Page 32 of Sliding into Love
The leftmost guy shakes his head. “Nothing, boss. Just some patience. It’s gonna get hot as hell in here until we can get this sorted.”
I smirk. “We’re fine with a little heat, aren’t we, Kenny?”
I don’t even look at him, but I catch his small nod from the corner of my eye.
“If you need anything,” I add, “come down to the office. We’ll be there all day.”
They agree and wave us off.
By the time we get back, I’m sweating hard enough to want a shower. I ignore it, drop into my chair, and get to work. Kenny does the same, sliding into the seat behind the desk.
Hours pass before there’s a knock at the door. One of the construction guys steps in, wincing at the heat.
“Gotta grab a part,” he says. “Once we’ve got it, we should have you up and running today.”
“That’s great,” Kenny says quickly, eyes wide. “We really appreciate it.”
The man smiles. “You’ve both been real understanding, considering how hot it is.”
“You didn’t sabotage it,” I say. “And honestly, the heat’s been a bit of a motivator. We’ve gotten a lot done today.”
He laughs. “Whatever works. We’ll have it fixed in a jiffy. Be sure to stay hydrated,” he warns, then leaves.
The moment the door shuts, I grab us each a bottle of water. I down half of mine in one go and start to feel the first flicker of relief. Still, it’s not enough.
Unbuttoning the top of my shirt helps. The air hits my skin and cools it slightly. I know without a doubt that I need more of this. I don't need to have a fucking heat stroke in this office simply because we're both too stubborn to go anywhere else.
I keep going, unfastening the rest until I can shrug it off and drape it over my chair. I’m left in my white tank—soft, fitted, and breathable.
That’s when I realize Kenneth hasn’t moved. His water bottle sits unopened on the desk, his gaze locked on me—or, more precisely, on my bare skin.
“Earth to Kenneth,” I say, snapping my fingers.
He jolts, grabs the bottle, opens it, and chugs it down. I watch his Adam’s apple bob with each swallow and picture it moving for an entirely different reason.
My body reacts instantly.
My length hardens, desperate for some sort of relief in this trying time, but I can't. Number one: we’re at work, and number two: I told myself I wasn't going to do that anymore. Never mind that I've given in twice since that first time, both of which were when I was too weak to resist.
I force myself to drop into my chair like a sack of potatoes. The thud of my body landing startles Kenny.
“It’s just a shirt,” I say, eyes fixed on the papers instead of him.
I don't think he's uncomfortable. If anything, I would suspect he's aroused, but the thought still angers me because I can't do anything about it.
He hums. “That’s true. It is just a shirt.” A pause. Then: “You know what? I’m taking mine off too.”
Before I can tell him to do whatever he wants, he’s already stripping.
And unlike me, he doesn’t stop at the undershirt. He takes it all off.
Now I’m the one staring, because holy hell—Kenneth Meyer is a work of art. Every muscle perfectly sculpted, every inch of skin begging to be touched.
My pulse spikes. My cock presses painfully against the zipper of my slacks.
“We should really get to work,” I manage, voice cracking.
He meets my gaze. The tension between us hums, electric. One breath, one heartbeat—and we’re moving toward each other. I’m not sure who moves first, only that there’s no stopping it.
