HIS SECRET FLAME🔥

Stolen hours

Marcus was out of town again.

The text had come that afternoon—something about a surprise client meeting upstate and staying overnight.

Alex read it three times, heart pounding harder with each pass. Opportunity. Temptation.

A whole night where the apartment was his, the building quiet, and the risk dialed down from nuclear to merely dangerous.

He didn’t text Dami right away.

He waited until six, when the office had emptied and he was alone at his drafting table, pretending to review renderings.

His fingers hovered over the screen.

Alex: Marcus is gone until tomorrow afternoon.

Alex: My place. 1 a.m. Bring food if you’re hungry. Don’t expect to sleep much.

The reply came in under two minutes.

Dami: f**k yes.

Dami: I’ll be there. And I’m definitely hungry.

Alex spent the next hours in a state of controlled chaos. He showered, changed into a simple black T-shirt and soft gray sweatpants, cleaned surfaces he didn’t need to clean, and tried not to overthink the fact that he was inviting his brother’s best friend over for what they both knew wasn’t just takeout and conversation.

By the time 12:50 rolled around, his nerves had twisted into something electric.

He dimmed the lights, left a single lamp glowing in the living room, and poured two glasses of the better whiskey he’d bought that evening.

The same brand from the rainy night. A private joke.

A deliberate echo. At 1:03 a.m. the buzzer sounded—two short presses, their new code.Alex let him in.

Dami stepped inside carrying a paper bag that smelled like garlic and warm bread.

He wore a dark hoodie and jeans, hair slightly messy from the ride over, hazel eyes already dark with intent.

The moment the door clicked shut behind him, the air changed.

Thicker. Hotter.

“Hi,” Dami said, voice low.

“Hi.” Alex took the bag, set it on the counter without looking inside.

“You eat yet?”

“Not really.” Dami’s gaze traveled slowly down Alex’s body, then back up. “But food can wait.”

They didn’t make it to the couch this time.

Dami crossed the distance in two strides and pulled Alex into a kiss that started deep and stayed there.

No hesitation, no warmup. Just months—no, years—of pent-up want pouring out between them.

Alex’s back hit the wall beside the door as Dami’s hands framed his face, thumbs stroking his cheekbones while their tongues slid together, hot and urgent.

“Missed this,” Dami murmured against his lips.

“Missed your mouth. Missed the way you sound when I touch you.”

Alex’s hands fisted in Dami’s hoodie, tugging him closer until their bodies pressed flush.

“Then stop talking and do it.”

Dami chuckled darkly, the sound vibrating through Alex’s chest.

He shrugged the hoodie off, letting it drop to the floor, then peeled Alex’s T-shirt over his head in one smooth motion.

Cool air hit heated skin, followed immediately by Dami’s warm palms skating over Alex’s chest, thumbs brushing over sensitive n*****s.

Alex gasped, head tipping back against the wall. Dami took the invitation, mouth latching onto the side of his neck, sucking hard enough to leave a mark he’d have to hide tomorrow.

The sting was perfect. Alex’s hips jerked forward, seeking friction.

They stumbled toward the bedroom, shedding clothes along the way.

Dami’s jeans came off in the hallway. Alex’s sweatpants were kicked aside just inside the door.

By the time they reached the bed, they were down to boxer briefs, bodies flushed and breathing ragged.

Dami pushed Alex onto the mattress and followed him down, covering him with his larger frame.

The weight felt incredible—solid, grounding, overwhelming in the best way. Their mouths met again, slower now, savoring.

Tongues stroking, lips parting, soft sounds filling the quiet room.

“You’re so f*****g beautiful,” Dami whispered, kissing down Alex’s chest.

He lingered at one n****e, licking and sucking until Alex arched off the bed with a broken moan.

“Been dying to taste every inch of you.”

Alex’s hands threaded through Dami’s dark hair, guiding but not forcing.

“Then taste.” Dami did. He explored with mouth and hands—kissing the dip of Alex’s hip,

the sensitive skin just above the waistband of his briefs, the trail of dark hair leading downward.

When he finally hooked his fingers in the fabric and tugged it down, Alex’s c**k sprang free, hard and leaking.

Dami’s eyes darkened further.

“Look at you.” He wrapped a calloused hand around the base and stroked once, slow and firm.

Alex’s hips bucked. “So hard for me already.”

“Dami—” The name came out as a plea.