Page 136 of Under Construction

Part of him lightens knowing Chris still needs him. His logical mind sneers at the weakness—maybe this is the perfect chance to end things cleanly.

He buzzes Chris up without another word, taking another scorching swallow of whiskey. He wants to be drunk tonight, needs the numbness. The alcohol's dulled his anger to something quieter. What he hopes will be more manageable.

When he opens the door, Chris is shifting his weight from one foot to the other, hands fidgeting at his sides. At the sight of the bottle, his movements still, and his brows knit together in worry.

Dennis doesn't let him speak. He yanks Chris inside by his shirt, smashing their mouths together.

Chris tries to pull back, words forming: "Denny, wait—" but Dennis bites his protest away.

They stumble through the entryway, hands everywhere.

Chris keeps trying to talk between kisses: "We need to—" and "Please just—" but Dennis silences him each time, ripping at jackets and pants until they're half-naked and pressed together.

Even through his anger, Dennis feels Chris's cock hardening against his hip. Satisfaction courses through him—Chris can sneak around with city hall women, can destroy Dennis's dreams, but his body betrays him. He wants Dennis, Dennis,Dennis.

Chris finally stops trying to talk. His hands find Dennis's hips from out of habit as Dennis shoves him against the wall. But it's different this time—no more letting Chris bend him over and take control. Dennis needs something back after everything Chris has stolen.

He spins around, pressing back against Chris's cock. His fingers claw into Chris's hair, wrenching Chris's head down to his shoulder. "If you can't fuck me hard enough to make me forget what you've done, you're worthless to me."

Chris's hands grip Dennis's waist, muscles bunching as he pivots them both in one fluid motion. Dennis's chest slams against the wall, the impact forcing air from his lungs. Yet when Chris speaks, his voice cracks with need:

"Denny, baby, please, princess, listen—" His hands slip under Dennis's shirt, moving on their own to every spot that makes Dennis gasp, every touch calibrated from months of learning Dennis's body.

Dennis braces both palms against the wall as Chris slides into him. Chris’s hands clamp over Dennis's, their fingerslocking them together. Chris's thrusts batter Dennis's pelvis into cold marble. He comes like that, cock dragging against the wall, Chris filling him deep, shuddering into Dennis’s back as he follows.

Still burning with rage, Dennis turns. He twists his fist in Chris's shirt, yanking him into a kiss that's more teeth than lips until he tastes blood.

Then he shoves Chris, who lands on the floor with a dull thud, his palms slapping against the impact. He looks up, startled but steady, his voice low and firm.

"Baby, stop, you'll hurt yourself."

Dennis throws his head back with a sharp laugh. "You care if I hurt myself? When hurting me is all you do? When you go out of your way to destroy everything I touch?"

"I would never, I couldneverhurt you—"

Dennis straddles Chris's hips, venom dripping from each word. "Oh, you're so good at this—making me look fucked up while you play innocent. Aren't you clever?" He grabs Chris's softening cock, jerking it too rough until Chris winces, grasping fingers around his wrist. "Making me crazy for believing you, crazy for wanting you, crazy for loving you."

"Princess, please. I do love you, you know I do." Chris's face twists with something that hurts.

Liar.Liar!

"Prove it." Dennis sinks down onto Chris's half-hard length. A snarl builds in his throat when Chris doesn't instantly harden. He cages Chris's head between his forearms. "You can't even get hard for me. You don't want me, you’veneverwanted me."

Chris takes the bait. "I always want you. You don't understand—I can't stay away from you. Not even to protect you or the site—"

The words wash over Dennis unheard. "Get. Hard.Now."

Chris's fingers dig into Dennis's ribs as he bucks up against him. Chris grimaces but his cock swells inside him. Even angry, even hurting, Chris's body responds to him. Then Dennis rides him mercilessly, twisting away when Chris tries to kiss him, tries to pull him closer.

Their bodies remember each other, moving in perfect sync despite everything disintegrating. They come without pleasure, just mechanical release, muscle memory without meaning.

Dennis stares down at Chris afterward, vision swimming. He wants Chris to fight back, to yell, to throw a punch, to say something—anything—so they can finally tear into each other properly. Anything but this silence.

Instead, Chris reaches for his face. "Baby, you're not okay. Let me help you get cleaned up."

Nausea hits Dennis like a wave. Not from what they've just done—though that sickens him too—how Chris can still pretend to care. But from the fantasy that he’s been nursing, crumbling around him. The fantasy that they can work this out and go back to normal.

There will be no talking, no explanations, no fixing this.

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