Page 79 of Under Construction

"Wanted to touch you since we left," he breathes against Dennis’s neck.

Dennis wanted it too. Perturbed as he was—and a little hurt—that Chris hadn’t initiated something that morning besides a quick peck on the lips as he held the car door open.

But because they’re in public, instead he says, "Someone could— ah!"

Then his protest cuts off as Chris guides Dennis’s hand to his crotch, while he starts stroking Dennis off with his own.

They make it to Pacifica eventually. Find the reported kittens behind a seafood restaurant—three white balls of fluff that Chris somehow coaxes out with infinite patience.

"Here kitty," he coos, holding out his hand. His voice goes soft in that way it only ever does when he’s talking to cats or has Dennis in his bed. "It's okay, baby. Not gonna hurt you."

The gentleness surprises Dennis every time. The same hands that leave bruises on his hips now carefully wrap around tiny bodies. The same voice that whispers filth in his ear now makes soothing sounds until scared kittens creep closer.

They develop a system. Chris does the initial approach while Dennis readies carriers and blankets.

Sometimes they drive hours for reported strays where, coincidentally there’s a super famous out-of-the-way restaurant that makes the world’s best ribs and requires a month’s booking in advance, that Chris somehow magically just happens to have.

Sometimes they find them in the same area as a medieval castle that happens to have a whodunit mystery night that Chris produces tickets to on the spot.

One Sunday they end up in the mountains, following reports of abandoned cats near hiking trails. They don't find any strays, but Chris pulls off at a viewpoint just before sunrise.

"Come here," he says, leading Dennis to the guardrail. He positions Dennis in front of himself, chest to chest, Dennis’s hands clutching Chris’s shoulders.

Dennis is a little giddy at this height. Spikes of anxiety from them tripping and falling down the cliffside mess with his head, making his body misinterpret the fear into that wet patch that’s already forming in front of his underwear.

Chris’s gaze never leaves Dennis’s eyes even as he unbuckles him. Unzips him open. Cleans his hands with sanitizer and coats them with lube. "I want to watch the sun come up with you."

His fingers slip into Dennis’s lowered pants as pinks and yellows and purples start bleeding into the sky. Chris makes him part his legs so he can work him open slow and lazy while birds wake around them.

Dennis croons, fingertips digging into Chris’s shoulders, his forehead resting on Chris’s.

“Fuck yourself on my fingers, princess,” Chris instructs, breathy as Dennis pants at the effort of containing arousal and acrophobia and wanting to show Chris that hecan.

It all rolls up into a ball of something terrifyingly overwhelming, even as he rides Chris like this—first two fingers, then three—up and down, dragging his walls along the familiar bumps of rough, comforting knuckles that sting as well as they stretch.

"Beautiful," Chris whispers, but he's not looking at the sunrise.

They always keep pet food in the Lexus now. Water bowls too. Chris and Dennis know every stray cat hangout in three counties and Chris always carries treats in his work jacket.

"You're getting soft," Dennis teases one day, watching Chris hand-feed a skinny tabby.

"Only for them." Chris’s free hand finds Dennis’s ass, squeezing shamelessly. "Still plenty hard for you, princess."

Somehow Chris's apartment becomes their default. Dennis brings over pots he's never used, spices still sealed in plastic. They pick recipes together, shop together, cook together.

Or try to.

"The chicken's burning," Dennis gasps one night, bent over Chris's counter.

"Chicken needs to be well done," Chris says, suddenly an expert on poultry and all things culinary. "Well-known fact, that."

He slides his cock between Dennis’s thighs, taking care to lift himself onto his toes, so his shaft slides back and forth along the underside of Dennis’s sex, the head jabbing at his taint and leaving trails of precum. "A couple more minutes won’t hurt.”

"Chris—" Dennis exclaims, his own toes rising as his knees tremble, Chris keeping him suspended with the pressure of his cock and persistent hands.

"The way you moved, getting those spices." Chris’s hand slides to the back of Dennis’s thigh, hiking one bent knee up onto the counter. This makes space for the length of his dick to push harder against Dennis, rubbing insistently, his other palmholding it tightly in place. All Dennis can do is arch. "Stretching high, shirt riding up... baby, I had to have you."

With a pan of charred chicken for dinner, they end up at their usual cafe—some hole-in-the-wall place where no one looks twice at them. Where they can sit side-by-side without it being weird and no one notices how Chris's hand stays on Dennis’s thigh under the table.

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