Chapter 18: Dating is Hard
The sleek, minimalist kitchen felt unusually large with just the two of them in it. Stainless steel appliances gleamed under the warm glow of pendant lights, reflecting the silent dance of two men navigating unfamiliar territory. Mac leaned against the island, a bottle of craft beer cool in his hand, his gaze sweeping over the spotless counters. “So, where’s the phantom chef? I half-expected to see Jenny buzzing around, ensuring the risotto didn’t suffer from a crisis of confidence.”
Cliff offered a faint smile, swirling the red wine in his glass. “The risotto is perfectly capable of holding its own. I gave her the night off. I thought we could use the privacy.”
“Privacy? For what? To finally admit you can’t boil water without a staff of one?” Mac teased, but the joke fell a little flat, hanging in the air between them. They’d had a thousand dinners like this over the years, but never like this. Never with the unspoken weight of what they were now attempting to be.
They ate at the small table overlooking the darkened garden, the food excellent—a credit to Jenny’s precise preparations—but the conversation stumbled. They covered work, the latest software deployment, a potential investor. They talked about Liz, about Tina, about how Liz had been unusually serene lately, a quiet smile playing on her lips. They discussed everything that was safe, everything that was part of the long landscape of their friendship.
But when the topics ran dry, the silence felt cavernous. Mac pushed a piece of roasted chicken around his plate. “So,” he started, then stopped. “What’s a good second-date question for two guys who already know everything about each other’s bankruptcies and bowel habits?”
Cliff laughed, a genuine, rich sound that eased the tension. “I don’t know. What’s your favorite color? Mine’s the shade of panic on a competitor’s face when we launch a new product.”
“Deep,” Mac deadpanned. He took a long swallow of beer. “This is weird, isn’t it? Trying to find new layers when we’re already glued together.”
“It’s a different kind of layer,” Cliff said, his intense dark eyes holding Mac’s. “We’re not digging for new facts. We’re negotiating a new frequency.”
After dinner, they migrated to the living room, but the spacious, art-filled area felt just as exposed. Cliff led them instead to his bedroom, a sanctuary of dark woods and plush, deep-blue fabrics. The air here was different; it held the faint, intimate scent of sex and sandalwood from guttered candles on the bedside tables. This was Cliff’s territory, unequivocally.
Mac stood awkwardly near the door, his hands in his pockets. “Nice room.”
“Come here,” Cliff said, his voice softer now, losing its boardroom edge. He was standing by the bed, looking at Mac not as his business partner, but as something else entirely.
Mac approached, the pragmatic part of him resisting the pull, but the curious part moving him forward. When he was within reach, Cliff didn’t touch him. He just looked him up and down, a slow, assessing gaze that made Mac’s skin prickle.
“You’ve been watching me with Jenny,” Cliff stated.
Mac swallowed. “It’s hard not to. You’re… a force.”
“And what does it make you feel? When you watch?” Cliff’s voice was a low murmur, designed to coax out truths.
“A lot of things,” Mac admitted, his voice rough. “Confused. A little jealous, maybe. Interested.”
“Tell me what you want, Mac. Right now. Not what you think you should want. What you want.”
Mac’s breath hitched. The directness was a shock to his system. He was used to being the grounded one, the voice of reason. Now, he was being asked to admit to desires that felt foreign and thrilling. “I want… I want to not have to think for a minute. I want to know what it feels like when you’re in charge. Completely.”
A slow, predatory smile spread across Cliff’s face. “Good. That’s a start. I promised a warning before sex was in a scene. It is part of what I have in mind for you tonight but I also have several back up plans if your answer is no to sex or sexual touch.”
"Oh damn, I should have answered that ridiculous question about my favorite color." Mac teased. "Yes, Cliff, I consent to sexual touch and even sex.” After a shy look Mac continues, "But to honest, this would be my first time with a man."
"Thank you for the trust, babe." Cliff says with a gentle smile and a warm glow in his chest.
Finally, he reached out, his hand curling around the back of Mac’s neck. The grip was firm, possessive, but not painful. It was a claim. “The rules are simple. You safeword if you need to. Red for stop. Yellow for slow down. Green for go. Understood?”
“Understood,” Mac breathed, his heart hammering against his ribs.
“Then kneel.”
The command landed like a physical blow. Mac’s knees almost buckled with the sheer force of the instruction. It was one thing to theorize about submission; it was another to physically lower yourself before your best friend. He hesitated for a second, a flicker of defiance in his eyes, but Cliff’s grip on his neck tightened imperceptibly, a silent reminder of the choice he’d just made. Slowly, his joints feeling stiff and unnatural, Mac sank to his knees on the thick rug. The posture was profoundly vulnerable, his eyes level with Cliff’s belt buckle.
“Look at me,” Cliff ordered.
Mac lifted his gaze. Cliff’s expression was intense, focused, devoid of the camaraderie they usually shared. This was the Dom, the calculating master of his environment. He unbuckled his belt, the rasp of leather loud in the quiet room, then unbuttoned his trousers. He freed his cock, which was already half-hard, thick and ruddy in the dim light.
“Open your mouth.”
Mac parted his lips, his breath coming in short gasps. This was happening. Fast. Cliff guided himself forward, the head of his cock pressing against Mac’s lips. He didn’t push; he waited. Mac, his hands trembling at his sides, leaned forward and took him into his mouth.
The taste was musky, salty, purely male. It was unfamiliar and incredibly intimate. Mac’s first attempts were clumsy, all teeth and uncertainty. Cliff placed a hand on the side of his head, not forcing, but stabilizing. “Slowly. Use your tongue. Just feel it.”
Mac closed his eyes, concentrating on the sensation, the weight on his tongue, the way his own arousal spiked as Cliff began to grow fully hard in his mouth. He found a rhythm, sucking gently, licking along the vein underneath. A low groan rumbled in Cliff’s chest, a sound of pure approval that vibrated through Mac’s entire body. This was service. This was surrender. And it was fucking hot.
After a few minutes, Cliff pulled back, his cock glistening with saliva. “Stand up. Get undressed. All of it.”
Mac rose on unsteady legs, fumbling with his buttons, his fingers feeling thick and stupid. He stripped naked, his skin pebbling in the cool air, his own erection standing tall and needy. Cliff did the same, shrugging out of his clothes with an effortless grace that spoke of comfort in his own skin. He pushed Mac backwards onto the bed, following him down, his body a heavy, warm weight.
He didn’t kiss him. He just looked down at him, pinning him with his gaze. “You’re mine tonight. This body is mine to use. Understand?”
“Yes,” Mac gasped, arching up against him.
Cliff’s mouth found his neck, sucking a bruise into the skin just above his collarbone. It was a brand, a promise. His hands roamed over Mac’s torso, rough and demanding, mapping the terrain of his best friend’s body as if for the first time. He pinched a nipple, hard, and Mac cried out, a sharp mix of pain and pleasure.
“You like that?” Cliff growled into his ear, his hand moving down to grasp Mac’s hard cock, stroking it with a firm, punishing grip.
“Fuck, yes,” Mac groaned, his hips bucking against Cliff’s punishing grip. Cliff’s other hand slid behind Mac’s head, his fingers tangling in the short hair to hold him still. “You take it so well,” Cliff murmured, his voice a rough vibration against Mac’s neck, “my good, greedy boy.”
He released Mac’s cock, leaving it twitching and slick with pre-cum. He shifted down the bed, his intense gaze locked on Mac’s as he lowered his mouth. The heat was shocking, a wet, sucking pressure that made Mac cry out. Cliff’s technique was relentless, his tongue working the sensitive head while his throat opened to take him deeper. Mac’s hands fisted in the dark duvet, his knuckles white with the effort to not thrust.
“Close… I’m so close, Cliff,” he gasped, his body tensing like a bowstring.
Just as the climax became inevitable, Cliff pulled off completely, his hand replacing his mouth to squeeze the base of Mac’s shaft brutally. The orgasm receded, leaving Mac shuddering on a knife’s edge of frustration. “Oh, you bastard.”
Cliff just smirked, his lips swollen and wet. He lowered his head again, taking Mac all the way to the root. He bobbed his head once, twice, a third time, the obscene wet sounds filling the room. He pushed Mac to the very brink again, feeling his balls draw up tight. Then he pulled back, denying him once more, his thumb pressing hard on the frenulum.
“Please,” Mac begged, his voice broken. “God, please let me come.”
Cliff’s answer was to swallow him whole again, his throat working around the head. This time, he didn’t stop. The sustained, deep suction was too much. Mac’s world shattered into pure, white sensation as he erupted. Thick, salty pulses hit the back of Cliff’s throat, and he drank every one, swallowing diligently until Mac was spent, soft and panting.
Cliff released him with a soft pop, licking his lips clean. “Did you enjoy that?” he asked, his voice husky as he moved up the bed to cradle Mac against his side.
Mac, boneless and dazed, melted into the unexpected cuddle. The gentleness was a stark, confusing contrast to the brutal control of moments before. His mind, fuzzy with release, registered that this felt like the start of aftercare. But Cliff’s own erection was a hard, neglected weight against Mac’s thigh. “Yeah, I… that was… but you didn’t…”
“That will come later,” Cliff said, his tone leaving no room for argument. He pulled the duvet over them both, the soft fabric a comfort against oversensitive skin. “For now, you should relax.”
The profound stillness of the room was broken only by the slow, deepening rhythm of Mac’s breathing. The frantic energy that had gripped his body was gone, leaving behind a heavy, boneless warmth. Cliff’s arm remained a solid, possessive weight around him, a grounding presence in the aftermath of the storm. Mac’s thoughts, once a chaotic whirl of desire and surrender, dissolved into a peaceful, gray static.
He tried to form a coherent sentence, to thank Cliff or maybe just say his name, but the words were soft, shapeless things that melted on his tongue. The residual heat from his orgasm pulsed through him, a pleasant thrum that pulled him downward. His eyelids, heavy as stone, fluttered shut. The last thing he felt was the steady, reassuring thump of Cliff’s heart against his back, a lullaby of ownership and safety. Mac drifted off to sleep.
Cliff lay awake in the semi-darkness, listening to the shift in Mac’s breathing as it evened out into the soft, regular patterns of deep slumber. The warmth of the other man’s body was a novel and deeply satisfying weight against his side. He carefully extracted his arm, the movement slow and deliberate so as not to disturb him. The screen of his phone glowed brightly in the dark room, a stark, modern intrusion.
He opened his messages, his thumb hovering over Liz’s name. How did one do this? How did a Dom, a man who commanded rooms and bodies with absolute certainty, inform his new boyfriend’s wife that he wouldn’t be coming home? He typed, deleted, and typed again, the process feeling absurdly clumsy. Finally, he settled on a simple, direct message: He’s staying here tonight. He’s fine. He hit send before he could second-guess the phrasing.
The reply was almost instantaneous. A single, red heart emoji appeared on the screen. No words, no questions. Just that simple, profound symbol of understanding and acceptance from the woman who shared this complex, woven life with them. A tension he hadn't fully acknowledged released in his shoulders. He placed the phone back on the nightstand, its screen facing down.
He shifted, turning onto his side to look at Mac in the faint light. The strong, pragmatic lines of his friend’s face were softened in sleep, all the usual guardedness erased. Cliff’s own exhaustion, held at bay by the intense focus of the scene, now washed over him in a warm, irresistible wave. He let his hand rest on Mac’s hip, a final, silent claim before his own eyes closed. Then Cliff fell asleep too.