Chapter 5
Cain
I'm in the stairwell, phone pressed to my face, watching the feed.
Grey is in my office. He’s been standing in the middle of the room for a long moment. Just breathing. Just looking. Then he walks to my desk. Runs his fingers along the edge. Slowly, like he’s memorizing the texture.
I do that too, when I'm alone.
He pulls out my chair, touching the leather.
Pressing his palm flat against the seat.
His hand is shaking. Then he sits down, taking it all.
My chair, my desk and my view of the city.
He leans back and closes his eyes. Puts his hands on the armrests, exactly where my hands go, and tilts his head back. His throat is pale and vulnerable.
He opens his eyes, stands up and walks to the window. Puts his palm flat against the glass. I've seen him do this before. But never like this. Never from this angle. Never when I could see his face so clearly.
He's not just looking at the view. He's imagining me there, standing in the exact spot.
He turns away. Walks to the bookshelf. Runs his fingers along the spines of my books. Stops at one. Pulls it out. The Picture of Dorian Gray. Of course he picked that one. Grey has a sense of irony I didn't expect when I hired him.
He opens the book. Reads a page. Closes it. But before he puts it back, he holds it to his face inhaling the smell. Then puts the book back. Exactly where it was. Exactly how I left it.
He is always so careful.
He walks to the corner of the office. There's a coat rack there. My jacket is hanging on it, the black one I wore today. The one that still holds my body heat, my scent, and the shape of my shoulders.
Grey stops in front of it. Stares at the jacket. His hand lifts, hovers then drops and lifts again.
Do it, I think.
And he does. His fingers close around the sleeve. He lifts the jacket off the rack and holds it against his chest. And then, God, he brings it to his face. Buries his nose in the fabric. Breathes in. His whole body shudders.
I'm going to hell. And I'm going to enjoy the ride.
He stands there for a full minute. Just breathing. Just holding my jacket like it's something precious. Then he hangs it back up. Adjusts the collar. Steps away.
He walks to the door. Pauses with his hand on the handle.
Go, I think. Go before you do something you can't take back.
But he doesn't go. He turns around. And he starts unbuttoning his shirt.
I stop breathing.
He's not looking at the camera. He doesn't know I'm here. He thinks he's alone in the dark, alone in my office, alone with whatever compulsion is driving him.
He pulls his shirt off. His body is lean. Pale. The kind of body that spends too much time indoors, hunched over desks, watching screens. He drops the shirt on the floor. Then he unbuckles his belt.
This is too far, this is where you stop watching. This is where you call security. This is where you remember that you're his boss and he's your employee and nothing about this is legal.
I don't call security. I don't stop watching.
He pushes his pants down. And then he's standing in the middle of my office in nothing but his underwear, barefoot on the carpet, backlit by the city lights.
He's beautiful. In the way storms are beautiful. In the way something dangerous looks right before it destroys you.
He walks to my desk. Turns around. And sits on the edge of it.
My desk. Where I sign contracts. Where I take calls.
Where I've sat a thousand times, never knowing that one day a man would perch there in his underwear and look like he belonged.
He leans back on his hands. Arching his spine.
His eyes are closed. His mouth is slightly open.
His chest is rising and falling too fast.
What are you doing? I think. What are you imagining?
Then his hand moves. Down his stomach. Sliding over the waistband of his underwear.
Oh.
OH.
I should look away. His hand disappears beneath the fabric. His hips shift. A soft sound escapes his throat, quiet, broken, barely audible even through the camera's microphone.
"Cain."
There it is. That voice, a fucking siren.
I grip my phone so hard the screen creaks.
He pushes his underwear down, just enough to free himself.
He's hard, his cock is flushed, leaking, and desperate.
The head is wet with pre-cum, glistening in the blue light from the window.
He wraps his hand around himself. Slow at first. Experimenting.
Like he's trying to remember what this feels like in this space. In my space.
His thumb circles the head. He shudders.
"Cain."
Louder this time. Testing the way it sounds in this room. In the dark, on my desk. His hips roll forward, into his hand. I can hear it now, the wet sound of his palm moving over his shaft. The soft, broken gasps that escape his throat.
His head falls back. His throat is exposed I want to leave my mark there.
Fuck.
What are you doing to me?
His hand moves faster. His breath comes in short, sharp gasps. He's close. I can see it in the tension of his thighs, the arch of his spine, the way his fingers grip the edge of my desk.
His other hand, his free hand, reaches up to his chest. He pinches his own nipple. Hisses through his teeth.
"Cain..."
He's losing control. His hips are bucking now, thrusting into his fist like he can't help himself. Like he needs this. Needs me.
"Please," he whispers. "Please, Cain, please..."
I don't know what he's asking for. But I want to give it to him.
"Please.."
His whole body goes rigid. His mouth opens in a silent cry.
And then he comes, arching off the desk. His release spills over his hand, over his stomach, over the edge of my desk. White, hot and everywhere.
He collapses forward. Breathing hard as his Forehead pressed to his knees. His body is shaking. I watch him come back to himself. Slowly, he lifts his head. Looks around the office like he's seeing it for the first time.
Then he looks down at himself. At the mess on his stomach. On my desk.
What are you going to do now, Grey?
Are you going to clean it up? Are you going to leave it? Are you going to...
He smiles, then he stands up. Pulls his underwear back up followed by his other clothing then walks to the door, pauses, turns back to look at my office one more time.
"Tomorrow," he whispers. Then he's gone.
I sit in the dark stairwell for a long time.
My heart is pounding. My hands are shaking.
I'm hard in a way I haven't been in years, aching, almost painful.
I look down at my phone. The camera feed shows an empty office.
But I can still see him there, sprawled across my things. Saying my name like it meant something.
"Please, Cain, please..."
I close the feed and open a different file. The audio folder. I scroll to the recording from tonight. Hit play. His voice fills the stairwell.
"Cain... please... Cain, please..."
His gasps, his moans. The wet sound of his hand moving over his cock. I listen to the whole thing.
Then I listen to it again. And again.
I'm so hard it hurts. My hand moves to my belt as I push my pants down. I wrap my hand around myself. And I stroke to the sound of his voice, the image of his body, the knowledge that he was in my office, on my desk, saying my name.
His release is still there. On my desk. The thought sends me over the edge. I come hard. Biting my lip to keep from making a sound. And then I sit there, breathing hard.
What have you done to me?
I text Leo.
Get the cleaners in early tomorrow. My office. The desk needs to be cleaned.
He responds: Of course. Any particular reason?
I type: No reason.
I don't tell him about Grey. I don't tell him about the fact that I just came to the sound of my secretary's voice.
That's my secret. And I'm keeping it.