike's sweat-slicked back, as if anchoring to reality by the skin of his teeth.
Evan could only imagine it, the raw, relentless grind of Mike's curved cockhead battering Mr. Henderson's prostate like a storm surge, each erratic plunge sending lightning forks through overtaxed nerves, pleasure-pain twisting into a feedback loop that bordered on torment, walls clenching spasmodic around the invading cock, every inch a fresh assault that peeled him apart layer by elegant layer. God, the envy burned deeper now, Evan's breath hitching soft and ragged, his own body coiling tight in phantom sympathy, wanting that edge, that obliteration, even as it gutted him to see it given elsewhere.
Mike reached his peak then, shattering the air with a roar like a lion claiming his kill, fierce and primal, bellowing from the depths of his chest. His hips slamming flush one final time, burying to the hilt as his cock pulsed hot and thick inside Mr. Henderson. He emptied himself there, marking his boss as his in rope after viscous rope, raw, bare seed flooding deep, claiming, Mike's massive frame locking rigid, every muscle cording taut as he ground through the release, growls devolving into guttural grunts that shook the camera's frame. Mr. Henderson mewled sharper at the flood, body convulsing anew in aftershocks, milking every drop with greedy contractions, his out-flung tongue twitching as tears carved paths down his temples, utterly, irrevocably taken.
Mike collapsed atop Mr. Henderson in a sprawl of muscle and exhaustion, his frame panting hot and ragged into the crook of that marked neck. His cock, still buried balls-deep in that ravaged hole, twitched with the aftershocks of release, spent but thick, a final lazy pulse spilling the last dregs of his load into Mr. Henderson's clenching walls. They stayed like that, frozen in the wreckage, Mike's breath sawing rough from his throat, gravelly exhales ghosting silver hair, one massive arm slung heavy over Mr. Henderson's waist, pinning him down as if to say mine, fucking mine, while Mr. Henderson trembled beneath, his own release cooling sticky between them. Evan could almost feel the office air hung thick with the musk of it all: sweat and cum and cedar cologne, the only sounds their synced, labored breaths and the faint.
Evan blinked through the haz, his forgotten cock a throbbing ache, his hand limp in his lap as the video paused on their tableau... intimate, spent, a lovers' collapse that twisted the knife deeper into his soft heart. For the first time, his gaze snagged on the timestamp burned into the corner of the screen: 37:42 elapsed. He froze, breath catching fragile in his throat, free hand darting to scrub at his eyes as if to clear a glitch. Four hours? The progress bar mocked him, a thin white line crawling a mere tenth across the black void of the timeline, the total runtime glaring: 4:03:19. My god, four hours? Evan and Mike had never gone that long. Not even in the fevered dawn of their relationship, two hormone-crazed boys in dorm rooms and backseats, fucking till dawn with the clumsy urgency of youth, bodies insatiable but always cresting in an hour, maybe two on their wildest nights.
Had Mike taken something? Viagra, maybe? popped a pill in the bathroom marching to Mr. Henderson’s office, steeling himself for the with chemical fire? It didn't sound like Mike, his husband who prided himself on earned prowess, the kind forged in gyms and construction sites, not blue pills; Mike, who'd laugh off ED jokes with a cocky flex of his biceps, proving his point by railing Evan against the shower tiles till his legs gave out. But four fucking hours? Of that, brutal, savage thrusts and hair-yanks and ass-slaps that had peeled Mr. Henderson apart like an onion, layer after layer to screaming core? And Mr. Henderson, god, how? That silver fox, lean and elegant at fifty-odd, taking four hours of unrelenting violation, Mike's monster cock raw and bare, pounding without mercy, stretching him to breaking and beyond, through orgasms that shattered him into mewls and convulsions. Evan's hole was clenching again, empty and jealous, a phantom echo of that stretch he craved and couldn't have, not like this, not for hours that bent time into torment. He hovered the cursor over the progress bar, trembling: What else did you give him, Mike? What else is his now?
The video lurched to 1:12:47, the timestamp a gut-punch as the frame resolved: Mike and Mr. Henderson going at it again, relentless as the tide, Mr. Henderson bent over his own mahogany desk like a supplicant at an altar, papers scattering in a blizzard of memos and contracts under the CEO’s braced forearms. Mike looming behind him, Mr. Henderson’s his lean body jolting forward, cock trapped and leaking against the polished wood, the city skyline blurring beyond the windows like a voyeur's dream. Evan forwarded again and the bar flew to 1:58:23, another hour gutted, both men next to the tall glass window, Mr. Henderson pressed face-first against the cool transparency, palms splayed wide, his elegant profile etched in neon glow as Mike caged him from behind, the city lights dancing off their joined bodies like applause for the debauchery. He forwarded once more, fingers slick and shaking, the bar halting at 2:34:15—two and a half hours in, and the camera panned an empty office no bodies in frame. Yet the sounds... the sounds poured from off-camera, raw and unmistakable: wet slap-slap-slap of skin on skin, muffled grunts and moans filtering through what Evan imagined as an executive bathroom—elegant, all gleaming marble stainless steel Mr. Henderson's voice carried clearest, "Hargrove, yes, right there, you bastard"—punctuated by Mike's deeper, virile snarls. Evan's hole fluttered desperate, jealousy coiling tighter, imagining Mike hoisting Mr. Henderson against the sink, legs wrapped high, cock plunging raw into the heat while marble chilled their fevered skin. Forward again, Evan's thumb slipped on the trackpad, landing at 3:02:41 and the frame softened to a post-storm hush. Mike was sitting naked on the rug against the couch's base, legs splayed wide in relaxed conquest, his cock spent but heavy, one hand idly playing with Mr. Henderson's tousled hair as the CEO lounged with his head in Mike's lap, a lazy smile curving his lips. They were laughing, low Mike’s free hand tipping a bottle of bourbon to Mr. Henderson's mouth, amber liquid spilling a drop down the man’s chin that Mike thumbed away with a smirk. "Tastes better after round three, eh boss?" Mike rumbled, voice warm and cocky, fingers carding gentle through the strands, while Mr. Henderson hummed approval, posh lilt slurred with satiation.
One final forward, Evan's pulse a fragile thunder in his ears, the bar crawling to 3:41:12, three hours and change. The Persian rug was their battlefield now, Mike sprawled like a god on his back, arms folded behind his head to flex those bulging biceps, eyes hooded with sated fire as Mr. Henderson straddled him, naked and gleaming, his round ass hovering then sinking onto Mike's revived cock with professional skill, bouncing like a porn star choreographed for sin. Up and down, fluid and filthy, Mr. Henderson rode with expert rolls, hips circling to grind the curve against his prostate, then lifting high to slam back, cheeks clapping against Mike's hips with wet smacks, his thick length flopping heavy and leaking across Mike's abs. Mr. Henderson stabilized himself with both hands splayed wide over those meaty pecs, fingers sinking into the dark fur, thumbs circling the peaked nipples as he threw his head back, silver hair wild, moaning posh ecstasy—"God, Hargrove, you're endless"—while Mike growled low and encouraging, "Ride it out, sir. Milk Every drop.”
Mr. Henderson fell back, nails digging crescents into Mike’s thiggh like anchors in a storm. His body seized anew, untouched cock pulsing wild against his abs, and he came again, hands-free, another cataclysm ripping through him without mercy, the third? Fourth? Evan had no idea. Thick ropes of cum arced hot and claiming, splattering across Mike's furry chest in pearly streaks, marking the dark hair matted over the pecs, a reciprocal brand that mirrored Mike's earlier flood inside him. Mr. Henderson's posh cries peaked one final time, "Hargrove—oh, Christ, and Mike only smiled down up him, na approvin slash curling his full lips, his hand coming up to smear Mr. Henderson's release across his own pecs like war paint, "Good job, sir" he rumbled, with a low chuckle that vibrated through their joined bodies.
The sight shattered Evan utterly. His fist flied frantic over his cock, strokes blurring into a desperate pump that chased the echo of their release, lust fused into something venomous and purging. He came with a muffled sob, biting down hard on the heel of his free hand to stifle the moans clawing up his throat, teeth sinking deep enough to bruise, the sharp pain a counterpoint to the ecstasy ripping through him, cum spurting hot and thick over his knuckles, his shirtfront, splattering the desk in pearly venom that felt like exorcism and damnation all at once. His body arched in the chair, hole clenching empty and frantic as waves of it wracked him, soft, shattering, the purge leaving him hollowed, spent, staring at the screen through blurred vision as Mr. Henderson twitched in afterglow, Mike's chest rising and falling beneath the claiming mess.
Evan's thumb stabbed the progress bar again, forwarding through the final dregs, landing at 4:01:52. The timestamp was a mercy and a curse as the frame sharpened on the Persian rug, strewn with discarded clothes and the bourbon bottle like battlefield relics. Mr. Henderson knelt there, naked and glowing, body marked head to toe: welts blooming on his ass, scratches raking his thighs, cum drying flaky on his abs, but his elegant hands were steady now, expensive pen in grip as he used Mike's broad chest as an improvised desk to sign something with a flourish, the paper crinkling against sweat-damp skin. "To empires built on more than ink," Mr. Henderson murmured, soft and conspiratorial,eyes flicking up to Mike's with a wink as he scrawled his name, David Mr. Henderson, CEO in looping script. Mike took the pen next, signing against the plush of Mr. Henderson's thig, the contract granting him the Regional Ops throne in black and white: Michael Hargrove, "Nice doing business with you, sir” Mike drawled, voice triumphant, handing the pen back with a smirk before folding the papers neat, tucking them into the jacket pocket nearby.
After that, Mr. Henderson collapsed over Mike's body in a boneless drape, folding into the bulk like a wave breaking on rock, head pillowing on one pec, arm slung across Mike's abs as their breaths synced slow and deep, exhaustion weaving them close. The clock on the video showed it was close to dawn now: almost 5 a.m., the city skyline outside the windows fading from neon to gray, a hush falling over the office like a benediction on their satiation. They kissed then, tenderly. Exhausted lips brushing soft, no clash of teeth or claim, just a lingering press of mouths, tongues lazy and sweet, Mike's hand cupping the back of Mr. Henderson's neck while Mr. Henderson's fingers traced idle patterns over his pec, the world narrowing to that quiet tangle.
The video ended there, the screen fading to black, the silence in Evan's office crashing in like a verdict, his cum cooling sticky on his skin, heart a fragile, fractured thing in his chest, their dream-life now laced with this four-hour phantom.
A knock at the door jerked Evan awake, his body jolting upright in the chair as the fog of post-orgasm haze shattered. He blinked, disoriented, the laptop staring back at him like an accusation, the air in his office thick with the stale scent of sweat and release. Christ, he'd dozed off—curled in his desk, pants still shoved to his thighs, cum drying flaky on his knuckles and the rumpled edge of his shirt. Outside, life ticked on as usual: the murmur of keyboards clacking, phones trilling polite banalities, colleagues shuffling to the coffee machine with their chatter. The world hadn't paused for his unraveling; it never did.
Panic spiked hot in his veins, Evan's hands flying frantic, grabbing the pack of wet wipes from his desk drawer, the ones he'd stashed for "emergencies" like spilled coffee or stress sweats. He scrubbed at himself with desperation, the alcohol sting biting his softening cock, wiping away the evidence of his shame. He tucked himself back into his underwear with trembling fingers, then yanked his pants up, zipping with a wince as the zipper teeth grazed sensitive skin. A hasty finger-comb through his hair, a swipe of his palm over his flushed cheeks, and he forced his legs to steady, shaking still from the orgasm's afterquake, his stomach a leaden weight heavy with the four-hour fuck fest burned into his brain: Mike's roars, Mr. Henderson's mewls, the contract signed in cum and ink.
Hcrossed to the door on autopilot and opened ir. Jordan stood there—his assistant, all earnest twenty-something efficiency, wire-rimmed glasses, holding a tablet. "Hey, Evan, your five- o'clock with the Millers just canceled. Flu going around, I guess. You can head home if you want? Get a jump on the weekend?"
Evan nodded absently, his gaze unfocused on Jordan's concerned tilt of head. "Yeah... yeah, thanks," he murmured, voice raw, like he'd been the one screaming for hours. Jordan's eyes flicked past him, snagging on the desk, the laptop still cracked open, and for a heart-stopping moment, Evan was sure, god, sure tht his assistant knew, pieced it together in a flash: the locked door, the flush riding high on Evan's cheeks, the faint musk of sex hanging in the air like a confession.
But Jordan just blinked, brow furrowing gentle. "Something wrong, Evan? You look... off."
Evan shook his head sharp, dismissing the paranoia like smoke. Don't be ridiculous, he can't read minds, no one can, forcing a smile that pulled tight at his lips. "Nah, just... long day. Headache. I'm good, thanks." Jordan nodded, easy as ever, flashing a lamê thumbs-up before pivoting back to his desk.
He sagged against it for a beat, breath shuddering out, then started to gather his things. Laptop snapped shut like slamming a coffin lid, keys jingling cold in his palm. The office blurred as he slung his messenger over one shoulder, legs still unsteady on the walk to the elevator. Outside, the autumn air bit crisp against his flushed skin, October leaves crunching under tires as he slid into the car, engine humming to life with a growl that sounded too much like Mike's.
The drive home blurre, city streets bleeding into suburbs, radio droning some pop ballad about forever that twisted the knife deeper, Evan's mind replaying fragments in merciless loop: Mike's thrusts, Mr. Henderson's pleas, that bourbon-laced laugh shared in the afterglow. His cock twitched faint in his slacks, a traitor stirring even now, but he gripped the wheel tighter, jaw aching from the clench. Their driveway loomed soon, the Craftsman house glowing warm in the fading light. Mike's truck already parked, his husband home early for once, probably in the kitchen with a beer and blueprints, that Sweet grin ready to pull Evan into a kiss that tasted like home. Evan killed the engine, hands lingering on as the decision settled: he wasn't telling. Not a word about the video, the four-hour frenzy, the way Mike had changed and unleashed that savage, unrecognizable beast and given himself fully to Mr. Henderson, body and secrets and that explosive, like-minded fire. Let it go, Evan thought. Mike's ambition had bought them the world, after all. What right did Evan ruined by talking about he payed for it?
He stepped out, bag slung heavy, and walked inside to the man who'd always been his world.
In the quiet, Evan whispered to the empty hall, “We’re okay.” A prayer, a supplication, a vow; as Mike's voice boomed from the kitchen: "Ev? That you? Dinner's almost ready. Steaks on the grill."
Evan smiled, soft and real this time, hanging his keys by the door. "Yeah, my love. I'm home."
