Page 87 of Under Construction

His chest rises and falls under their joined hands, eyes closed as he presses into the scritch of Dennis’s nails against his scalp.

"We should get up," Dennis says eventually. "Early meeting tomorrow. I gotta grab an Uber while they still have some on the streets around here."

"No… stay." Chris's hand leaves the back of his head to shoot up and wrap around Dennis’s wrist. His fingers tighten—just for a moment. Just enough to make Dennis’s heart skip a beat. "We can review the foundation specs."

It's a weak excuse. They both know it.

But they both pretend they don't.

And like so many nights before, Dennis ends up curled into Chris's side on the mattress, his head swimming, nose nuzzled into the warm curve above Chris’s ribs, drunk on his natural scent.

His toothbrush sits next to Chris's in a chipped mug.

His glasses rest neatly on Chris’s desk, perched in the same corner they’ve claimed every night he stays over.

His phone charges with a cable that shouldn’t even exist in Chris’s apartment—because Chris doesn’t own a device that uses it.

But admitting this is more than work means admitting it's more than physical. It means acknowledging how their professional partnership has become something else entirely.

Something neither of them planned for.

Something that feels like foundation work of a different kind.

25Warning Signs

The phone interruptions grow more frequent.

Chris has gotten better at hiding his reactions, but Dennis has gotten better at reading them—the subtle tension in his jaw, the way his eyes dart to the screen before he silences it.

Tonight it happens while they're tangled on Chris's mattress, Dennis settled between his thighs, savoring every inch of him.

He’s gotten better at this too—at reading Chris’s body.

Months of practice have taught him exactly how to reduce Chris to breathless sounds and which spots make him writhe.

Chris's cock fills his mouth perfectly now. A satisfying, familiar weight on his tongue.

Dennis hums around the head, just to feel Chris's thighs tense. His tongue flits back and forth across Chris's frenulum, just to hear Chris curse.

The phone buzzes again—the third time in an hour.

It's been like this lately, the intervals between messages shrinking while Chris's attempts to ignore them grow more strained.

Chris's whole body goes rigid. Not the good kind.

"Fuck," he mutters, cock softening against Dennis’s tongue.

Dennis slurps off, lips wet. His tongue laps up a trail of saliva—neat and tidy—trickling down Chris’s shaft before it drips to his balls.

"You need to get that?" He drags his lips across the head—left, right, left. Smooches the skin as it creases—faint wrinkles forming with the ebb of Chris’s arousal—marking his territory.

The more time he spends with Chris’s dick, the more he comes to adore it. Dennis likes to think they have shared custody of it now.

"No." But Chris's eyes keep flicking to where his phone lies face-down on the floor.

"Hey." Dennis rises onto his hands, crawl-walking up Chris's body until Chris is under him and they're face to face.

The streetlight filtering through the window catches the furrows between Chris's brows. Dennis smooths his fingers over them, stroking each crease until he feels the tension melt under his touch. "What's wrong?"

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