Months slipped by in a haze of stolen heat.
They never talked about what it was. Never needed to. It just kept happening—sharper, hungrier, more reckless every time.
Supply closet on the 12th floor: Damian shoving Alex inside during a fire-drill evacuation drill that nobody else took seriously. Door barely latched, Alex’s back to shelves of printer paper, pants yanked to his knees. Damian f****d him fast and quiet—hand over Alex’s mouth, hips snapping, come spilling inside before the all-clear alarm even sounded. They walked out separately, faces blank, Alex’s thighs slick under his slacks for the rest of the afternoon.
Backseat of Damian’s black SUV after a late client dinner: tinted windows, city lights streaking past. Alex on his knees between the front seats, Damian’s hand fisted in
