The rules were simple.
No lingering.
No morning-after texts.
No getting caught.
No falling.
They didn't write them down or speak them out loud. They didn't have to. It was the silent agreement between two men who knew the stakes.
It started with a text.
Julian (10:47 PM): "Still at the office?"
Elliot didn't reply with words—just the door code to his condo downtown.
Twenty-seven minutes later, Julian was pushing him against the kitchen counter, their lips colliding like a second drink on an empty stomach: fast, messy, addictive. Elliot's tie was yanked off mid-kiss, Julian's shirt half unbuttoned by the time they made it to the couch.
They never made it to the bedroom.
Julian straddled him, fingers tangled in Elliot's hair, hips grinding slow and deliberate. The tension between them wasn't just physical—it was built from long glances across boardroom tables, subtle brushes in narrow hallways, shared smirks in elevators no one else noticed.
Their bodies knew each other now—how Elliot's breath hitched when Julian bit lightly at his jawline, how Julian moaned when Elliot whispered in his ear in Spanish, dirty and low.
Elliot sat back, breathing hard, letting his fingers skim up Julian's thighs. "You're a dangerous man."
Julian smirked, shirt falling completely open now. "You didn't seem to mind last night. Or the night before."
Elliot's hands gripped his waist, pulling him closer. "It's not your danger I mind. It's how good you are at pretending this is just physical."
Julian leaned in, brushing their lips together—soft, teasing, a contrast to the heat building between their bodies. "What if pretending makes it more fun?"
That night, they didn't speak again. Words weren't needed when Elliot was flat on his back, knuckles white against the couch cushions, Julian above him with a slow, torturous rhythm that left nothing untouched. They pushed limits. They tested how quiet Elliot could be while his neighbors slept. And when Julian bit down on his shoulder and whispered, "Come for me, partner," Elliot forgot every rule they'd made.
Afterward, Julian got dressed without a word. As usual.
But this time, just before he left, he paused by the door, shirt wrinkled, hair a mess, eyes unreadable.
"Same time next week?" he asked.
Elliot looked up from the couch, sweat still drying on his skin, heartbeat still not quite steady.
"Make it sooner."