The elevator doors slid shut with a pneumatic hiss, sealing Ethan and Oliver inside the mirrored cubicle. Ethan's reflection stared back at him- broad shoulders tense beneath his navy suit, jaw clenched tight enough to flex the muscle along his neck. Oliver leaned against the railing, his black shaggy hair falling into his eyes as he grinned.
"Dude, relax," Oliver said, punching Ethan’s bicep lightly. "I’m gonna crush this interview. What’s the worst that could happen?"
Ethan’s fingers flexed at his sides. "You don’t understand. Eric is... intense."
Oliver snorted, rolling his shoulders back. The movement made his fitted white shirt strain across his chest, the fabric pulling taut over his swimmer’s build. "Bro, if he tries anything shady, I’m clocking his ass. I’m here for a job, not a fucking sex power trip."
The elevator dinged softly, its doors sliding open with a whisper. Ethan exhaled sharply through his nose, his broad frame casting a shadow across the hallway’s muted gray carpet as he stepped out. Oliver followed, his stride loose and confident, the silver chain around his neck catching the fluorescent lights with every step.
Ethan led the way down the corridor, his polished oxfords sinking soundlessly into the plush carpet. Oliver’s sneakers, black Vans scuffed at the toes, made no noise either, but his presence seemed to vibrate beside Ethan, raw energy coiled tight beneath his skin.
Maya looked up from her desk as they passed, her manicured fingers pausing mid-air above her keyboard. "Hey, Ethan!" she chirped, her gaze flicking to Oliver with open curiosity. "Who’s this?"
Ethan’s throat worked before he forced a smile. "Maya, this is Oliver Li, my roommate. He’s here for an analyst interview."
Oliver flashed Maya a grin, his teeth white against his tanned skin. His dark eyes crinkled at the corners, the silver chain at his throat catching the light as he leaned forward slightly. "Hey."
"Using those connections I see, good luck!" Maya winked, her gaze lingering on Oliver’s lean frame for a beat too long before she turned back to her screen.
Ethan exhaled sharply through his nose, his fingers flexing at his sides as they approached Eric’s office. The door loomed ahead, and Oliver knocked twice with sharp, confident raps that echoed down the hallway.
"Enter." Eric’s voice slithered through the door, crisp and controlled.
Oliver shot Ethan a grin over his shoulder, dark eyes gleaming with mischief. "Watch me work," he mouthed before pushing the door open.
The office was a study in calculated minimalism. Eric sat behind his desk, framed by floor-to-ceiling windows that bathed the room in cold afternoon light. His ash-blonde hair caught the glare, platinum strands stark against the muted grays of his tailored suit. The laptop before him cast a bluish glow across his sharp features, highlighting the angular planes of his jaw. He didn’t look up immediately, fingers tapping a staccato rhythm across the keyboard.
Oliver sauntered in, his posture loose and confident. His black shaggy hair fell messily across his forehead, the silver chain at his throat glinting against his tanned skin. The fitted white shirt hugged his swimmer’s build, defined shoulders tapering to a narrow waist, sleeves rolled up to reveal lean forearms dusted with dark hair. His dark jeans clung to his thighs, the fabric worn soft at the knees.
Ethan hovered in the doorway, his navy suit stretching across his broad shoulders. Eric’s gaze flicked up then, glacial grey eyes sweeping over them both with clinical precision. His scrutiny lingered on Oliver and the way his shirt stretched across his chest, the sharp line of his collarbones above the V of his neckline, the confident tilt of his hips.
“Ethan.” Eric’s voice was a blade wrapped in velvet. “This is a private interview.” He tapped a key with deliberate finality, the laptop screen dimming. “Wait outside.”
Oliver shot Ethan a reassuring grin over his shoulder, dark eyes crinkling at the corners. “Bro, I got this,” he mouthed before stepping fully into the office, the soles of his sneakers silent against the plush carpet.
Ethan’s fingers flexed at his sides. The door handle was cold beneath his palm as he stepped out of the office and pulled it shut, the latch clicking.
Inside, Eric leaned back in his chair, the leather sighing beneath him. His fingers steepled beneath his chin as he regarded Oliver with unnerving focus. “Oliver Li.” He repeated the name slowly, tasting each syllable.
Eric’s lips curled in a humorless smile. He tapped a single finger against the polished mahogany between them. "Take a seat." His voice was smooth, the command buried beneath the veneer of professional courtesy.
Oliver grinned, slouching into the chair opposite Eric’s desk with practiced nonchalance. "Yep, that’s me," he said, one ankle crossing over his knee, his scuffed Vans bouncing slightly. His silver chain glinted as he leaned forward, elbows resting on his thighs. "So, analyst gig, huh?" His dark eyes flicked to the floor-to-ceiling windows behind Eric, the cityscape a hazy sprawl of afternoon light.
Eric slid a single sheet of paper across the desk, the movement precise. The paper stopped just short of Oliver’s fingertips. "This is the salary and projected bonus for the position. Does that look acceptable?" His tone left no room for negotiation, the numbers already set in stone.
Oliver leaned forward, his chain clinking softly against his chest as he snatched the paper up. His brows shot up as his gaze snagged on the bottom line. "Holy fuck," he blurted, before catching himself. His jaw hung slack as he looked back at Eric. "You’re serious?"
Eric leaned back in his chair, the leather creaking beneath him. His tailored suit stretched across his shoulders as he steepled his fingers beneath his chin. "Our analysts are compensated well," he murmured, grey eyes glinting with cold amusement. "But much is expected in return."
Oliver whistled low under his breath, shaking his head as he reread the figure. His thumb rubbed absently at the edge of the paper, smudging the ink slightly. "Yeah, no shit," he muttered. His gaze flicked up to Eric’s, sharp with sudden calculation. "What’s the catch?"
Eric’s lips twitched. "No catch." He unfolded his hands, reaching for his pen. "Our analysts are compensated competitively much much is expected of them."
Oliver’s fingers crumpled the paper slightly at the edges, his knuckles whitening as he stared at the obscenely high figure. “Never seen a salary like this outside of fucking Forbes lists,” he admitted, voice rough with disbelief. He swallowed hard, dark eyes locking onto Eric’s impassive face. “Tell me what I need to do. I’ll prove I’m right for this job.”
Eric’s smile didn’t reach his eyes. “To start?” He gestured lazily at Oliver’s slouched posture, the scuffed sneakers propped on his knee, the chain glinting against his collarbone. “You’re dressed like you wandered in from a rooftop bar. This isn’t a frat house interview.” He tapped his pen once against the desk. “We’ll rectify that now. Strip.”
Oliver’s chair screeched backward as he launched to his feet, fists braced against the desk. “You slimy fucking-” His chest heaved, the silver chain swinging violently. “Should’ve known you'd pull some shit like this.” He loomed over the desk, shoulders blocking the light from the overheads, but Eric didn’t so much as blink.
“Sit down or leave,” Eric said, voice glacier-calm. He set the pen down with deliberate precision. “But understand. You’ll never see an offer like this again.” His grey eyes flicked to Oliver’s clenched jaw. “Not in this lifetime.”
Oliver’s nostrils flared. A vein pulsed in his temple. For three agonizing seconds, the office held its breath, then Oliver exhaled sharply through his nose and dropped back into the chair, the leather sighing beneath him.
Eric didn’t smirk. He didn’t need to. “I thought that would be your decision.” He leaned forward, elbows resting on the desk, fingers steepled. “Shirt first. Slowly.”
Oliver’s fingers trembled as they grabbed the hem of his white shirt. The cotton strained across his shoulders before he yanked it overhead in one jerky motion, sending his silver chain clattering against his sternum. His chest rose and fell rapidly, the smooth planes of his torso flushed pink with anger.
Oliver's black hair fell in disarray across his forehead, the strands thick and slightly shaggy where they brushed his brows- a mess that looked accidental but had taken him fifteen minutes to perfect that morning. His dark eyes burned with barely-contained fury, the brown so deep it swallowed light, framed by lashes just long enough to be noticeable when he blinked slowly. His jawline was sharp enough to cut glass, the perpetual stubble shadowing it darker than his hair, giving him a roughness that contrasted violently with the smoothness of his throat where the silver chain rested against his Adam's apple.
His shoulders weren't as broad as Ethan's, but they obviously belonged on an athlete, the delts flexing visibly as he clenched his fists on the desk. His chest was smooth, barely any hair, just two tight nipples pebbled from the office's aggressive air conditioning. His abs weren't the sculpted blocks Ethan sported; they were leaner, the definition more subtle, a series of shallow dips that deepened when he sucked in a breath through his nose.
Eric's gaze lingered on his chest before drifting lower to the trail of dark hair that started below Oliver's navel and disappeared into his jeans. His waist was narrow, hips sharp enough to hang jeans on, but his thighs strained against the denim when he shifted impatiently.
"Keep going," Eric murmured, tapping the desk with one finger.
Oliver stood, and his fingers hovered at his waistband, the button already popped from his restless fidgeting during the elevator ride. His thumbs hooked under the denim, hesitating just long enough for Eric’s gaze to sharpen like a blade against his skin. With a sharp exhale, Oliver shoved the jeans down his hips, the fabric catching momentarily on the jut of his pelvic bones before pooling around his ankles. His boxer briefs, plain white and skin tight, clung to the lean taper of his thighs, the outline of his soft cock unmistakable beneath the cotton.
Eric's gaze flicked downward with deliberate slowness, lingering on Oliver's scuffed Vans before lifting to meet his eyes again. "Those aren't proper office attire either," he said, voice smooth as polished marble. His fingers tapped once against the desk in a silent command.
Oliver's jaw tightened and the muscles in his forearms flexed as his hands clenched into fists. But then, with a sharp exhale through his nose, Oliver bent down, yanking off his shoes with more force than necessary. The left one hit the carpet with a dull thud; the right skidded halfway to Eric's desk before coming to a stop. His socks followed, balled up and tossed onto the growing pile of discarded clothes with a flick of his wrist. Finally, he stepped out of the jeans pooled at his ankles, and they joined the pile of clothes.
Eric leaned back in his chair, fingertips brushing together as his gaze raked over Oliver’s half-exposed frame. "That’s good," he murmured, voice dripping with false approval. "But you seem to have an attitude, Oliver. That just won’t work here. We need team players." The last two words came out sharp, punctuated by the tap of his polished oxford against the desk leg. "Why don’t you show me how good of a team player you are? Take those off." His chin tilted toward Oliver’s underwear.
Oliver’s spine went rigid. "Hell no," he snapped, the silver chain at his throat swinging with the force of his breath. His hands curled into fists at his sides, forearms taut with suppressed tension.
Eric blinked. "I think you’re mistaken," he said, voice dropping to a glacial murmur. "That wasn’t a request, even if it sounded like one." He leaned forward, elbows resting on the desk, fingers steepled. The overhead lights carved shadows under his cheekbones. "If you want this job, if you want that salary, you’ll obey me."
Oliver’s throat worked. For a heartbeat, his gaze flicked to the discarded paper on the desk, the numbers still seared into his vision. Then, with a slow exhale, his fingers hooked into the waistband of his briefs. The elastic stretched taut as he pushed them down over his hips, revealing the smooth slope of his lower abdomen, the sharp V of his pelvis. The fabric caught momentarily on the swell of his thighs, thick with lean muscle from years of swimming and dusted with fine dark hair, before sliding down his legs to join the pile.
Oliver stood naked under Eric’s gaze, his skin prickling under the office’s artificial chill. His shoulders were still squared in defiance, but his posture betrayed him- hips angled slightly forward, knees locked tight, the muscles in his thighs twitching with suppressed energy. His cock hung soft between his legs a good three inches, the pink head exposed, nestled in a dark thatch of pubic hair. His balls drew up slightly against the draft, the skin taut.
Eric’s gaze traced him with clinical precision, evaluating the defined curve of Oliver’s calves, the sinewy strength in his thighs, the lean taper of his waist. His gaze lingered on the soft swell of Oliver’s inner thighs, the faint sheen of sweat already gathering in the crease of his groin. Then, slowly, he lifted his eyes to Oliver’s face. "Better," he murmured, fingertips brushing together. "Now. Let’s discuss your teamwork skills."
Oliver’s jaw tightened. "What the fuck does that mean?" His voice cracked on the last word, betraying the tremor beneath his anger.
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