Chapter 1: The First Encounter

© Broken Boundaries Gay Erotica

It was true, I was older than him—probably by about ten or twelve years based on his looks—but I’d often been confused for much younger than my thirty-nine years. Not because of any special skin care regime, makeup, or efforts to dress or act younger than my age; I’d just been lucky in the genetics pool, I guess. My looks had often earned me the attention of other men, though I was not the gym-fit, muscle-bound Adonis that featured in most gay men’s masturbation fantasies. I had an attractive, youthful-looking face, kept myself up well, and always ensured I dressed myself appropriately.

There was something disarming about my appearance. I had the kind of unthreatening handsomeness that made people linger without understanding why. My build was trim—lean more from consistency than effort—and my features were softened by a natural innocence I had never fully grown out of. Even the way I walked, with a certain reserve, invited curiosity and lingering interest. I’d been with men before—submissive, pliant, learning to be what they wanted—but I never felt particularly in control. Despite how often I was told I was good-looking, I lacked confidence when it mattered. I didn’t know how to pursue. I waited, watched, and hoped I’d be seen.

Sean saw me.

Sean, by contrast, was exactly the sort of man you’d expect to see walking down the streets of any gay village. He clearly spent a lot of time at the gym, and his body was evidence of the effort he’d put into creating a physique designed to entice. His luscious blond hair was meticulously styled and looked as though it was attended to and re-attended to throughout the day. His skin was perfect, unblemished and flush in all the right places, bestowing an impression of vigour and health. Each outfit Sean wore seemed as though it was torn from the pages of a modern fashion magazine, and he wore the clothes like a model on a runway. Even Sean’s hands were attractive—large and defined, with masculine fingers that he adorned with perfectly chosen rings—and there was always a tasteful watch to match on his wrist. Sean was the picture of perfection in my mind, and I still hadn’t seen what was under his clothes. He was 6'2", had metallic blue eyes, and a commanding gaze that belied his young age. He wore the confidence of his profession everywhere he went; Sean was a lawyer in and out of the office.

The first time I saw him in the boardroom, standing as if he owned the space despite being the newest hire, I felt something low in my stomach shift. It wasn’t just desire. It was gravity. The way he glanced around the room, eyes sweeping over people like they were facts to be filed. When his gaze landed on me—briefly, precisely—I felt it. The recognition. He saw more than the surface. He saw the way I looked away too quickly. The way my jaw tensed.

And yet, for all his polish, Sean wasn’t just beautiful. He was dangerous. Not in the sense of threat—but in the way predators are dangerous to prey. There was something in his expression that calculated constantly, like he was always deciding how to use what he saw. That glint in his eye, the way he tilted his head as if measuring your worth. I caught him looking at me once or twice. Or maybe more than that. But he never lingered long enough for me to be sure.

He was new to the firm, a junior associate transferred in from a boutique litigation firm elsewhere downtown. I was a senior associate in the employment group, older, more seasoned. Our roles barely overlapped, but when they did—when we passed in the halls, or stood side by side at the espresso machine—something unspoken pressed at the edge of those moments.

He always smiled first. I never could.

Our first substantial conversation happened late one Thursday, well past six. The floor had mostly emptied. I was at the copier, organizing a stack of contracts for review, when Sean walked past, then doubled back.

“Burning the midnight oil?” he asked, smooth as anything.

I chuckled, trying to play it cool. “Not quite midnight. Just standard senior associate hours.”

He leaned against the filing cabinet beside me. “They’ve already got you pulling triple shifts, huh?”

I shrugged. “They always do.”

Sean looked me over—not with the blank professionalism most associates adopted, but with a subtle, assessing gaze. Like he was searching for something beneath the surface.

“You don’t look tired,” he said. “You look like you belong here.”

I didn’t know how to respond to that. It wasn’t a compliment exactly, but it landed like one. I met his gaze for a second too long before looking away.

He reached past me to grab a stray file, and I caught the faint scent of cologne—something cool, expensive, and masculine. My throat went dry.

“You’re in employment, right?” he asked, casually.

“Yeah. You?”

“Litigation. They say I’m aggressive.”

I tried to smile. “Well, that makes sense.”

He smirked. “Why’s that?”

“You look like someone who doesn’t ask twice.”

His smile deepened, just enough to suggest something behind it.

We stood there a moment longer. Then he stepped back.

“Goodnight, Blake.”

He said my name like he’d practiced it.

“Goodnight, Sean.”

He turned and walked away, and I was left with the distinct impression that I’d just failed a test I hadn’t known I was taking.

But I also knew I’d passed something else—because when he looked back once, just briefly, it wasn’t curiosity I saw in his eyes.

It was interest.

And suddenly, I wasn’t so tired anymore.

The next morning, I found myself noticing Sean everywhere. In the blur of the morning elevator crowd, he stood out like a high-definition image in a sea of blur. His suit was charcoal, cut sharp across the shoulders and snug at the waist. The tie was a subtle navy herringbone, understated but purposeful—like everything he wore. And yet it wasn’t the clothes that drew the eye. It was the carriage. Sean walked like a man with nothing to prove and yet absolutely everything in control. I watched him greet the managing partner with a firm handshake and a smile just shy of respectful. He knew where the lines were—and how to walk right up to them.

I ducked into the kitchen for a coffee refill, half-hoping he wouldn’t follow. Half-hoping he would.

“Morning,” he said behind me. My hand jerked, nearly sloshing coffee over the edge of the cup.

“Hey,” I said. Smooth.

“You always this jumpy?”

“Only when I haven’t had caffeine.”

He laughed softly, stepping beside me at the espresso machine. The scent of him was warm and citrus-edged today, like bergamot and cedar.

“You heading to court this morning?” I asked.

He shook his head. “Client meeting downtown. Thought I’d dress like I charge by the hour.”

He didn’t have to try that hard. He looked like someone who should be paid just to exist in a suit. I took a careful sip of coffee.

“Let me know if you ever want to grab lunch,” he said, suddenly.

I blinked. “Yeah. Sure.”

He turned to go, then paused.

“You really don’t see it, do you?”

“What?”

Sean smiled. “You’re the only one in this office not trying to impress anyone. That’s what makes you interesting.”

He left me standing there, mouth partway open, coffee forgotten.

Interesting.

No one had called me that in years. Certainly not someone like Sean.

Back at my desk, I couldn’t concentrate. My mind replayed every look, every word. The way he’d said my name. The way he moved. The fact that he’d noticed me—not just as a colleague, but as a man. And beneath the buzz of distraction, something else took root. A question.

What did he want from me?

Because whatever it was, I already knew I would give it.

That afternoon, I watched him in a meeting—just across the glass from the corridor, seated at the head of the table as if he'd been born to lead it. He didn’t speak much, but when he did, the room quieted. Even the partners listened. There was something in the way he paused, considered, made people wait for his words. It was commanding without arrogance. Intentional. Controlled.

I shouldn’t have lingered outside the boardroom. I’d come to drop something off, but I found myself standing still, like a voyeur at a gallery exhibit. The meeting eventually broke and Sean stood, laughing at something one of the partners said. As the room emptied, he looked up. Saw me. Held my gaze through the glass.

He didn’t smile this time. He just tilted his head slightly. Like he was acknowledging a challenge.

Later that day, a calendar invite appeared in my inbox. No message. Just a subject line: Follow-up: LSO audit response. Sean’s name below it. A fake pretext. We didn’t work on the same files. We had no shared matters.

I clicked accept.

The meeting was scheduled for 7 p.m.

I didn't leave the office early that night. I didn’t even try.

When 7 p.m. came, the halls of the office were hushed and hollow. The daytime buzz of voices, printers, and incoming calls had faded, leaving behind the hum of fluorescent lights and the distant echo of someone vacuuming on another floor. I sat at my desk longer than I needed to, pretending to review a memo, pretending not to watch the clock.

At 6:58, I walked to the meeting room.

Sean was already there.

He stood near the windows, back to the glass, the skyline glittering behind him in fractured gold and blue. He wasn’t in a rush. His blazer was off, sleeves rolled to the elbows. He didn’t glance up right away when I stepped inside. Just motioned for me to shut the door.

“I appreciate you making time,” he said, finally turning.

His tone was neutral, but his eyes weren’t. They scanned me deliberately, like he was still deciding what kind of meeting this would be.

“No problem,” I replied, walking toward the table. “Happy to help.”

He smiled slightly. “You always this helpful?”

I sat across from him, heart ticking louder than I wanted it to.

“Only when I want to be.”

We stared at each other a moment longer. Then Sean pulled a thin file from his bag and laid it on the table. A single sheet inside. Blank.

“So,” he said, leaning forward, “let’s talk about how we’re going to handle this.”

I looked at the file. Then back at him. The tension thickened—neither hostile nor collegial, but charged with something unspoken. A current.

“You’re playing with fire,” I said softly.

Sean leaned back, resting one ankle on his opposite knee, completely relaxed.

“Good thing I like the heat.”

Outside the windows, the city glowed. Inside the room, time stretched thin.

He didn’t move. Neither did I.

But something had already begun.

He stood, not abruptly, but with the kind of grace that made every movement seem rehearsed. He walked to the credenza near the window and poured two fingers of scotch into a tumbler, then offered it to me. I accepted without thinking. The drink was smooth, smoky, expensive. Of course it was.

Sean poured one for himself and leaned against the wall, just far enough away to make me wonder if I was supposed to close the distance.

“So what’s your read on the place?” he asked.

I blinked. “The firm?”

“Yeah.”

I hesitated. “It’s… structured. Hierarchical. Efficient.”

He smirked. “That’s the kind of answer you give when you don’t want to get in trouble.”

I shrugged. “Old habits.”

He took a slow sip. “You’re not like the others here.”

“I don’t think that’s true.”

“It is,” he said, watching me now. “Most of them are trying to prove something. You’re not.”

I felt my pulse quicken. “That’s because I already know what I am.”

Sean tilted his head, considering. “Do you?”

The silence that followed wasn’t awkward. It was sharp, alive. He crossed the room and took the seat next to me, not across from me this time. His thigh brushed mine. Deliberately. He didn’t apologize.

He picked up the file again, glanced at the blank page, and closed it.

“You’re the kind of man who knows how to follow rules,” he said. “But I get the sense you’re waiting for someone to give you new ones.”

I didn’t answer. I couldn’t. Not without giving too much away.

He stood again, gathering his blazer, his phone, his presence.

“I’m heading out,” he said. “Want to walk with me to the elevators?”

I followed.

We walked in silence to the elevator bay, footsteps soft on the carpet. He pressed the button. The light blinked on.

When the doors opened, he turned to me.

“I’ll see you Monday.”

His tone was neutral. But his eyes lingered.

I nodded.

“Goodnight, Sean.”

He stepped inside, the doors closing behind him.

I stared at the elevator for a long moment, the taste of scotch still on my tongue, my heart thudding quietly in my chest.

Something had begun. And whatever it was, I knew it wouldn’t end in boardrooms and elevator rides..

_______________________________________________________________________

Chapter 2: HR Wouldn’t Like This

© Broken Boundaries Gay Erotica

Monday came with the faint static hum of fluorescent lights and a thick, post-weekend quiet that settled over the office like fog. I arrived early—too early, really—and spent longer than usual adjusting the height of my chair, the alignment of my monitor, the placement of my stapler. My thoughts weren’t on emails or schedules. They were with Sean.

Since Friday night, I hadn’t been able to stop replaying that meeting. The closeness of his body. The glass of scotch. The brush of his thigh. And that file with nothing in it—an invitation disguised as protocol. The way he made a question feel like a proposition. The way he looked at me.

But Monday brought only distance. Sean passed my desk mid-morning, offering a nod so casual I almost wondered if Friday had happened at all. I had just stood to stretch when he paused beside me.

“Hey, Blake,” he said, glancing at his phone, “I’ve got a call at noon and I promised I’d grab something from La Fenice. Would you mind picking it up for me if you’re heading out anyway?”

His tone was light, polite. It wasn’t a demand. It wasn’t even framed as a favor. Just a question with plausible deniability. I wasn’t heading out. But I said yes.

“Of course,” I replied.

“Thanks,” he said, his eyes lingering on mine a beat longer than necessary. "I owe you."

La Fenice was a twenty-minute walk and notoriously slow with takeout orders, but I made it back just in time. I placed the box on his desk, careful not to interrupt what looked like focused work. He looked up, took it, and smiled faintly.

“Appreciate it,” he said. “You’re a lifesaver.”

His words were simple. But the way he said them—and the way he didn’t look away—left something in the air between us. His eyes were metallic blue, the kind that didn’t just look at you, but through you. They held their own language—quiet, confident, always just shy of flirtation.

The rest of the week followed a quiet pattern. Nothing overt. Nothing inappropriate on its face. But each interaction carried a weight, a question.

Tuesday afternoon, I passed his office and found him crouched by his desk.

“Dropped my pen,” he said without turning. “Mind?”

I crouched automatically. As I reached beneath the desk, I felt his gaze on my back, a pause just long enough to register. When I handed the pen to him, his fingers brushed mine.

“Thanks,” he said. There was that smile again—small, deliberate, unreadable.

Wednesday morning, he stopped by my desk in a fitted navy suit that seemed tailor-made to show off the taper of his waist, the width of his shoulders. Even the way he held his coffee cup—effortlessly elegant—made my stomach flip.

“There’s an old box of trial exhibits down in storage—I was going to ask Peter to grab it, but he’s tied up. You wouldn’t mind?”

I hesitated. The task was beneath my role, everyone knew it. But Sean’s tone was disarming, his expression earnest.

“I know it’s not your job,” he added quickly. “I just figured you might have a moment.”

He turned before I could respond.

I went anyway.

The file room was cold, dimly lit, and stacked with unlabelled boxes. It took longer than expected to find the right one. When I returned, Sean was leaning against the corner of his desk, sipping his coffee, chatting with one of the articling students.

He didn't say anything when I entered—just gestured lazily toward a low cabinet beside his desk. "There's fine," he said, mid-conversation.

I crouched to place the box, acutely aware of how low I had to bend to set it down gently. I could feel his eyes on me. Not just watching—appraising.

When I stood and turned, the articling student had already gone. Sean gave me a faint smile and nodded toward the door. "Perfect. Appreciate it."

That same half-smile that said everything and nothing at once.

By Thursday, I was unraveling. My body had become attuned to him—his footsteps, his voice, the scent of his cologne drifting through the air like a promise. I caught myself watching him from my office doorway, mesmerized by how he carried himself. Every movement was composed but casual, as though the world tilted to accommodate him.

The worst part wasn’t the things he asked me to do—it was how much I wanted to do them. Not because I had to, but because each one felt like an invitation. A signal.

Every time I bent to retrieve something for him, I wondered if he was watching. Every time he smiled at me, I felt stripped bare.

That afternoon, he passed my desk and paused. “Got a couple of things I’d love your thoughts on. My office, 5:45?”

“Sure,” I said, my voice too quick.

When I arrived, he was already seated, jacket off, sleeves rolled. His forearms were lightly tanned and dusted with golden hair. There was a confidence in the way he sat, legs apart, one ankle resting on his knee like he had nothing to prove.

A folder sat on the table between us, but he didn’t touch it.

“You’ve been really helpful this week,” he said. “I notice things like that.”

I nodded, unsure how to reply.

He studied me, his eyes dragging slowly over my face, then down—unapologetic. “I like working with people who understand subtlety.”

I swallowed.

Then, finally, he opened the folder. Inside were a handful of pages—client notes, billing details, nothing urgent and nothing he couldn’t have reviewed without me. He flipped through them slowly, reading aloud a few items, asking for my opinion on things I had no direct involvement in.

It was obvious. None of this was about the file.

This was about watching me sit across from him. About seeing how I reacted to his presence, how I filled the silence, how I handled being summoned for a meeting that didn’t need to happen.

His smile was slow, patient. "That’s all. Thanks, Blake."

He turned his attention back to the folder as though the meeting were over. But I lingered a moment longer, waiting for something else. Another word. Another glance.

None came.

So I left.

But his presence followed me all the way home.

Friday came with a fresh snowfall, softening the city and throwing pale light through the office windows. I arrived to find Sean already at his desk, collar open, hair slightly mussed in a way that only made him look more intentional. He greeted me with a glance, not a word.

Around ten, he appeared at my office door with a coffee in hand—mine, apparently, though I hadn’t asked.

“Thought you could use it,” he said.

I blinked, accepting the cup. "Thanks."

“No problem.” He turned to leave, then paused. “Could you drop off the Summers file at Sandra’s desk on your way to lunch? She needs it and I’m tied up until after one.”

Again, polite. Again, simple. I nodded.

“Appreciate it.”

The file wasn’t urgent. It could’ve waited. But he asked, and I responded.

That afternoon, I watched him lead a meeting in the large glass-walled boardroom. He stood, gesturing with slow confidence, wearing a charcoal blazer over a soft black turtleneck. His presence filled the space, not through volume or bluster, but through the steadiness of his voice, the calm precision of his words. Everyone deferred to him. Even the senior partners leaned in.

I lingered by the water cooler longer than I needed to, watching the way he moved, how the fabric stretched over his shoulders, how effortlessly he commanded attention. When he looked up and caught my eye through the glass, he didn’t flinch or nod—he just held the gaze for a second longer than necessary, then looked away.

A flicker of recognition. A subtle taunt.

Back at my desk, I was restless. Unmoored. I opened emails without reading them. Typed responses and deleted them. My body felt electric, like my skin remembered his attention even when my mind tried to focus elsewhere.

At 4:15, a message popped up.

Subject: Client notes
Body: Quick debrief before EOD? My office. 5:45.

Just like the day before. Same time. Same lack of detail.

I stared at the screen longer than I should have.

When 5:44 arrived, I stood outside his door, smoothing my shirt, heart quickening in anticipation. A part of me already knew: there might be a folder on the table, but we wouldn’t open it.

He looked up when I entered—not surprised, not particularly warm either. Just present. Focused. His shirt was unbuttoned at the collar again, and his blazer hung on the back of his chair. The lighting in his office was soft, muted by the golden hour beyond the window, casting shadows along the sharp lines of his jaw.

“Close the door,” he said.

I did.

He gestured to the seat across from him, and I took it. There was a file on the table between us again—its edges perfectly squared to the surface—but neither of us touched it.

“You’ve had a good week,” he said. “Handled everything I threw your way without complaint.”

I felt my face grow warm. “It wasn’t a problem.”

“No,” he said, his eyes never leaving mine, “but it could have been.”

He leaned back slowly, studying me, his fingers steepled beneath his chin. His posture was relaxed, but everything about his presence remained taut, alert. As if he were always listening for something beneath what was said.

“You’re conscientious,” he said. “Reliable. But there’s more to you than that.”

He let the sentence hang.

I opened my mouth, unsure what I would even say—but he waved a hand slightly, stopping me.

“I’m still figuring it out,” he said. “And I think you are too.”

He reached into the top drawer of his desk and pulled out a small black notepad. He flipped it open, scribbled something, then tore the page free and folded it once. He slid it across the desk toward me.

“That’s all, Blake.”

He turned back to his monitor.

I stood. Walked to the door. Didn’t look back.

The note stayed unopened in my pocket the entire commute home.

When I finally sat down and unfolded it, the handwriting was clean, precise:

Dinner and Drinks. Barberian’s. Monday After Work.

My heart fluttered as I read the words, a pulse of excitement blooming in my chest. Something stirred low in my gut, an ache I’d been carrying all week twisting into sharp anticipation.

I thought about the past few days—the quiet humiliation of running errands beneath my pay grade, for someone not only my junior in the office, but several years younger than me as well, the way Sean watched me when he thought I didn’t notice, the glint of amusement in his eyes every time I complied without question. I should have been angry. Instead, I felt consumed.

I wanted him—his attention, his approval, his control. And now, with Monday etched into the page like a countdown, I wanted whatever came next even more.

No signature. No instructions. Just a time, a place, and a promise.