Evan Mercer, 23, started Monday, and by Wednesday I already knew what his problem was.
He could work. I'll give him that. Slim, fair, quick on his feet, light-brown hair tore up on top no matter how many times the hard hat sat on it, a little silver chain he wear under his shirt like the site can't see it. Green as grass and eager in a way that get a boy hurt out here if somebody don't slow him down. But his problem wasn't the work.
His problem was my chest.
Every time I stripped down to a tank in the heat, every time I hauled block or swung up onto the frame and my arms did what they do, Evan's eyes went and stayed. He'd catch himself and get real interested in a pile of nothing. Thursday I took my shirt all the way off behind the trailer to change into a dry one — ink out, pecs out, stomach piece, sleeves — and I watched him forget how a water jug work. Just stood there holding the cup.
Friday, shift end, crew rolling out, I texted him off the number on his paperwork.
*stay back. trailer. you need a close-out review.*
He came in still dusty, chain out over his tee because he'd been changing, and shut the door real careful. "Am I in trouble?"
"Depends." I locked it. "You been staring at me all week, Evan."
His whole fair face went red, ears first. "I— boss, I didn't—"
"You did. I counted." I took my hard hat off, set it down, and pulled my tee over my head slow, the way you give a starving man a menu. His eyes dropped to my pecs and did not come back up. "There it is. That's the look. So here's your review. Kneel."
He went down like the floor had been waiting on him. Not scared — hungry. That boy had been rehearsing this in his head since Monday and it showed.
"Worship first," I told him. "That's the order. Then you get fed."
His hands came up both at once, palms flat on my pecs, squeezing, thumbs rubbing my nipples till they stood up hard. He leaned in and kissed the middle of my chest, then out across the ink, slow, like the tattoos were text he had to read with his mouth. Up one pec, tongue dragging, and he closed his lips around my left nipple and sucked — eager, sloppy with wanting it — while his other hand kept kneading the right side. When I flexed under him he made a sound into my skin I felt in my spine.
"All week I been wanting—" he said, barely off me.
"I know what you been wanting. Show me."
He did. Worshipped me like it was the actual job. Kissed and licked down the stomach piece, back up, sucked the other nipple till I had to grab the desk edge, ran his tongue along my arms when I put a bicep in his face — "Flex again," he whispered, and kissed the peak while it was hard, worshipper at the altar, silver chain swinging against my skin. My dick was iron in my jeans and he kept glancing at it through all of it, patient because I made the order, suffering pretty.
I took his jaw in my hand — thumb one side, fingers the other, the way you hold a face you own the moment of — tilted his head back and kissed him. Hard. Deep. My tongue in his mouth, his hands gripping my waist, him melting backwards into my grip and kissing me back like drowning men kiss air. I licked at his mouth, bit his bottom lip, kissed him again till he was breathing through his nose in little rushes.
"Enough looking," I said against his face. "Open."
He opened my belt — that big buckle — got my jeans down and took me in his mouth on his knees on the trailer floor. Wet, deep, both hands on my thighs holding on, looking up at me past my stomach piece the whole time. I kept one hand in his tore-up hair and ran him on it, steady, bossing his pace with my hips, and when I pulled him off he went straight back to my chest for a breath — sucked my nipple once, hard, like a signature — before I lifted his chin and fed it back to him.
"Up." I turned him around and bent him over the desk, paperwork sliding, his work pants and boxers yanked to his thighs. I ran my hand down his back, spread him, worked him open with spit and my fingers till he was pushing back and begging in words of one syllable. "Please" is one syllable when you say it right.
I pressed in slow. Foreman slow. The kind of slow that teach. His hands clawed the desk edge and that chain swung against his chest with every breath. When I was all the way in I stopped, leaned over him so my chest was on his back and my mouth was at his ear.
"You work under me now," I said. "Say it."
"I work under you."
"Both ways."
"Both— fuck— both ways."
Then I fucked him. Long, deep strokes first so he could feel every inch of the lesson, building — the desk rocking, his back slick under my chest, my one hand braced on the desk and the other wrapped around to stroke him in time. He was loud into his own forearm. I turned his face with two fingers and made him look back at me, made him watch getting owned, and his eyes were wrecked and grateful at the same time. Faster. Harder. The trailer AC rattling in agreement. He came first, untouched except my hand, spilling over my fist and the desk leg, shaking apart — and the way he clenched down on me took me with him, two strokes later, spilling deep inside my new hire while he begged me not to stop in a voice with no work left in it.
He stayed bent there a second, done. Then, before he'd even caught his breath, he turned and pressed his face into my stomach, kissed the piece, licked up to my pec and took my nipple back in his mouth, soft this time, sucking lazy and content through my aftershock twitches like worship was just where his mouth lived now.
I put my hand on the back of his head and let him.
"Monday," I said, "you're on my crew. My truck. My jobs."
He nodded against my chest, mouth still busy.
"And Evan — stop staring at work. You got a time for that now."
To be continued...
