Page 86 of Under Construction

"You have no idea."

Chris strips Dennis’s pants and underwear down in one smooth motion. Helps him wriggle out of them just enough that Dennis can kick them off.

His fingers trail up Dennis’s calves, carefully pulling up each dress sock—black and finely ribbed—back into place, snug just below his knees.

His eyes rake over Dennis—shirt half-off one shoulder, socks sharp and perfect against the expanse of skin above.

"The way you handled that supplier today..." Chris’s tongue darts out to wet his lips. "Fuck."

Their lips meet, then they’re moving together like they've done this a hundred times. Maybe they have.

Dennis has lost count of how many nights end like this—project success turning into hungry touches, professional pride becoming something more primal.

Chris settles back against the foot of the couch while Dennis kneels beside him, mouth stretched wide around Chris's cock.

The position leaves Chris's hand free to roam, teasing between Dennis’s legs until Dennis is squirming, rocking himself between Chris's hardness and hand.

Chris’s fingers stretch and twist until Dennis is pushing back for more, until pleasure builds like their foundation work—steady, thorough, inevitable.

"Look at you," Chris breathes while he watches Dennis choke himself on his dick. Fuck himself onto Chris's fingers. "Can't get enough of how you look when you're like this, how you feel. Even if we never go all the way, I don't even care."

Dennis gags on Chris's girth, then pulls off, coughing into the back of his hand.

His bottom lip juts out at what Chris has said and a whine escapes his lips before he can stop it. "Don't say that!" he scowls, just a little pissy.

After weeks of preparation, the thought of not getting properly fucked makes his hole clench around Chris's fingers in protest.

These days, every time Chris's fingers push into him, Dennis can't help but imagine they're Chris's dick instead.

It should feel stupid, getting this obsessed with the idea, but his mind constantly wanders to it—how much thicker Chris would feel, stretching him beyond what fingers can do. How much deeper he'd reach.

Chris's fingers know exactly where to press against his walls, making him see stars, but his cock? God, would the angle be different? Would the fullness change everything?

The questions plague him late at night when he's alone.

During site visits when Chris bends to inspect something.

In the shower when his own fingers try and fail to recreate what Chris does to him.

Even now, with Chris three fingers deep, Dennis’s brain supplies unhelpful comparisons between digits and dick.

But Chris's other words distract him from these familiar musings.

His mind drifts to different certainties—about changing the industry together, about proving everyone wrong together. About how 'us' feels more natural than 'me' lately.

He comes like that—seated back on his heels, Chris's fingers deep inside him, hands gripping Chris's thigh as his body convulses. Chris's name garbles into a moan as ecstasy blanks his mind clean as a fresh drafting sheet.

The moment his body stops shaking, he dives back down onto Chris's cock, eager to give back the pleasure he's just received.

When Chris does ejaculate only a few moments later, Dennis’s mouth stays wrapped around his length, greedy for what Chris can feed him, savoring each pulse of release sliding down his throat.

At least this way, he has more of Chris in him than just his fingers.

After, they flop onto the floor, inspection papers crushed beneath them. Dennis sits with his back against the couch this time, Chris's head resting on his lap.

His fingertips card through Chris's hair, snagging strands between his knuckles before letting them fall free. His other hand rests on Chris's chest, absently thumbing the center of his breastbone.

Chris sprawls, using Dennis’s thigh as his pillow, one arm folded behind it for extra height. His free hand finds Dennis’s on his chest, then, his fingers trace each knuckle before sliding between them.

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