Page 94 of Finance Bros

But he’s inside the small room with me before I have the sense or the reaction time required to stop him. I’m beyond defenseless as he walks me into the wall, his hands underneath my jacket and his lips sucking needily at mine.

My liquefied brain does nothing. My body responds to his with equal fervor. “You look terrible,” he tells me. “Hot as fuck but terrible. Did you not sleep?”

“Mm…” is all I manage before he’s rubbing his tongue against mine again.

I’m not sure how it happens, when or why or who does it—I guess him—but he’s got both our cocks clenched in one fist.

“We can’t,” I say weakly while we both look down at our leaking dicks. Our foreheads are pressed together, and he’s not wasting any time. I want to come. I need to come. I’m close. This is my favorite. I love him.

“Good, right?”

Fuck, did I say that out loud?

“So fucking close Ryan. I’ve been thinking about this all day. Come with me.”

Okay, maybe it wasn’t out loud. I don’t even know. There’s a rustle near my head, and it’s him grabbing a wad of paper towels from the dispenser, holding them near our cocks, ready to catch what comes out.

Distantly, somewhere in my addled brain, I think how much better this would be with lube and maybe we do this again later—in the shower maybe—after the gym—and I realize no way can I go to the gym today, which also makes me want to cry because I’ve been on such a good streak.

“Mal…” I breathe, and it comes out like the most pathetic sigh. It doesn’t even sound like me. “Coming…shit…don’t let me make a mess. Please…Mal…unfph…fuck…”

“I’ve got you. Shit, me too…hang with me, baby, fuck…yeah…oh God so fucking close.”

I’m spilling cum, and it’s probably getting everywhere, but I also feel half asleep. I register the low sustained groan he makes as he jerks us—me with my far too overstimulated dick—and drops his head to my shoulder. My hands are on him. Somewhere. They’re in fists, and I unclench them as the intensity of the orgasm and aftershocks pass, leaving me even stupider and more drained.

His kiss is sloppy and sexy and long while he holds the soaked paper towels over our still joined cocks. When he pulls away and makes sure we’re free of cum stains, he tucks me back in and does up my pants before taking care of himself. “Let metake you home.”

“I’m…” Okay isn’t the word. Not even close. But no—I need to get the fuck away from him. That was too much.Thisis too much. “I need to sleep.”

“We’ll sleep,” he says. “I’ll let you sleep all night. Promise.”

I put a hand on his chest and hold him back because he’s about to kiss me again. “No. Stop. Mal, I’m so sorry, but we have to stop.”

18

MALCOLM

Andrea, my long-time therapist hands me a fresh box of tissues because I used up what was left of her other one.

To be clear, I’m not weeping or anything, but the tears are flowing nonstop. They have been since I left work. Since Ryan stopped me from kissing him and told me to back off. He did it again today. For the second day in a row. Not in words so much, but he might as well have said it. Yesterday was bad after he ducked out of work early to get some sleep, but it was understandable. He hadn’t looked as rough or tired today, though, which I assumed meant he caught up on his rest.

But then he went off and had lunch with Miguel. Somewhere not in the building. When we were in the office, he never once left his desk to go to the bathroom, and he didn’t return any of the texts I sent him where I made it abundantly clear I wanted to see him tonight.

I feel like I’m finally getting my long overdue punishment. Like what we did—sucking and kissing and fucking—was a trick to get me to fall for him, and now he’s pulling the rug out—same as I did to him way back when.

I’m crying because I know I deserve it. Because I know he’s right to use me and leave me lost and broken.

“Can we go back to this room metaphor?” Andrea asks gently, but also like we’re definitely circling back, whether I want to or not.

I heave a sigh and wipe my leaky eyes again. “What about it?”

“It had to do with your mother’s affair?”

I’ve been seeing Andrea since my mom died. She’s the same age mother would have been had she lived, which means there’s been a lot of transference she and I have both had to work through over the years. I’ve been needy, petulant, rebellious, regretful, unfair, ungrateful, and angry with her in each new phase of my life.

She’s a grief therapist, so that’s how this all started, but now she’s the person I vent all my issues at for fifty minutes a week. When I’m done, she gives me a thing to do to deal with something I’ve been nervous about or avoiding. Whether it’s having a conversation, paying a bill, or replying to an email—just something so I don’t let my anxieties fester or sabotage myself.

“Sort of,” I say, not wanting to talk about this with her either.

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