16. Chapter 16 #2
He knew this. Had never forgotten a single detail of this sexy man.
The thick vein running the length of him that Marcus could feel pressed flat against his tongue.
The exact place on the underside, two inches down, where if he pressed his tongue and held it Andre's grammar collapsed entirely, where sentences…
became single syllables… became nothing at all. He found it now. Pressed. Held.
Andre's left hand scrabbled at the desk's edge, found nothing, ended up back in his hair, gripping with both hands now, not guiding, just holding on.
"Marcus. Marcus, sweetheart, I'm not going to last, I haven't, God, I haven't since-"
Marcus pulled off just enough to speak, lips dragging over the head of him, wet and swollen and dark, his own spit cooling on his chin.
"Neither have I."
Then he took him again and stopped being careful.
He worked him in long pulls, cheeks hollowed, taking him deep and backing off and taking him deep again, setting a pace that had no mercy in it, his tongue moving constantly, the flat of it, then the point, finding every place he remembered and some he'd apparently forgotten he'd memorized.
Andre's breathing went ragged and high. His thighs were shaking under Marcus's hands.
"I'm… Marcus, I'm going to…"
Marcus sealed his lips at the base and swallowed.
Andre's strength quit on him and took them both over.
They ended up on the gray carpet in a mess of Marcus's shirt and Andre's open belt, Marcus over him, Andre's hands working at buttons, giving up, just tearing, one of them skittering off under the desk.
Andre was still half-undone, still catching his breath, and Marcus was already moving down his throat with his mouth, tasting the salt at his collarbone, the hollow of his sternum.
"The door," Andre said, against his neck.
"Locked."
"You didn't lock it."
"I locked it." Marcus got his teeth on the cord of muscle running up into Andre's shoulder, bit down, felt him shudder. "I locked it when I shut it. I've locked that door behind you in my head four hundred times."
"Jesus, Marcus."
There was lube in the desk drawer. It had been in that drawer for years, because getting privacy around here wasn't simple. When Andre saw what it was, he laughed once, cracked and astonished.
"In your office?"
"Shut up."
"In your public facing office, Marcus Whitfield-"
Marcus’s office was a fucking powder keg, and the fuse had been lit the second Andre walked through that door.
Six years of pent-up desire, six years of living in purgatory, and now here they were, Marcus’s hand gripping the back of Andre’s thigh like it was the only thing keeping him from drowning.
Andre’s laughter died in his throat, replaced by a raw, needy silence that screamed louder than any words ever could.
“You wanna go through my drawers,” Marcus growled, his voice thick with want, “or you want me inside you?”
Andre didn’t hesitate. He stared Marcus down, his dark eyes burning with a hunger that could’ve lit the whole fucking city on fire. “Inside me,” he said, his voice cracking like a whip. “Now. Right fucking now. Don’t you dare be careful with me, Marcus. I’ve waited six goddamn years-”
Marcus was careful anyway, for about ninety seconds, because he wasn’t a complete fucking animal.
Andre was thirty-eight, and it had been a long fucking time since anyone had touched him like this.
Marcus wasn’t about to hurt him, not for all the money in the world.
Two fingers, slow and deliberate, working him open, watching every twitch of Andre’s face like it was gospel.
His other hand flattened against Andre’s chest, feeling the rapid-fire rhythm of his heart as it threatened to punch its way through his ribcage.
Andre cursed him the whole time, his voice dripping with frustration and need. “Fucking coward,” he spat, pushing back onto Marcus’s hand, his hips grinding in tight, desperate circles. “Quit teasing me and-”
Then Marcus stopped being careful.
He lined himself up, the slick, swollen head of his cock pressing against Andre’s tight, trembling entrance.
He pushed in, slow at first, then deeper, until Andre’s body gave way and swallowed him whole.
The heat, the grip, it was fucking divine.
Andre let out a low, broken moan, his lips brushing the side of Marcus’s jaw, his breath hot and ragged.
His heel hooked over Marcus’s thigh, pulling him closer, deeper, until there wasn’t an inch left to give.
Marcus’s office vanished around them. The fluorescent lights, the fucking desk, the certificate on the wall, it all blurred into nothingness until it was just the two of them, raw and fucking real, at the center of the goddamn universe.
“Look at me,” Andre demanded, his voice rough and desperate. “Marcus. Look at me. Don’t you dare close your eyes.”
Marcus didn’t. He locked eyes with Andre, and it was like staring into the fucking sun, blinding, beautiful, and impossible to look away from.
They found their rhythm fast, hard, desperate thrusts that sent the desk skidding across the floor.
Andre’s hands were everywhere, raking through Marcus’s hair, clawing down his spine, leaving red welts and wet trails in their wake.
He was talking the whole time, half of it filthy, half of it heartbreakingly sincere.
“I never stopped,” Andre gasped, his voice breaking. “Six years, Marcus. Six fucking years, not one day, not one, ”
“Don’t,” Marcus warned, his voice strained, but Andre wasn’t done.
“I kept your number in my phone. Top of the fucking list. I looked at it every night like-”
“Andre-”
“I love you,” Andre said, his hand catching Marcus by the jaw, forcing him to hold still, to listen. “Not loved. Love. Present fucking tense. I’ve never had to put it in the past, and I’m done pretending I did.”
Marcus fucking shattered.
Not cracked, not crumbled, he came apart all at once, like a building collapsing under its own weight.
He buried his face in Andre’s throat, his hips stuttering as he drove into him with everything he had.
“I love you,” he whispered, his voice raw and broken.
“Six years, Andre. Six fucking years. I love you-”
Andre came first, his back arching off the floor, Marcus’s name tearing out of him in three ragged, desperate pieces.
His body clenched around Marcus like a vise, pulling him over the edge half a second later.
Marcus buried himself as deep as he could go, shuddering, silent, every cell in his body exploding into fucking stardust.
They stayed like that forever, tangled together, neither of them willing to let go.
But it wasn’t over.
Marcus pulled out slowly, his cock still throbbing, and Andre whimpered at the loss. “Fuck,” Marcus muttered, his hands roaming over Andre’s sweat-slick skin. “You’re so fucking beautiful.”
Andre smirked, his dark eyes glinting with mischief. “You’re not done with me yet, are you?”
Marcus growled, flipping him onto his stomach. “Not even close.”
Andre buried his face in the carpet, his ass in the air, ready and waiting. Marcus spit into his palm, slicked himself up, and plunged back in, harder this time, rougher. Andre’s moans were louder now, unfiltered, and Marcus fucking reveled in them.
“Six years,” Marcus growled, slamming into Andre again and again. “Six fucking years, and you’re still mine.”
Andre’s response was a broken cry, his fingers clawing at the carpet as Marcus took him apart piece by piece.
They weren’t done. Not by a long shot.
Andre's heartbeat came down under his ear by degrees. Marcus lay with his head on his chest and let himself be held in a way he had not permitted in six years. He did not think about the building, or Crimson, or the leak, or the six hours until the next real decision.
The carpet was terrible. It had been chosen because it did not show wear.
"Your knee's going to hate you," he said.
"My knee hates me every day. Today it earned its keep." Andre's fingers moved through the short hair at the back of Marcus's skull, slow, finding the gray at the temple and staying there. "You went gray."
"So did you."
"Mine's prettier."
"It is," Marcus said.
Andre laughed. It moved Marcus's whole head.