The Intern: An MM Office Romance

by Akeroyd , Serena

  As was the case with Emma tonight.

  My visit to the dark room had been impromptu. I’d had an itch that I wanted Emma to scratch hence this evening’s appointment with her—something I’d had Sadie schedule yesterday morning, before my day had soured to shit.

  Ordinarily, there could be weeks without me seeing my current squeeze, and I was more than okay with that.

  But Micah, well, I wanted to fuck him. There wasn’t a single doubt in my mind that I’d like to end the night dick-deep in some part of him. Yet I also wanted to do something else with him.

  That was the most perplexing thing.

  What did one do with people when it wasn’t for business? I couldn’t take him to a party. I wasn’t comfortable with that. Micah wasn’t arm candy. Could men ever be that?

  Or was I being old-fashioned?

  Feeling the weight of thirty-eight years and the sixteen-year age gap like an albatross around my neck, I peered down at my phone when it buzzed in my hand.

  Seeing a new iMessage from Micah, one that constituted of a link to his live location, nothing more and nothing less, I passed that onto Gian, my chauffeur, with a time frame.

  A few seconds later, spying he’d read the message, I placed my phone on the window ledge, screen down, and turned around to face my living room.

  I had a big screen TV with so many subscriptions on there I didn’t know what to do with them.

  Netflix and chill?

  Pondering the idea, I moved out of the room and headed toward the kitchen. There were always meals prepared and waiting for me.

  Would he like to eat with me?

  I hadn’t eaten with any of my other companions because they were more interested in devouring salad leaves than anything tasty, so I’d never thought to offer...

  The kitchen was large, spacious, industrial-almost in its proportions. A waste, considering I never used it. My housekeeper did, though, so I assumed she appreciated the vast expanse with endless gleaming countertops. Or maybe she just loathed having to clean it? Either way, I wasn’t about to ask her.

  I headed for the double-wide fridge and opened it up, spying several meals in containers with tags attached to each one, all labeled in a neat script.

  In the freezer, there’d be more of these boxes.

  Did I pick for us both? Or wait until Micah arrived to ask him?

  I found with women that you could ask them what they wanted and they’d dither over the answer for a while. Men weren’t like that, but were gay men?

  Realizing I was in the unenvious position of knowing fuck all about humans, straight, gay or in-between, I started dithering. Especially as I wondered if I should order take out. Would he want that?

  Then there was what I was wearing.

  I peered down at myself, at the jeans and the loose button-down shirt I wore. Hardly elegant.

  Would Micah want to go out? I could always change if he did, but where would I take him?

  Somewhere discreet? Did anywhere like that exist in New York that didn’t require a mask or a gimp suit?

  It wasn’t like there were clubs that catered to men who had one foot in the straight dating pool and the other in the gay world.

  Or maybe there was. What did I even Google?

  Wondering when I’d become so indecisive, uneasily, I switched to the app that let me know where Gian was. Cross-referencing that with Micah’s link, I saw he was still on his way there, the car heading to Fort George as I pondered whether to shower and shave or not.

  And I wasn’t talking about my chin.

  Heaving a sigh, I twisted around and padded barefoot over to my wine cellar. Glancing through the reds, I smiled when I found one of my favorite Auckland Merlots, which made me think of Micah because hadn’t I likened his taste to that? The sweetness inherent in this particular vineyard’s wine was a little unusual, and all the more delicious for it.

  Lips quirking at the thought, I reached for a pair of glasses. When one connected with the counter at the wrong angle, the note that sang out chimed around the room.

  With the crystal still singing, I opened the bottle and poured myself a short measure, before finding a carafe and decanting the entirety of it to breathe.

  Inhaling the fruity notes, I took a fortifying sip shortly after and wondered if I’d have to get drunk to relax around Micah on this... date.

  Jesus. Was this how teens felt when they met up with their crushes?

  My first lay had been with a hooker, for God’s sake. One me and two of my schoolmates had bandied together to use. It wasn’t like I’d had to worry about whether she’d put out on our first ‘date,’ was it?

  Rolling my eyes at the thought, I heaved a sigh and checked my phone again.

  I proceeded to do that for the remainder of the hour, watching the little blip on the map as Gian retrieved Micah from his home and brought him here.

  To mine.

  The thought of him here gave me a semi—I had no idea why, but it did. As a clean freak, that citrus scent on my bedsheets wasn’t off putting like Chanel No. 5 on the linens would be. The prospect of his skin clinging to mine as we slept didn’t make breaking out in hives a pleasanter prospect.

  Boner harder than ever, I took another sip before I decided that, yes, a shave was imperative.

  Spying that I had ten minutes to go, I raced out of the kitchen, padding barefoot back to my bathroom, and stripped off. Eying myself in the vanity, I grabbed my dick and shoved it from the left to the right.

  I was trimmed. Did Micah prefer shaved?

  He was trimmed at the top but shaved at the bottom—there’d been nothing other than smooth flesh when I’d grabbed his balls earlier on.

  My erection hardened further, making it easier to take note of whether or not I was furry down below.

  Staring at it, wondering if the curve to the left was unappealing—no woman or dark room fuck had complained, but they wouldn’t, would they?—I decided that now was not the time for worrying about my cock.

  It’d served me well for the past twenty-four years, so there was no point in getting self-conscious about it now.

  Nose crinkling as it began to deflate, I muttered to myself in the mirror, “This is the most stupid thing you’ve ever done, Devlin Astley.”

  When the doorbell rang again, I knew that this time, it was the person I actually wanted to see. Even if I was concerned about his lack of appreciation in a cock that curved.

  Dragging on clothes I’d just dragged off—before I’d wasted time by staring at myself in the mirror like a lunatic—I hurried out of the bathroom to the front door.

  The parquet floor was cool beneath my feet, the smooth plackets depressing slightly under my weight as I padded over to the entrance hall.

  Sucking in a deep breath, hating that I was nervous, not understanding it and not appreciating it, I opened the door.

  “Jesus.”

  Micah frowned at my greeting, which was decidedly impromptu and not the most welcoming, but God help me, what was it with this man?

  Was he heaven sent to torment me?

  Was it any wonder I was in knots over him when he looked like this?

  He was everything I wasn’t—casual. I felt overheated, anxious, and ridiculous. He looked relaxed, at ease, and so deliciously sexy I wanted to fuck him over my console table.

  A man like this should never be fucked in the dark, but salivated over in the full light of day.

  His hair was that mussed up tumble of waves once more that I knew had to be more complicated than it appeared but somehow looked as if he’d gotten out of bed, brushed his hand through it, and ta-da! Done.

  He had faint stubble on his chin, a slight mustache, even, and it framed those lips to perfection. Made the bottom one, that pouty morsel, look more bitable than usual.

  He wore a cream linen shirt that offset his golden skin delightfully. Because of the nature of the fabric, it was slightly creased, but that made him appear even more relaxed, like he wasn’t trying too ha
rd. Combined with the slacks that were rolled up to reveal tanned ankles, their coffee color making him look even more like a scoop of ice cream I wanted to suck off the cone in one bite, I found myself hovering on the doorstep.

  Taking him in like he was my first glass of water after a long run.

  “Devlin?”

  I blinked at him, blinked again when I saw the amused quirk to his lips.

  How was he ultra-confident at this moment when I was anything but?

  He was young. I was old.

  Dammit to hell, seniority meant I should be calmer than he was, but I was the opposite. And now he’d arrived, I was left wondering what the hell I should do with him.

  I knew what I wanted to do to him, but for the first time in my life I desired more than sex, I just had no idea what that desire was.

  I couldn’t exactly look at him for an evening, could I? Like he was a recently uncovered Michelangelo?

  That’d get creepy fast.

  I was already pushing things by opening up Astley’s to sexual harassment allegations, making it idiotic to have taken it this far, without making things even odder by treating him like he was a work of art.

  Even if he was.

  The thought had me clearing my throat and taking a step back. I wafted him inside, not saying a word because I wasn’t capable of it, and he moved toward me, his brown and tan leather sneakers squeaking a little as he crossed the threshold.

  “Do you want me to take off my shoes?” he asked, twisting back to look at me.

  In the overhead lighting—a vintage chandelier with thousands of crystal droplets—an ethereal glitter danced over him, making him gleam even more.

  How I stopped myself from pouncing on him, I’d never know. I wanted to ram him into the wall, take his mouth with mine. Drown in him. But was that considered impolite when a man had just walked into your house?

  The trouble with my schooling was I’d been taught that a man of my position didn’t need to bother with politeness.

  We took what we wanted.

  Grabbed it with both hands.

  If I did that, my fingers would be stuffed full of his cock and my tongue would be down his throat, but I’d brought him here to date him.

  God help me.

  Wanting to shake my head at my stupidity, I muttered, “If you want to.”

  He peered at my feet. “You’re barefoot.”

  “I’m not the ‘pipe and slippers’ sort,” I said gruffly, before I started down the hall, expecting him to follow me.

  When I didn’t hear the tell-tell sound of the boards sighing under his feet, I turned back and arched a brow. I didn’t know why but that was a catalyst for him to toe out of his sneakers. Then, I waved a hand, beckoning him to me.

  With each step, I wanted to pounce.

  With each step, I wanted to take him on my floor, have him fuck me so hard the parquet didn’t just sigh with us, it screamed.

  Instead, nostrils flaring, I headed into the kitchen, poured myself and him a glass of wine then, holding it out for him to take, I inhaled a gulpful, regretting that I’d likened this to his flavor.

  Nothing tasted like him.

  Nothing compared, which was why I found myself standing here, awkward as hell.

  I was no fool. I saw something in him I didn’t necessarily understand, but any shark who scented blood didn’t veer off course, did they? They headed straight for the scene of carnage...

  Micah was that scene of carnage just waiting to happen.

  Whether that would be my personal or professional life was something I couldn’t know yet.

  Maybe it would be both.

  And maybe, just maybe, I wouldn’t give a damn.

  Only time would tell.

  Eleven

  Micah

  My first date had been with Grace Knoxley. Cheerleader, future sorority sister, and a desperate housewife in the making.

  She’d been exactly what I needed to shield the fact I wanted Hunter Jaxson—the QB of my football team. We’d gone to a movie together where she’d given me a blowjob, and I’d thought of Hunter and his tight ass to get off.

  That was six years ago, before Chelsea, my fiancée, but obviously, I was Grace to Devlin.

  His first date. Adult-style.

  It was actually kind of cute.

  “Do you want more?” he asked gruffly, shoving the bowl at me and nearly tossing it on my lap.

  My lips twitched into a smile as I sat back at his kitchen table. “I’m good, thanks.”

  His gaze drifted to my mouth, and he stared at it like he’d been doing for the past forty minutes as we ate, then when my smile widened into a grin, he cleared his throat and reached for his wine glass.

  Whenever he looked at me too long, he’d take a deep gulp of wine—wine I knew was expensive just from the bouquet. Something that really shouldn’t be tossed back like cheap tequila. Just saying.

  The kitchen was so impersonal that I wondered if he even called it his, what with all the stainless steel in here that made it more industrial than for a home cook.

  I’d seen the fridge, seen that it was full of food but, for the life of me, I couldn’t see Devlin cooking in here. He looked awkward and uncomfortable, and not just because I was sharing the dining table with him either.

  I’d hoped that the half-bottle of Merlot he’d just downed would ease his nerves, but it hadn’t. To the point where I wasn’t sure what would. And because this was my first date with a guy, I wasn’t exactly at ease. But my unease was a whole ocean apart from Devlin’s.

  “Do you want to fuck?” I asked simply, curious why he was going to all this effort when he didn’t seem to want to be here.

  His eyes widened and he choked on the sip of wine he’d just taken. For a second, I thought he was going to spray it over me and the tablecloth then, when his face turned red, and he swallowed, he managed to rasp out, “I beg your pardon?”

  “You can beg me for many things, but not that,” I teased softly, head tipping to the side as I stared at him. “It’s okay, Devlin. You don’t know me, and I don’t know you. It can just be about the sex.”

  His frown darkened. “I asked you here to talk.”

  “Not to fuck?” I arched a disbelieving brow. “So why haven’t you talked to me?”

  He reached up to pinch the bridge of his nose. “I don’t know what to say.”

  “You don’t know what to say?” I repeated cautiously. “Seriously?”

  “No. Usually the women I take to events don’t require a running commentary to the shit they spew about make-up and dresses.”

  Though I scowled at that, the stupid possessiveness he inspired in me rearing its bizarre head again, I muttered, “Well, I don’t know much about dresses. I’m not into drag.”

  “Good. I’m not either.” He heaved a relieved sigh. “Although, from VICE, only God knows who I’ve fucked. Could have been John from Albuquerque on a trip to the big city looking to screw a guy before he goes clean and marries Mary-Sue, or Marilyn Monroe in full costume. They all look the same in the dark.”

  I snorted at that. “The legend herself, huh? No less for Devlin Astley.”

  “She could turn any man straight, I think,” he teased back as his fingers drifted to the bowl of the glass in his hand. Running his finger around the rim, the notes as the crystal sang permeated the air. “I—”

  “What is it?”

  “No one knows this, but maybe it’s wise to get this out of the way.”

  Not more STD talk…

  “I own VICE.”

  My brows rose. “Good to know.”

  He pulled a face. “I just…” He sighed. “Never mind. Anyway, it isn’t that I wouldn’t like to fuck.” His gaze remained firmly on his glass. “But I just don’t want you to think that’s all I want.”

  I refused to feel hopeful. Not just from that, but his full disclosure about VICE. “Blowjobs come with no strings attached,” I said wryly.

  “Stop doing that,” he snapped,
glowering at me. “I wouldn’t have—” The glower darkened. “I don’t know why but I just want to talk to you. Is that a problem?”

  Softly, I shook my head. “No, it’s not. I’m sorry. I’m new to all this as well, don’t forget.”

  He heaved a sigh. “I just wish it wasn’t so fucking awkward. I look at you and all the words escape me. It’s like 1995 again when I had a crush on Kylie Minogue.” He rubbed his eyes. “I should be so fucking lucky,” he muttered grimly.

  So, he was bi. Guesstimating his age back then, I reckoned he was fourteen. At fourteen, I’d crushed on Zac Efron in a big way.

  But what had me biting my lip was his earlier remark.

  When he looked at me, he lost all his words?

  It was nice to know I wasn’t the only one feeling thunderstruck even if this date was underwhelming.

  I reached for my wine glass and, after taking a sip, murmured, “Why haven’t you gone on a date before?”

  He shrugged. “Wasn’t necessary.”

  I had to laugh. “They just jumped into bed with you?”

  “Well, no, I gave them something.”

  “Like what?” I asked curiously.

  “A necklace, a bracelet.” He waved a hand. “You know, jewelry. Clothes. Meals at the best restaurants, trips to five-star resorts...”

  “And they all showed their appreciation between the sheets?”

  Another shrug. “I suppose. They were waiting on a ring.” His lips twisted. “Like being my wife would be a joy.”

  His sniff told me he thought it would be hell.

  “Why wouldn’t it be a joy?”

  “Because I’m difficult.”

  “In what way?”

  “Because everyone comes at a price, and I’m not afraid to put in a bid. People don’t like that. They’re intimidated because they can’t manipulate me. It makes them uncomfortable.” His lips tightened. “The joys of my upbringing.”

  That had me narrowing my eyes at him. “With that assumption... what’s my price?”

  “Yours isn’t monetary, I know that much.” His gaze dropped from mine to the glass and back up again. “Yours is probably emotional. I saw that today when you were upset at Sadie’s puppy-dog eyes. The interesting thing is that it doesn’t make me want to back away from you.