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“Yeah, fuck, yeah, that was amazing,” Nate said.
Chris wriggled his hand. Nate took the hint and let him go. He worked his hips back in polite increments. Nate pushed back again with a groan.
Chris bit back his curse. He held Nate’s hip firmly and pulled out.
“Shit, man,” Nate said and flopped onto his stomach.
Chris sprang off the bed. He blushed but Nate wasn’t looking at him. He dashed into the bathroom and washed his hands, careful not to look at himself. He took a deep breath, went back out and started looking for his clothes. The bed creaked and he didn’t look.
“No need to rush off, eh? We could go again in the morning if you wanna stay.”
Chris yanked his boxers on, reached for his pants, got those on, conscious of doing it in a way that appeared relaxed—he slowed down on this particular buttonhole, blew his hair out of his face.
“I’ve got an early meeting,” he said, eyes on the next button. This was true. He was so fucking nervous about it, he’d allowed himself this hook-up. He’d told himself he was testing the product so he’d be better equipped for the meeting. He wasn’t entirely sure that wasn’t what he was doing, but something about it felt like a lie.
“I can set an alarm,” Nate said, the bed moving again.
Chris glanced at him. He was a handsome enough guy, but he was a caricature of the guy from over a year ago. Chris had always had a type, but since then that type took on very specific dimensions.
“No, thank you,” Chris smiled; he was going for easy going and not sure how well he was pulling it off. “I like my own surroundings.”
“I hear that, man,” Nate smiled and sat back, hands behind his head. “You wanna hit me up after? Maybe get some dinner, then, you know,” he reached down and squeezed his dick.
Chris was accosted with the thought of going down on him—imagining the smell of his groin alone made him suppress a gag. Then he imagined Nate’s hand landing on the back of his head—too heavy, too demanding. God, what if he wanted to kiss? What if he wanted to kiss right now? The thought of that fat tongue and saliva in his mouth made him feel sick.
“Maybe,” he smiled. It felt strained.
“Well, look, here’s my number so we don’t have to go through the chat again,” Nate said as he rolled over for his phone.
Chris was dressed, his phone in his pocket; all he needed to do was get his shoes on at the door and he’d be out of there.
“The chat’s fine,” he said. “Later.”
He turned and headed for the door with long strides.
He thought he heard Nate saying something as he got his shoes on, but he was caught up with the fuzziness in his head, the need to get out.
By the time he was on the street in the cool night air, he could breathe again.
God, he was such a fucking asshole, he thought as he pulled his phone out and called for a car. That thought was quickly pummelled by the alternative—the horror of staying, of seeing the guy again.
He didn’t want to be this guy, he hated being this guy, but so far, every sexual encounter went this way. Once he’d come, he wanted to get out, get as far away as he could.
Why in the fuck he thought it was a good idea to remind himself of that the night before the most important meeting of his life was anyone’s guess.
Chris shook his hand out, stuffed it back in his pocket. He was on a direct path to the boardroom that would decide his fate. His dress shoes clicked on the concrete and his suit imbued him with a feeling of confidence. It always did. When he shrugged off the casuals and slipped into the sharply tailored lines, he felt his demeanour change with it, felt every inch of the heir he was born to be. Never mind he’d been born into the mess his father was creating—squandering their money and their legacy with his inability to understand money, his alcoholism—Chris was still, as his grandfather would say, “a McLachlan.”
“And that means something,” the old man’s words reminded him in his memory now; the way he’d stare after speaking as if assuring himself Chris got the message. Chris did. Didn’t mean he wasn’t nervous as fuck right now, on the cusp of discovering if his gamble had paid off.
Just before the corner that’d take him to the investment bank and the board convened just for him, he turned down a laneway and beelined for his favourite coffee place. He didn’t have time for this, nor did he need the caffeine, but he just, he needed a moment.
It’ll work, he told himself. It has to. It’s a great product.
He was so far in his head he was crashing into another guy heading for the counter at the same time as him before he saw him.
“Shit, sorry,” he said, his hand on the guy’s bicep to steady them both.
“No, I think it was me,” the guy replied smoothly, and Chris looked down into a face he’d been thinking about for over a year.
