Chapter 5: Office Confessions
The AP newsroom on Monday morning was a study in fluorescent-lit sanity. After the sun-drenched, sensory overload of the yacht, the soft glow of monitors and the steady clack of keyboards felt like a return to reality, or at least a more familiar version of it. The air smelled of stale coffee and ozone from the printers, a comforting, unsexy smell.
Matthew was hunched over his desk, trying to wrestle a paragraph on regional trade tensions into coherence. The memory of Henry’s mouth, the taste of him, was a distracting loop playing just behind his eyes. He’d spent Sunday in a daze, his body humming with a strange, liberated energy that felt equal parts thrilling and terrifying.
“Earth to Callahan.” Liana’s voice cut through the fog. She pulled a chair over, its wheels squeaking on the linoleum. She held two mugs of terrible office coffee and handed one to him. “You have that look.”
“What look?”
“The ‘I either witnessed a crime or participated in one’ look. Spill. You vanished after the drinks with… what was his name? The actor.”
“Brian,” Matthew said, taking the mug. The ceramic was scalding. “And then there was the thing on Saturday.”
“The thing.” Liana’s eyebrows climbed. “You texted ‘boat party’ which, from you, could mean anything from a corporate schmooze-fest to an orgy. Given the radioactive glow you’re emitting, I’m leaning orgy.”
Matthew glanced around. Mo’s desk was visible a few pods over, his broad back to them, headphones on as he edited a series of grim-looking protest photos from Myanmar. He seemed engrossed, but Matthew had learned Mo missed very little.
“It wasn’t an orgy,” Matthew said, lowering his voice. “It was just… intense. The actor, Brian. It was… complicated. Secretive. And the boat was with Henry Lee.”
Liana whistled softly. “The Henry Lee? Heir to the Lee & Song empire, professional playboy, pictured last month falling out of a nightclub in Monaco? That Henry Lee?”
“He draws birds,” Matthew said, the non-sequitur slipping out.
“He what?”
“He has this library on the boat. He draws these beautiful, detailed birds. No one knows.” Saying it felt like betraying a confidence, but he needed to tell someone, to ground the surreal weekend in words.
Liana leaned forward, her journalist’s curiosity fully engaged. “Okay, stop. Rewind. Start with the actor. ‘Complicated and secretive’ usually means married.”
“Not married. Closeted. Very, very closeted. It was like meeting in a spy movie. And it was… passionate, but it felt like it was happening in a sealed box. Then Saturday, Henry… Henry is the opposite. He’s all out in the open, but it’s a different kind of performance. And then on the boat, he showed me this other side, and then…” Matthew trailed off, the memory of the stateroom, the taste, the sheer physicality of it, silencing him.
Liana’s eyes were wide. “And then you hooked up.”
Matthew gave a faint, helpless nod.
“On the billionaire’s bird-watching boat. While the closeted actor waits in the wings.” Liana sat back, absorbing it. “My friend, you have not dipped a toe into the dating pool. You have belly-flopped into the deep end of a shark tank. A very well-groomed, aesthetically pleasing shark tank.”
“I don’t know what I’m doing,” Matthew admitted, the confession a relief.
“That’s abundantly clear. But you’re alive. You’re not moping about Patrick. So, progress.” She sipped her coffee. “What does Mo think?”
Matthew looked over at Mo again. “I haven’t told him.”
“He knows you’re off,” Liana said. “He’s been glancing over here every thirty seconds since I sat down. The man has a sixth sense for when you’re in crisis.”
As if on cue, Mo swiveled in his chair, pulling his headphones down around his neck. His gaze swept over them, lingering on Matthew’s face. “You two planning a coup, or is this a debrief from the weekend adventures?” His tone was light, but his eyes were carefully neutral.
“Debrief,” Liana chirped. “Matthew’s been collecting experiences like postage stamps. Very exotic specimens.”
Mo’s expression didn’t change. “Ah. The actor and the heir.” He said it flatly, as stating the day’s weather. “And how were the rarified atmospheres of celebrity and extreme wealth?”
“Confusing,” Matthew said, holding his gaze.
“I’ll bet.” Mo looked down at his keyboard, dismissing the topic. “Well, Judy wants to see you in her office when you have a minute. Probably about the Malaysia piece.” He turned back to his screen, the conversation clearly over.
The dismissal stung more than Matthew expected. He stood up, suddenly eager for the distraction of work. “Thanks. I’ll go now.”
Judy’s office was a glass-walled cube at the edge of the newsroom, cluttered with stacks of paper and awards. She looked up from her monitor, her kind, lined face breaking into a smile. “Matthew. Come in. Close the door.”
He did, the muffled newsroom noise fading.
“I read your draft on the semiconductor story,” she said, gesturing for him to sit. “It’s good. Sharp. You’re finding your footing here. But I’m pulling you off it.”
Matthew’s stomach dropped. “Oh.”
“Don’t look so worried. I’ve got something else for you. Something with more teeth.” She leaned forward, her elbows on the desk. “There’s a story brewing in the migrant worker dorms in Jurong. Substandard living conditions, wage theft, possible trafficking links. It’s a tinderbox. The local press treads lightly. I want you and Mo to look into it. Deep dive. Human angle, but backed with hard data.”
“Mo and I?” Matthew asked, his mind immediately flashing to Mo’s cool dismissal minutes before.
“Yes. He’s the best photojournalist I have. He knows Southeast Asia, he’s got the patience and the guts to get the access. You’ve got the narrative sense. It’s a good pairing.” She studied him. “You work well together, don’t you?”
“Yes,” Matthew said, and it was true, despite the new, strange tension. “We do.”
“Good. It’s yours. Preliminary work starts this week. Be careful, be thorough, and keep me looped in.”
Back at his desk, the professional adrenaline was a clean, focused feeling. He opened a new document, began typing notes. The distraction was welcome.
His phone buzzed on the desk, face down. He flipped it over.
Two notifications.
The first was from Henry: That mouth of yours is a recurring thought. A dangerous distraction. When’s your next break? I have a new sketch to show you. It’s… revealing.
The words sent a direct line of heat to his core. He saw the library, felt the engine thrum, tasted the champagne and salt.
The second was from Brian, sent only a minute later: Matthew. I can’t stop thinking about our conversation. It felt real. I’m filming late tonight but I’m free tomorrow. Would you… would you come over for dinner? My place. It’s quiet. We could talk. 8pm?
The contrast was absolute. Henry’s text was a spark, a promise of more thrilling, weightless combustion. Brian’s was an invitation into the sealed box, a riskier, deeper vulnerability.
Matthew stared at the two messages, the two futures they represented. The shark tank, as Liana called it. He felt Mo’s presence behind him, a steady, silent pressure.
He didn’t reply to Henry.
He typed a reply to Brian: Tomorrow at 8 sounds good. Send me the address.
He put the phone down, screen facing the desk. When he looked up, Mo was standing at the edge of his cubicle, holding a file folder. His expression was unreadable.
“Judy told you,” Mo stated.
“Yeah. The migrant worker story.”
“It’s important work,” Mo said. “It’s also difficult. Emotionally. You ready for that?”
“I want to be,” Matthew said.
Mo nodded once, a sharp, professional dip of his chin. “Good. We start Thursday. I’ll do the recon, set up some initial contacts.” He turned to leave, then paused, looking back. His eyes flicked to the silent phone on Matthew’s desk. “Just be sure you know what you’re getting into, Matthew. Not everyone’s story has a happy ending.”
He walked back to his desk, leaving Matthew with the chill of the words and the warm, dangerous pulse of the phone against the wood.
He walked back to his desk, leaving Matthew with the chill of the words and the warm, dangerous pulse of the phone against the wood.
The address Brian sent was for a sleek, security-gated condominium in Orchard, a world away from the nautical chaos of Sentosa. Matthew took a taxi, his stomach a tight knot of anticipation. This felt different than going to Henry. That had been like stepping onto a stage. This felt like being granted a backstage pass to a locked room.
A uniformed concierge nodded him through to a private elevator that opened directly into the foyer of Brian’s apartment. The air was cool and silent, smelling of lemongrass and polished concrete.
“Matthew.” Brian stood there, smiling. He looked softer than on the yacht, dressed in dark linen trousers and a simple grey t-shirt that stretched across his chest. The formality of their first meeting was gone. “Come in. It’s good to see you.”
The apartment was a minimalist masterpiece, all clean lines, floor-to-ceiling windows, and curated artwork. It felt like a museum, or a very high-end hotel. Beautiful, but lived-in by a ghost.
“This is incredible,” Matthew said, his voice hushed.
“It’s a cage with a good view,” Brian said quietly, then shook his head as if to dislodge the thought. “Sorry. I’m… glad you’re here. Really.”
Dinner wasn’t prepared by Brian. A silent, efficient woman in a chef’s jacket presented each course in the spacious, austere dining room before disappearing back into a kitchen as spotless as a laboratory. It was exquisite: a delicate hamachi crudo, a fragrant duck confit that fell apart at the touch of a fork, a chocolate soufflé that defied physics.
The wine, a rich Burgundy Brian poured, was the best Matthew had ever tasted, smooth and complex. “This is unbelievable,” Matthew said, after the first sip.
“It should be,” Brian laughed, a low, warm sound. “It costs more than my first car. But some pleasures are worth the indulgence, especially when shared.”
They talked. Not about the industry, or the fan magazines, or the pressures. Brian asked about Matthew’s journalism, really listened to his answers. He spoke about his mother, who lived in Penang, and his love for old Tamil films. The conversation was easy, flowing like the wine, and Matthew felt the sealed box begin to feel less like a prison and more like a sanctuary built for two.
“Let me show you the rest of the place,” Brian said after coffee, leading him from the dining room. The tour was brief: a study lined with scripts, a private gym filled with severe-looking equipment, a terrace that offered a dizzying, glittering panorama of the city. “And this is the main bedroom,” Brian said, pushing open a door to a room dominated by a vast platform bed and the same incredible view.
It was a statement. An invitation. Matthew’s pulse kicked up a notch.
“I’ll just… use the bathroom,” Matthew said, needing a second.
“Through there.”
The en suite bathroom was a cavern of black marble and indirect lighting. Matthew braced his hands on the cool sink and looked at his reflection. The good wine hummed in his veins. This was the secret, vulnerable man from the cinema, offering not just a hidden kiss, but a glimpse of his hidden home. The risk was palpable, a low-voltage warning in the air. He splashed cold water on his face, the droplets hitting the stone like tiny, cold accusations.
He was walking into something. He knew it. The thrill was laced with a dark, sweet dread.
He pushed the door open and stepped back into the bedroom’s muted gloom. The city lights painted everything in shades of blue and gold.
Brian stood by the window, his back to the view. He had removed his t-shirt. It was simply gone. The man was shirtless, standing there in just his dark slacks, the fabric hanging low on his hips. The window’s glow sculpted his torso, every defined abdominal muscle, the powerful V of his waist, the broad shoulders of a man who lived in that gym. He was a classical statue rendered in warm, breathing flesh.
Matthew’s breath caught, sharp and audible in the quiet room. He had suspected, from the moment the invitation was texted, that he was ultimately on the menu. The exquisite dinner, the intimate tour, it was all the preamble.
Now, seeing Brian waiting for him, so unabashedly and magnificently presented, the pretense fell away. The polished actor was gone. What remained was pure, potent offer.
Matthew didn’t hesitate. He was ready to be consumed.
He crossed the room, the plush carpet silencing his steps. The air between them crackled, thick with the scent of sandalwood and male expectation. Matthew’s hands lifted, almost of their own volition, and settled on the hard, warm planes of Brian’s chest.
His skin was hot. The muscle beneath was dense, immovable, a topography of disciplined power. Matthew had never touched anything like it. Patrick had been soft, Henry was defined but lean. This was armor.
“Jesus,” Matthew breathed, his fingers tracing the deep groove between his pectorals.
Brian said nothing, just watched him, his dark eyes consuming Matthew’s awe. Matthew leaned in and pressed his open mouth to the center of Brian’s chest. He tasted salt and clean skin. He dragged his tongue over a rigid nipple, feeling it peak instantly under the wet heat, and Brian’s breath hitched, a sharp gasp that was pure music.
This was an exploration, a tasting. Matthew’s hands slid down the corrugated ridges of his abdomen, each defined square a revelation under his palms. He dropped to his knees, his own arousal a painful, insistent throb. He mouthed the tense, low line of Brian’s stomach, just above the buckle of his trousers. The dusting of hair was coarse against his lips.
“Look at you,” Brian murmured, his voice gravel-rich. His hand came to cradle the back of Matthew’s head, not forcing, just holding. “So fucking pretty on your knees.”
Matthew looked up, meeting that heated gaze. He made quick work of the buckle, the button, the zipper. He pushed the expensive fabric down over Brian’s hips, and his cock sprang free, thick and full and already leaking. It was a part of the whole magnificent sculpture, veined and heavy. Matthew didn’t think, he just took it into his mouth, sinking down as far as he could.
The guttural moan from above was his reward. Brian’s fingers tightened in his hair. “Yes. Just like that. Use your tongue.”
Matthew obeyed, worshipping the length with a frantic, eager focus. He worked him with lips and tongue, one hand cupping the full, tight weight of his balls. The taste was bitter and essential. Brian’s thighs trembled.
“Up,” Brian growled, pulling him up by the shoulders. “Now. I need to feel you.”
Clothes became a frantic, mutual obstacle. Brian peeled Matthew’s shirt off, his kisses turning ravenous, devouring his mouth, his neck. He pushed Matthew’s trousers and briefs down in one rough motion, his big hands gripping Matthew’s bare hips, pulling him flush against that stunning body. The full-body contact was electric, skin to skin, hard muscle against slender frame.
They stumbled toward the bed, a tangle of limbs. Brian laid him back on the cool duvet and simply looked at him, his gaze a physical touch. “You have no idea what you do to me,” he said, the words ragged.
He produced lube and a condom from the bedside drawer, his movements sure. He sheathed himself, the latex snapping softly. He slicked his fingers, watching Matthew’s face.
“Tell me you want this.”
“I want it,” Matthew panted, spreading his legs. “I want you. Now.”
One thick finger pressed inside, a burning, perfect stretch. Matthew arched off the bed. It had been so long since he’d been taken like this. Brian worked him open with a focused, relentless rhythm, adding a second finger, scissoring him, stroking over that spot deep inside until Matthew was a writhing, begging mess.
“Please, Brian. Fuck. Please.”
Brian positioned himself, the blunt, wide head of his cock pressing against Matthew’s entrance. He pushed in, not with a brutal thrust, but with an inexorable, slow push that stole the air from Matthew’s lungs. Matthew watched, mesmerized, as his own body yielded, stretched, consumed the impossible thickness.
“Oh god,” Matthew choked out, his nails digging into Brian’s biceps.
“Breathe,” Brian whispered, sinking deeper, until he was fully seated, their hips locked. The feeling of being so utterly filled, so completely pinned by this magnificent man, was obliterating. Brian held there, letting them both adjust, his forehead damp against Matthew’s.
Then he began to move. It was a deep, rolling rhythm, each stroke a masterful claim. He fucked with a strength and control that was utterly devastating, hitting that spot inside Matthew with every drove of his hips. The bed rocked against the wall in a steady, rhythmic thump.
“You feel like heaven,” Brian gritted out, his pace increasing. “Tighter than anything. Taking me so fucking good.”
Matthew was lost in a haze of pure sensation. The slap of skin, the creak of the bed, Brian’s sweat dripping onto his chest, the rich, dirty words in his ear. He wrapped his legs around Brian’s waist, pulling him in even deeper, meeting every thrust.
“Touch yourself,” Brian commanded. “Let me see you come.”
Matthew’s hand flew to his own cock, stroking in time with Brian’s deep pounding. The dual sensations, the internal and the external, coiled into a knot of unbearable tension.
“I’m gonna… Brian, I’m—”
“Come. Now.”
The command unleashed it. Matthew’s orgasm tore through him, violent and blinding, stripes of white painting his stomach and chest. His convulsing tightness pulled Brian over the edge immediately. Brian buried his face in Matthew’s neck with a choked, shattered cry, his hips stuttering as he emptied himself inside the condom.
For long minutes, there was only the sound of their ragged breathing merging. Brian collapsed beside him, carefully withdrawing. He disposed of the condom and returned, pulling Matthew against him. Their skin was slick, every muscle languid.
The city lights still glowed. The silent apartment felt less like a cage now.
Matthew, spent and drifting, eventually stirred. The practical part of his brain, the part that knew this was a secret, began to reassert itself. He shifted to get up.
“Where are you going?” Brian’s voice was sleep-rough, his arm tightening around Matthew’s waist.
“I should… get a taxi. Let you sleep.”
“Stay.”
The word was simple, but it held a weight the dinner and the wine and even the sex had not. It was a request that fractured the clandestine rules. Matthew looked at him. The actor’s mask was completely gone. In its place was just a man, looking somehow younger, his expression openly wary of being refused.
Matthew stopped. He sank back into the warmth of the sheets, into the stronger warmth of Brian’s body. He settled his head on the solid pillow of Brian’s chest, his ear over the steady, slowing beat of his heart. The scent of sex and sweat and Brian’s skin filled his senses.
Brian’s arms enveloped him, strong and secure. One hand rested possessively on the small of his back.
Sleep pulled Matthew under swiftly, a dark, velvety tide. He drowned in it, wrapped in those arms, for the first time in a very long time feeling not just wanted, but kept.