Chapter 6: The ultimate power play backfires spectacularly when Eleanor walks in on Jamie riding Adrian's cock on his executive desk, their sweaty bodies glistening under the office lights as Jamie smirks over his shoulder and whispers 'Told you we'd convince her', before clenching tight around Adrian and making him come deep inside.
The silence in the penthouse had weight. It pressed down on the expensive furniture and the dust motes dancing in the evening sunbeams, a thick residue of what had happened in the conference room and everything left unsaid afterward. They ate the Thai food on opposite ends of the sectional, the television playing a nature documentary neither watched. The spicy warmth of the food couldn’t penetrate the chill.
Adrian watched Jamie push noodles around his container. The artist’s hands, usually lively with gestural energy, were still. The knuckles were white. Adrian’s own skin still felt branded where Jamie’s mouth had been, a phantom heat that had nothing to do with the green curry.
“I have to go into the office early tomorrow,” Adrian said, his voice too loud in the quiet. “The Japan call is at six AM.”
Jamie nodded, not looking up. “Cool.”
“You could come.” The offer was out before Adrian could vet it. “Your studio is on the way. I’ll have Martin drive you after.”
“To your office?” Jamie finally met his gaze. His brown eyes were guarded, but a flicker of something else moved underneath—challenge, maybe. Or curiosity. “Why?”
Adrian didn’t have a good answer. He just knew the thought of leaving Jamie here, in this silent tomb, felt profoundly wrong. He needed him within sight. To prove something, perhaps. To either of them. “Because I want you to,” he said, a note of the CEO seeping into his voice.
Jamie held his stare for a long moment. Then he shrugged, a feigned nonchalance. “Whatever. Saves me subway fare.”
The next morning, Adrian’s private office was a sanctuary of chrome and glass, the city waking up in a haze of gold below. He’d made the Japan call, his focus brittle but effective. Jamie had wandered in halfway through, coffee in hand, and silently began perusing the towering bookshelf, his presence a quiet distraction Adrian both craved and resisted.
When the call ended, Adrian swiveled his chair. Jamie was leaning against the bookshelf, flipping through a monograph on Gerhardt Richter, his expression unreadable.
“You were good,” Jamie said without looking up. “Convincing.”
“It’s my job.”
“Right.” Jamie snapped the book shut. The sound was a punctuation mark. “The job. The deal. The fucking performance.”
He walked over to the massive, polished desk, setting his coffee down beside Adrian’s keyboard. He didn’t move away. He just stood there, his hip resting against the dark wood, looking down at Adrian. The morning light caught the gold in his messy hair.
“Is that what yesterday was?” Jamie asked softly. “Part of the performance?”
Adrian’s throat tightened. He remembered the feel of the glass, the carpet, Jamie’s angry mouth. “I don’t know what yesterday was.”
“It felt real.” Jamie’s voice dropped, his gaze tracing Adrian’s lips. “It felt like you hated me and wanted me so much you couldn’t fucking breathe.”
Adrian did stop breathing then. The careful distance he maintained, the fortified walls around his heart, crumbled into dust. He reached out, his hand circling Jamie’s wrist. The pulse thrummed there, fast and wild. He pulled.
Jamie stumbled forward, falling into his lap, a tangle of limbs and heat. Their mouths crashed together. This wasn’t the calculated kiss from the terrace photo shoot. This was devouring. Teeth and tongue and a low, desperate sound torn from Jamie’s chest that went straight to Adrian’s cock. He tasted of coffee and a familiar, bitter defiance.
Adrian’s hands were everywhere—tangling in Jamie’s hair, dragging under his shirt to scrape nails down the lean muscle of his back. He stood up, hauling Jamie with him, backing him against the hard edge of the desk. Papers scattered. A tablet clattered to the floor.
“Tell me to stop,” Adrian growled against his mouth, his hands fumbling with the button of Jamie’s jeans.
“Fuck you,” Jamie breathed, grinding his own hardening length against Adrian’s thigh. “Never.”
That was all the permission he needed. With a ruthless yank, Adrian had Jamie’s jeans and briefs down around his thighs, exposing him. He spun Jamie around, bending him forward over the polished wood until his chest was flat against it, his ass arched back, beautifully vulnerable.
Adrian didn’t wait. He didn’t prepare. He spit into his palm, slicked his own aching cock with a few rough strokes, and guided the broad, flushed head to Jamie’s tight entrance. He pushed.
“God—Adrian—” Jamie cried out, a raw mix of pain and blessing. His fingers scrambled for purchase on the slick wood.
It was an obscene, breathtaking stretch. Adrian watched, mesmerized, as his own cock disappeared inch by ruthless inch into the clenching heat of his best friend. He bottomed out with a groan, his hips flush against Jamie’s ass, his whole body trembling with the force of simply holding still. Jamie’s hole was a hot, vise-like ring around the base of his shaft, fluttering wildly.
“You take it so fucking good,” Adrian muttered, his voice guttural. He withdrew slowly, almost completely, watching the stretched, glistening ring of muscle cling to him before slamming back in, burying himself to the hilt. The desk rocked with the force.
Jamie shouted, a filthy, broken sound. “Harder! Don’t you fucking hold back on me!”
Adrian obeyed. He set a punishing rhythm, each drive of his hips slamming Jamie’s body into the desk. The only sounds were skin slapping against skin, their ragged gasps, and the low creak of the expensive furniture. Adrian leaned over him, covering Jamie’s body with his own, one hand braced on the desk, the other wrapping around Jamie’s throat, not squeezing, just holding. Possessing.
“Is this real enough for you?” Adrian snarled into his ear, fucking into him with deep, animal strokes. “Is this the fucking proof you need?”
Jamie could only moan, a continuous stream of gutter sounds. “Yes—oh fuck, yes right there—I can feel you in my fucking guts—”
He was so incredibly tight, so hot. Adrian could feel his own climax coiling, a white-hot wire pulled taut in his belly. He slid his hand from Jamie’s throat down his chest, his stomach, until he found Jamie’s cock, hard and leaking and trapped between his body and the desk. He jerked him in time with his thrusts, his grip rough, his pace frantic.
“Come for me,” Adrian commanded, his breath hitching. “Come on my desk. Mark it. Show everyone whose you are.”
The vulgar order tipped Jamie over the edge. He came with a shattered cry, his whole body seizing, his ass clamping down viscously around Adrian’s cock as stripes of white shot from him, splattering the polished mahogany. The intense, rhythmic clenching was too much. Adrian thrust three more times, deep and final, and buried himself as deep as he could go as his own release tore through him. He came with a guttural shout, pouring himself into Jamie’s depths in hot, pulsing waves, collapsing his weight onto Jamie’s trembling back.
They stayed like that, glued together by sweat and come, breathing in ragged, shared gusts. Adrian’s face was buried in the sweat-damp nape of Jamie’s neck. He could feel Jamie’s heart hammering against the desk, a frantic echo of his own.
The sound of the door opening was polite. A single, crisp click.
Adrian froze, his softening cock still sheathed inside Jamie. He turned his head, the movement slow, drenched in dread.
Eleanor Vance stood in the doorway, her hand still on the polished handle. Her sharp eyes took in the scene with methodical, devastating precision: Adrian’s trousers around his ankles, his shirt rucked up; Jamie bent over the desk, exposed and dripping; the unmistakable evidence of their coupling smeared on the wood between Jamie’s splayed hands.
For a long, horrific second, there was only the hum of the city through the glass.
Eleanor’s face showed no shock. No disgust. Only a cold, absolute satisfaction. She had her proof. It wasn’t a phone photo. It was a living, breathing, obscene tableau.
“My apologies for the interruption,” she said, her voice smooth as ice. She didn’t look away. She let the image burn itself into her retina, into her arsenal. “I’ll… let you gentlemen finish.”
She stepped back, pulling the door closed with a soft, definitive click.
The sound was a guillotine.
Adrian pulled out of Jamie’s body, a sick, wet separation. He stumbled back, fumbling with his clothes, his hands shaking too badly to work his zipper. Jamie slowly pushed himself upright, his movements stiff with shame and spent pleasure. He didn’t look at Adrian. He just stared at the closed door, his face pale.
The performance was over. The audience had seen backstage. And now, they owned the show.