Simon Kensington-Morley’s forehead pressed against the cool metal of the stall door. His charcoal suit—a masterpiece of tailoring worth more than Dean Miller’s semester tuition—was now rumpled, the fine wool damp with sweat that darkened the fabric beneath his arms and across his broad back. The silver streaks in his otherwise dark hair were stark against his temples, slicked back earlier with precision but now falling in disarray. His knuckles whitened where they gripped the porcelain sink, the tremors in his strong, well-maintained hands betraying the CEO’s ironclad façade. “Please, Dean...” The whisper was raw, stripped of authority, a sound that belonged in shadowed bedrooms, not the sterile confines of this corporate bathroom. His breath hitched, the top buttons of his shirt undone, revealing a dense mat of dark chest hair against the powerful torso usually hidden beneath layers of bespoke fabric. “I need it. I can’t... think straight anymore.”
Dean leaned against the opposite wall, his naturally athletic build—honed by casual basketball, not obsessive training—relaxed yet dominating the cramped space. He wore faded jeans and a simple grey hoodie, sleeves pushed up to reveal forearms corded with lean muscle. His open, expressive face, usually lit by a disarming smile, had sharpened into something predatory. “Begging already?” He uncrossed his arms, taking a deliberate step forward. The harsh fluorescent light caught the unnerving intensity in his hazel eyes—a flicker of youthful curiosity now fused with primal hunger. “And here I thought the mighty Simon Kensington-Morley called the shots.”
Simon flinched. Dean’s proximity was a physical force, the younger man’s earthy scent of soap and worn cotton cutting through the bathroom’s antiseptic haze and Simon’s own expensive sandalwood and bergamot cologne. The CEO’s meticulously constructed world felt galaxies away. “I can’t help it,” Simon admitted, voice cracking. “You’ve... twisted me into knots.” His gaze dropped to Dean’s throat, unable to hold the unsettling intensity of those hazel eyes.
Dean chuckled, a low vibration that echoed off the tiles. He closed the final distance, his calloused hand snapping up to grip Simon’s jaw, forcing their eyes to meet. “Look at you,” he murmured, his thumb brushing the older man’s stubble. “The big-shot CEO with the watch worth more than a car. Reduced to trembling in a bathroom for a kid who files your paperwork.” His tone wasn’t cruel, but relentlessly observant, savouring the unravelling of the man whose mature, handsome face was etched with lines of desperate need instead of command. The clash of expensive cologne and the salt tang of Simon’s sweat filled the small space.
Simon’s eyes fluttered shut. A moan escaped him as Dean’s grip tightened. The latent power radiating from the younger man was intoxicating, a siren call to the submissive streak Simon had buried beneath decades of ruthless deals and polished smiles. He leaned into the touch, craving the surrender Dean’s presence promised. “Your spell...” Simon breathed, the admission tearing from him. “It’s all I feel.”
Dean’s grin widened, a flash of white teeth in his expressive face. He leaned in, his lips brushing Simon’s ear, his voice a velvet threat. “Good. Because I’m nowhere near finished with you.”
Two Weeks Earlier
The office of Kensington-Morley Global was a monument to controlled chaos. Floor-to-ceiling windows showcased a glittering cityscape, while below, a hive of activity buzzed: keyboards clattered like frenzied insects, phones shrilled, and polished shoes clicked across marble floors. Dean Miller navigated the maze of glass partitions, clutching a stack of expense reports for the Marketing department. His worn sneakers were silent against the opulent flooring, a stark contrast to the Prada heels and Italian leather surrounding him.
He felt like a stray dog in a diamond store. His Business Admin degree felt useless here. He was twenty-one, surviving on ramen and a partial scholarship, sharing a cramped apartment near campus. This world of tailored suits, whispered power plays, and Adam Price’s silently judging gaze as he served Simon’s espresso—it was alien. His stepfather, John Fletcher, worked down in Logistics—muscles earned loading pallets, not lifting weights. Their relationship was polite and distant. John had married Dean’s mom, tried to be a dad, but the connection never sparked. Now, Dean was here, Simon Kensington-Morley’s unexpected intern, a fluke of John’s nervous recommendation and a surprisingly casual interview where Dean’s unintentional directness seemed to… amuse the CEO.
The pressure was relentless. Dean craved sanctuary. He found it in the executive washroom on the 40th floor—small, infrequently used, tucked away from the main thoroughfare. He slipped inside, the heavy door sighing shut behind him, muting the corporate cacophony. Blissful quiet. He entered the farthest stall, locked it, and leaned his head back against the cool partition, closing his eyes. Just five minutes. Five minutes to breathe.
He hadn’t heard the door open over his own sigh of relief. Footsteps—confident, measured—crossed the tile—the distinct rasp of a zipper being lowered. Dean froze, eyes snapping open. Shit. He held his breath, praying whoever it was would be quick.
Through the narrow gap beneath the stall door, Dean saw polished Oxford shoes, the hem of immaculately tailored suit pants pooling around them. Then, shockingly, the pants lowered further. Dean’s breath hitched. He saw strong, hairy calves, the edge of dark boxer briefs, and then… Simon Kensington-Morley. The man himself, standing tall at the urinal, was exposed entirely from the waist down. The raw intimacy of the moment was staggering. The CEO, a figure of untouchable authority, was utterly vulnerable. Dean’s gaze was trapped. He knew he should look away, grant privacy, but the sight ignited something visceral—a magnetic pull towards the vulnerability beneath the power. It wasn’t lewdness; it was fascination, a glimpse behind the impenetrable curtain.
Simon shifted slightly. Dean instinctively leaned forward for a fractionally better view. The movement was minute, but Simon’s head turned sharply downwards. Their eyes met through the narrow aperture—Dean’s wide with startled guilt, Simon’s sharp with immediate comprehension.
A beat of silence stretched, thick and electric. Then, slowly, deliberately, Simon’s lips curved. Not anger. Amusement. “Enjoying the view, Mr. Miller?” His voice was low, smooth as aged whiskey, laced with a challenge that vibrated in the tiled space.
Heat flooded Dean’s face, but something primal overrode his embarrassment. Simon’s gaze held no condemnation, only a dare. Dean’s voice, when it came, was steadier than he felt. “Maybe I am.”
Simon chuckled, the sound rich and dangerous. “Well then,” he purred, finishing his business and tucking himself away with unhurried precision. He didn’t move towards the sink. He turned slightly, facing the stall directly, his posture relaxed, commanding. “Why remain a spectator? The door’s unlocked.”
Dean’s heart hammered against his ribs. Every instinct screamed run. But the challenge in Simon’s eyes, the raw magnetism of the moment, was irresistible. He pushed the stall door open. The air crackled as he stepped out, the small room suddenly shrinking further. He approached Simon, stopping an arm’s length away. The scent of the CEO’s expensive cologne enveloped him, a mix of something uniquely masculine and potent. Simon didn’t retreat. His sharp gaze raked over Dean, lingering on the athletic lines visible even under the hoodie, the open curiosity in his face, the latent intensity simmering beneath the surface. The CEO’s silver-streaked dark hair was perfectly in place, his mature features composed, yet his eyes held a predatory interest.
“Full of surprises,” Simon murmured. He reached out, not fast, but with deliberate ownership. His fingertips, cool and smooth, traced the line of Dean’s jaw, sending an electric jolt down the younger man’s spine. The touch was assessing, possessive. “A university intern in faded jeans and worn sneakers, with the audacity to stare down his CEO.” His thumb brushed Dean’s lower lip. “What else do you hide?”
Dean swallowed, his mouth dry. The latent confidence Simon’s touch ignited felt foreign, exhilarating. “Seems I’m not the only one full of surprises, sir.” The ‘sir’ now felt incongruous, charged.
Simon’s smirk deepened. He leaned in... Before Dean could react, Simon’s lips were on his.
It wasn’t tentative. It was a conquest. Simon kissed with the same focused intensity he doubtless applied to hostile takeovers—deep, demanding, tasting and claiming. Dean gasped against his mouth, shock giving way to a surge of answering hunger. His hands flew to Simon’s shoulders, fingers digging into the fine wool of his suit jacket, feeling the powerful muscles beneath. Simon groaned into the kiss, his hands sliding down Dean’s back, pulling him flush against him. The hard planes of Simon’s body pressed against Dean’s leaner frame, the friction sparking heat low in his belly.
Dean tasted coffee and something indefinably Simon. It was intoxicating. The older man’s hands were everywhere—gripping his hips, sliding under his hoodie to explore the warm skin of his back, mapping the defined muscles with possessive strokes. Dean’s own hands fumbled with the buttons of Simon’s waistcoat, then his shirt, driven by a need to feel skin against skin. The fabric parted, revealing a mat of dark chest hair, a powerful torso honed by discreet personal trainers, a testament to control now being willingly surrendered.
Simon broke the kiss with a low chuckle, his breathing ragged. “Eager,” he observed, his own hands making quick work of Dean’s hoodie and t-shirt, pushing them off his shoulders. The cool air hit Dean’s skin, but Simon’s gaze was hotter. His eyes roamed over Dean’s exposed chest—the defined pectorals, the flat stomach, the trail of dark blond hair leading downward—a flicker of something akin to awe mixed with the hunger in his expression. “Beautiful,” Simon breathed, the word reverent, before his mouth descended on Dean’s neck.
Dean arched into the touch, a moan escaping him as Simon’s lips and tongue explored his throat, his collarbone. The CEO’s hands cupped his pecs, thumbs brushing over his nipples, sending sharp jolts of pleasure through him. When Simon’s mouth closed over one peaked nipple, sucking firmly, Dean cried out, his knees buckling. Simon’s strong arms held him upright, his mouth relentless, teeth grazing the sensitive nub before soothing it with his tongue. The dual sensation—the slight sting and the intense pleasure—unravelled Dean completely. He tangled his hands in Simon’s perfectly styled hair, disheveling it, pulling him closer, needing more.
“Simon!” Dean gasped, his voice ragged. “Please…” The need was a physical ache, a pressure building relentlessly low in his gut. He needed Simon closer, deeper, inside.
Simon pulled back, his lips glistening, eyes black with desire. He looked utterly dishevelled, his suit jacket hanging open, his shirt gaping, his hair mussed. The powerful CEO was gone, replaced by a man consumed by his own needs. “Please what, Dean?” he prompted, his voice a husky rasp. His hand slid down Dean’s stomach, fingers tracing the waistband of his jeans, dipping teasingly beneath.
Dean trembled, the sensation almost too much. He met Simon’s gaze, the latent confidence within him solidifying into certainty. “I need you,” he stated, the words clear, undeniable. “Inside me.”
A groan tore from Simon’s throat. He surged forward, capturing Dean’s lips in another searing kiss, his hands frantically working the button and zipper of Dean’s jeans. “Yes,” he breathed against Dean’s mouth, pushing the denim and boxers down over his hips in one urgent motion. Dean’s erection sprang free, thick and flushed, bobbing between them. Simon dropped to his knees on the cool tile without hesitation.
The sight of the powerful CEO, with his expensive suit pants pooled around his knees and his silver-streaked dark hair now within reach, kneeling before him, eyes fixed on Dean’s cock with naked hunger,, sent a fresh wave of heat through Dean. Simon’s hands gripped his hips, steadying him, before he leaned forward and took Dean into his mouth.
The sensation was explosive—wet heat, velvet pressure, the skilled flick of Simon’s tongue along his sensitive underside. Dean cried out, his head falling back, fingers tightening convulsively in Simon’s hair. “Fuck! Simon…" Simon hummed around him, the vibration shooting straight to Dean’s core. He began to move, sucking with deep, deliberate pulls, his tongue swirling around the head with every retreat. Dean’s hips jerked involuntarily, driving himself deeper into that intoxicating heat. The building pressure became an imminent eruption. “I’m close… so close…” he warned, his voice strangled.
Simon pulled off with an obscene pop, leaving Dean throbbing and desperate. He looked up, his lips swollen, chin glistening. “Not yet,” he commanded, though his voice trembled. He stood, turning with deliberate slowness to face the sink. He braced his hands on the cool porcelain, pushing his tailored suit pants and briefs down just enough, presenting himself to Dean. The curve of his ass, firm and powerful even beneath fine wool, was an invitation. “I want to feel you,” Simon said, glancing over his shoulder, his eyes dark pools of submission and need. “Take me. Claim me.”
Dean stepped forward, his own need a white-hot brand. He gripped Simon’s hips, his thumbs digging into the firm muscle. He positioned himself, the head of his cock nudging against Simon’s entrance. He felt the older man tremble, saw the knuckles of Simon’s hands whiten where they gripped the sink. Dean leaned forward, his chest pressing against Simon’s back, his lips brushing the shell of his ear. “Ready?” he breathed.
Simon pushed back urgently. “Yes! Dean, please…”
Dean pressed forward steadily, relentlessly, breaching the tight ring of muscle. Simon gasped, a sharp, startled sound that morphed into a low, drawn-out moan as Dean sheathed himself fully. The heat, the incredible tightness, the feeling of Simon’s body yielding and accepting him completely—it was overwhelming. Dean stilled for a moment, buried to the hilt, feeling Simon’s internal muscles fluttering around him, adjusting. He dropped his forehead between Simon’s shoulder blades, breathing raggedly.
"Fuck… you feel…" Dean couldn’t finish. He began to move, slow, deep thrusts that drew guttural sounds from Simon with every withdrawal and penetration. Simon pushed back against him, meeting his thrusts, his moans escalating, filling the small room. The air was thick with the scent of sex, sweat, and Simon’s expensive cologne.
“Dean!” Simon gasped, his voice shattered. "Harder… please… need it… need you to fill me…”
The raw plea shattered Dean’s control. He gripped Simon’s hips like vices, his thrusts becoming powerful, piston-like drives. The slap of skin against skin echoed off the tiles, a primal counterpoint to Simon’s choked cries. Dean could feel the tension coiling impossibly tight in his own groin, the pressure building beyond bearing. Simon’s body clenched around him like a vice, his own release imminent.
“Simon… I’m…” Dean’s warning was a ragged gasp.
“Yes! Now, Dean! Give it to me! Please!” Simon begged, pushing back desperately.
With a final, brutal thrust, Dean buried himself as deep as possible, his orgasm detonating. Wave after wave of blinding pleasure crashed through him as he emptied himself into Simon’s clutching heat, crying out Simon’s name like a prayer. Simon followed instantly, his body convulsing, a guttural roar tearing from his throat as he came untouched, spilling himself onto the porcelain sink beneath him.
They remained locked together, trembling and gasping, the only sounds their ragged breathing and the distant drip of a faucet. Slowly, the world seeped back in—the cool tile under Dean’s bare feet, the harsh fluorescent light, the lingering scent of their coupling. He carefully withdrew, stepping back on unsteady legs.
Simon turned around, leaning heavily against the sink. His suit was ruined, his hair a wreck, his face flushed and slack with satiation. He looked utterly shattered, yet a profound peace radiated from him. A slow, sated smile curved his lips as he looked at Dean. “That was…”
Dean didn’t let him finish. He closed the distance and kissed him, deeply, possessively. When they parted, Dean’s hazel eyes held a new, unnerving certainty. “Amazing,” he agreed, his voice rough. He held Simon’s gaze, a spark of challenge reigniting. “But we’re not done.”
Simon’s brow furrowed slightly, a question in his exhausted eyes. Dean simply smirked—a shadow of his earlier innocence, now layered with undeniable power. He sank smoothly to his knees on the cold tile, his hands settling on Simon’s hips.
“My turn,” Dean declared, his voice low and promising. Before Simon could react, Dean took his softening cock into his mouth, his tongue swirling with relentless purpose. Simon gasped, his head thudding back against the mirror, his hands instinctively tangling in Dean’s tousled hair as the younger man began to rebuild the fire all over again.
“Dean!” Simon moaned, the sound equal parts protest and desperate plea, his body already responding. "Christ… don’t stop…"
Dean had no intention of stopping. The game had just begun.
