Dennis flushes, remembering how Chris had cornered him after the contractor meeting. How those rough fingershad worked him open while Chris whispered construction terminology against his neck.
"Tensile strength," Chris had murmured, crooking his fingers just right. "Means how much something can stretch before breaking."
Now those same fingers push back inside him, making him bite his lip to stay quiet.
"Someone could walk in," Dennis protests weakly, even as he pushes back for more.
"Everyone's at lunch." Chris adds another finger, stretching him wider. "Besides, you locked the door after Jason’s last attempt at stealing your fancy pen."
"But that’s the expensive pen for signing contracts—fuck!" Dennis’s voice breaks as Chris finds that spot inside him.
"Found your stress point," Chris says smugly. Then, because he's an asshole: "Want me to test its load-bearing capacity?"
"I hate you." But Dennis is already rocking back on Chris's fingers, chasing the sensation only Chris can give him—frantic for it. "Just... hurry up."
"No rushing structural integrity." Chris's free hand slides up Dennis’s spine, rucking his shirt higher. His lips follow each bump of bone, breath cooling the damp trail until Dennis’s skin pebbles beneath his mouth. "Gotta make sure everything's properly supported."
They've gotten good at this—quick but thorough.
Chris knows exactly how to work him open now, how to make him shake apart without making him scream. How to leave him aching but functional for afternoon meetings.
Professional.
Except for how Chris kisses his shoulder blades while fingering him. Except for how Dennis reaches back to tangle their fingers together when he comes.
These moments stay locked in the office, as classified as the blueprints they've scattered.
After lunch, the construction site pulses with activity, the smell of fresh sawdust mixing with wet concrete.
Chris stands at the folding table near the east wing, one hip cocked against the metal edge while he reviews material orders. Dennis is across the site, inspecting the latest bamboo delivery.
Dennis’s phone buzzes. A message from an unknown number:
Those pants make your ass look incredible, princess.
You know what would make your ass look even more incredible?
No pants.
Dennis’s head tips back with barely contained annoyance. He crosses the site to where Chris is apparently working, shoulders hunched over the table, weight braced on his palms as two phones sit on the metal surface.
"Another new phone?" Dennis’s lips twist to the side. He won’t smile if it kills him, dammit.
"Just upgrading." Chris taps his pen against the shiny device, throwing a wink over his shoulder. "Project management was very impressed with the value engineering."
"I didn't authorize any bonus." Dennis cocks his head. "Who else have you been keeping happy around here?"
Dennis is only half joking. The question comes out lighter than the sudden surge of jealousy churning in his gut.
"Baby, the way you drain me dry every night, it's a miracle I can even walk straight to the meetings."
Chris's attention returns to his papers, fingers spreading them wider across the table. His old phone buzzes against the metal surface. He silences it with a casual tap, but not before Dennis catches the flash of tension in his shoulders.
These interruptions seem more frequent lately—the kind that make Chris's jaw clench and his eyebrows furrow—or maybe with all the time they spend together these days, Dennis is just around to witness them more.
"Bold of you to assume I'll save your new number," Dennis quips, because making things easy for Chris goes against his principles.
"Please, you haven't blocked me in, what, three whole days?" Chris shuffles his papers into a neat stack. "Must be doing something right."
