Page 33 of Takeover
Sam exhaled. “We all have something we dislike about our jobs.” He didn’t give Michael time to respond. “What about you? People at work know you’re gay now?” If they were going to have this conversation in the middle of the street, he wasn’t the only one who was going to be grilled.
“There’s a rainbow flag in my cube and I’ve mentioned going to Pride, so yes, they all know. I haven’t dated anyone since Rasheed—and no one knew about that—so there’s been no boyfriend at the holiday party or anything like that.”
“Do you want to date someone?” The question slipped out before he could pull it back. Damn the beer and late hour. The memories. Sam faced Michael, because you didn’t turn away after asking that.
“Well, I’d like to try. But circumstances…” He shrugged. “Plus, he’s in the closet.”
Yeah, he was. Firmly, too. Sam closed the distance between them and pulled Michael into a kiss. Folly. Pure folly. But damn, those lips, that heartbroken expression. He broke away and stepped back. “The circumstances are shit. The closet is shit.”
Michael stared at him, face ruddy, lips wet. “What do you—” He swallowed and then straightened.
The sudden craving in Michael’s expression spiked desire straight to the bottom of Sam’s spine. Every nerve tingled and his cock filled.
“Do you want me to come up?” Michael spoke low, his voice like silk over skin.
“Desperately.” That, too, slipped out without thought. But Sam followed it with more words. “But you’re not going to.”
Michael froze again and in the dim cast of twilight and streetlights, confusion replaced desire.
“We can’t fuck this up. The job. Four Rivers. We nearly did.” Because it wasn’t just sex—it had never been just sex for Sam. Yes, he wanted more. Dates. Ice cream in the park. Long walks. Stupid stuff. Things you didn’t ever do with your employee.
Things you did with a boyfriend. A partner. And he couldn’t be that for Michael. Not when he moved so often. Not when he hid his sexuality. Not after what Rasheed had put Michael through—because Sam would put him through the same damn thing.
Michael’s stance changed, shifted. “You’re right, of course.”
The longing to kiss him again was overwhelming. Instead, he forced his lips into something he hoped resembled a smile. “Good night, Michael.”
Michael’s expression didn’t change. “See you tomorrow.”
They turned almost at the same time, away from each other. Sam pulled open the door to the lobby of the building and entered. He didn’t look back. He could never look back. Not in this career.
* * *
Sam tossedthe pen at his closed—and locked—office door. It clattered against the wood, then dropped silently onto the office carpet. Documents covered his desk—financials, the incorporation papers, board minutes, the little folder that contained Taylor’s dirty deeds—every piece of information he’d been able to find that might contain some hint of William’s motivations. Because you didn’t try to kill then sell a company for negative return on investment. That was insane—the very last resort. Actively working against your best hope for creating a company of value, ripe for acquisition? Sam shook his head.
He’d spent a good part of Sunday combing though the pages in front of him—and there the clues were. Tiny little hints that meant nothing to someone not horribly suspicious. A note about William’s presence at some key dealings. The fact that he’d been instrumental in hiring Taylor—and had overridden several internal checks and balances in the hiring process to make sure they “got the best person.” During the churn-up after Susan and Rasheed had left, William had set himself up as the continuity guy—though Michael would have been the obvious choice.
William hadneverbeen that hands-on before.
Then there were William’s little bonuses, the ones thatseemedto be based on sales—but the timing and the amounts didn’t add up—at least not to Sam.
He ran a hand through his hair. A forensic accountant would probably have a field day with the papers strewn on top of his desk. Especially the inexplicable fluctuation in the petty cash account. Sometimes it had perhaps one hundred dollars, other times, nearly three thousand. But no one paid much attention to petty cash. Pennies, when some of the equipment in the labs cost as much as a luxury car. Or more. Problem was, in the end, none of it was concrete proof of anything other than bad bookkeeping.
William wasn’t on any other boards at the moment and had no record of any current dealings with any other companies. Just Four Rivers.
That only fueled Sam’s suspicions. He’d never know William not to be sleazing up at least three companies at once.
What a way to spend a weekend. Sam rubbed his forehead. He should have been sleeping in. Reading. Being bent over a table by Michael and fucked senseless.
Sam let out a breath through clenched teeth. That last thought came complete with the memory of being filled by Michael’s cock, the sharp pain of leather against his back. The dark scent of Michael and leather, the tang of Michael’s semen on his tongue.
He adjusted his hardening dick, then pulled another pen from the holder on his desk and lobbed it at the door. A third followed, for good measure.
Damn good thing Michael wasn’t in the office today—most of the company had been here yesterday, working on the release, but today it had been just him and a handful of folks—and everyone else had left after lunch.
Fuck. He should write some of this down, but the last thing he needed was to be sued if those notes wound up in William’s hands. Which could happen, given how much access William had to the office. Sam tapped a finger against his lips. Now that was something else he should look into—badge records. The system recorded whenever anyone carded themselves into the office.
Sam stood. Server room, then.
