Chapter 8
DINNER WITH THE CEO
MAGNUS
Well, that was stupid. I should know better.
But the way he looked at me. The way his hair smelled like a Christmas candy cane I wanted to lick.
The way he stared at my horns like they were some kind of holy relic—it scrambled my brain.
And fine, I was horny. Extremely horny. But I’m always horny.
Really, it’s a full-time condition at this point.
Dating someone at work isn’t the brightest idea.
Maybe I could work this into a friends-with-benefits situation.
Something chill like the young folks do. Casual.
Except… nothing about Jamie feels casual.
No one’s looked at me like that in years. Not since Paul. I thought he might be my mate, but it ended because I was too focused on work. All these years gone, and I’ve convinced myself I’m better off alone.
It’s Friday, and I’ve had three meetings with Jamie this week.
Each one has been an exquisite kind of torture.
Sitting across from him, nodding like I care about earned media and slogans, while all I can think about is the way his beautiful lips looked stretched around my thick cock.
The way his ass trembled under my tongue.
Imagining him taking me. Wanting to plow into his sweet hole.
His naked body curled against my chest in the chair after.
Easy, Magnus.
It’s unbearable. I’ve worn a path in the industrial carpet to my private bathroom this week, each trip ending the same way—me, hunched over the toilet, trying to convince myself I’ve gotten him out of my system.
Spoiler alert: I haven’t. At this rate, the janitor’s going to start leaving me condolence mints on the sink.
“Magnus?”
I snap out of it. Jamie’s staring at me, brows raised, glasses sliding down his nose. I start to reach for them, but he beats me to it, nudging them back up with one finger—so sweetly it makes me want to lean over and lick his face.
“Did you want to go over the pitch deck, or should I…?”
“Of course, the pitch dick. Deck. Pitch deck. Absolutely.” I shuffle the papers like they might shield me from my own thoughts. “I was just… thinking.”
He smirks. “About the pitch?”
No, about bending you over my desk again. “Yes.”
I cough, clear my throat, and try to sound like I’m not making it up on the spot. “I’m thinking something like, We All Belong. Bold. Unapologetic.”
Jamie tilts his head, lips pursed, eyes narrowing just slightly behind his glasses. A look that tells me he doesn’t hate it, but he’s not sold either.
“I like the spirit,” he says finally, voice calm and precise, “but maybe it could highlight and celebrate what makes us… us. What about something like, One City, All Our Strengths? Still bold, but more about showing off who we are.”
He says it like he’s unveiling a secret, like the words themselves shimmer with possibility—and gods help me, I’m getting hard over campaign slogans.
“Yes. Celebrate who we are. That makes sense.” I’m suddenly aware that my tailored pants, already hugging my lower half, are even tighter. Can he see it?
My tail involuntarily whips and smacks a stack of papers from the desk to the floor.
“Oh, jeez. Let me get those.” He’s up, bending over gathering papers, which only makes matters… harder.
My office suddenly feels too small, too charged with memory.
The chair. The desk. The spot on the floor where our clothes piled.
His face caked in my cum. Neutral ground—that’s what we need.
Somewhere that isn’t haunted by the sound he made the last time I kissed him.
Somewhere with lighting that doesn’t make me imagine stripping him down and spreading him across my desk blotter again.
Where the echoes of his moans as I thrust my tongue deep inside his tight little hole don’t torment me.
“How about we grab something to eat?” I blurt, before he can press further. “You know, keep it professional. Colleagues refueling. Nothing scandalous about it.”
Jamie tilts his head, glasses catching the light. “Dinner?”
“Exactly. Dinner. Very neutral. On the up and up. In public. With food.” Gods, I sound like I’m negotiating a treaty.
We end up at The Gorgon’s Griddle, a place downtown that’s popular with the late night crowd. The décor leans kitsch—stone busts lining the walls, fake ivy dangling from the ceiling like Medusa’s snakes. Poor thing. She really gets a bad rap.
Our booth is tucked against the wall, half-hidden behind a potted fern that looks suspiciously alive. The table is too small for me, and my knees brush against Jamie’s under it no matter how I shift. I tell myself it’s accidental, but he doesn’t move away.
Dinner out should be neutral ground. A public place, a chance to act like two colleagues grabbing a meal.
But halfway through appetizers—fried calamari that Jamie points out are ethically sourced—I realize I’m softening in ways that have nothing to do with alcohol.
He’s laughing at one of his own jokes, cheeks pink, glasses fogging the slightest bit near the bottom.
I should be thinking about the campaign.
Instead, all I can think about is how close his hand is to mine on the table.
Jamie’s talking about his early career, about trying to break into the corporate world without connections. He doesn’t say too much—he seems careful, almost guarded—but there’s a thread of honesty there.
“It hasn’t been easy. Especially… you know.” He gestures vaguely, like that says it all—no family name, no network, no silver spoon.
I nod. “Everyone says they want fresh voices—until they actually hear one. Half the time it’s not about talent, it’s about who you already know.”
He looks at me, eyes sharp behind those cute round glasses. “Exactly.”
Somewhere between the entrée and dessert, I find myself admitting things I usually keep locked away. “I don’t date much,” I tell him. “Not seriously.” I take a stab at the chocolate lava cake. “Okay, not at all. Most people… they just want the CEO power fantasy.”
His face falls. “I’m sorry. I mean—” He flusters, cheeks flushing. “Not that you’re not—fantasy-worthy. Obviously. But that’s not… you.”
It’s so earnest it makes my chest ache. He really doesn’t see me that way. Or maybe he does, but not only that way.
When the check comes, I should let him go. I should shake his hand, say goodnight, put him in a car and myself in another and head home for another long shower and jerk off session.
Instead, I hear myself ask, “Do you want to come back to my place? For a nightcap.”
I blink in disbelief. Apparently, my mouth has a mind of its own.
There’s a pause. He looks at me, searching my face, as if he’s weighing the risk. And then he grins. His eyelashes flutter in the low light. The reflection off his glasses catches the candle flame between us, like he’s holding fire in his gaze.
It’s ridiculous how warm I feel. Gods, I’ve negotiated multi-million-dollar contracts with less pressure than this. But then Jamie Torres replies.
“Yeah. I’d like that.”
And just like that, I know I’m in the best kind of trouble.