He Shelved My Designs, Then Crashed Into My Bed novel · Chapter 3 of 24

Chapter 3: Terms

At midnight in the Gibbes prototype shop Rett sets four rules, finds the plywood copies of his chairs, and gets fucked over the bench.

Rett came through the side door on Morrison Drive at midnight with four rules in his head and a roll of drawings under his arm.

The prototype shop was a long brick room with a lathe at one end and a loading door at the other.

Ward stood at the nearest bench in his shirtsleeves, under a single work light, with his cuffs turned back over his forearms.

He had been waiting.

Rett could tell by the way he did not look up too fast.

"Before you touch me," Rett said, "terms."

"All right."

Rett dropped the drawings on the bench between them.

"One. Nights only. In daylight you're the man who shelved my chairs, and I'm the man who chained one to your door."

"Agreed," Ward said.

"Two. No first names."

Ward's eyebrows rose a fraction. "You said mine last night."

"You said it. I was drunk." Rett held up a third finger. "Three. No gifts. No flowers, no cars, no restaurant I can't afford."

"What about food?"

"What?" Rett said.

"If I'm hungry, and you're hungry," Ward said.

"Fine. Food is food." Rett held up four. "Four. Nobody knows. Not Tobin, not Dell, not your uncle."

Ward was silent for a moment.

"I have one," he said.

"You don't get one."

"I do. If I'm going to agree to yours."

He walked around the bench until Rett had to tilt his chin up to look at him.

"You don't leave without telling me. Whatever happens. You don't go quiet."

It was the last thing Rett had expected, and it landed somewhere under his ribs.

"That's rich," he said, "from you."

"I know."

"Fine."

"Fine," Ward said.

Neither of them moved.

Rett was aware of the warmth of the man's body, and the smell of him, soap and cedar and something dark underneath.

"Show me the chairs," Rett said. "Show me what you've done to them."

Ward hesitated, and that was the first thing Rett would have noticed if he had been less angry.

Then he went to the far wall and pulled the dust sheet off a stack in the corner.

Nine chairs stood there, one against the next.

They were the right shape, and Rett knew every curve.

He knew the slant of the back and the pinched waist of the splat that had taken him three weeks to get right.

They were also made of plywood, with a printed grain, and a paper tag on every seat.

BONNEAU COLLECTION by Pallas.

Rett stood very still.

Then he crossed the room, picked up the nearest chair by the back, and brought it down across the corner of the bench.

It split with a flat dead sound.

One leg came off in his hand, and he saw the layers inside, glue and sawdust board, like the inside of a cheap door.

"Bonneau," Ward said.

"Don't." He threw the leg against the wall.

"Don't say my name like it's an apology," Rett said. "That is my splat. That is three weeks of my life."

"My uncle wants it in the stores by spring."

"And you let him."

"I haven't let him do anything. They're mock-ups." Ward's voice had gone hard. "They're what happens on December first if you don't sign."

"Where are my chairs?"

"Safe," Ward said.

"The real ones. The oak and the ash. The ones I carried into your building myself."

"They're safe, Bonneau."

He did not look away.

"Where?"

Ward said nothing.

His jaw was clenched, and a muscle in it moved, and for a moment Rett thought he saw something like fear.

He did not stop to think what it meant.

He was shaking with rage, and the nearest warm body in the world was six feet away, and it belonged to the man he hated.

He grabbed Ward by the shirtfront and kissed him.

Ward made a sound in his chest and kissed him back, hard enough to bruise.

His hands closed on Rett's waist and lifted, and Rett found himself sitting on the edge of the bench with his legs spread around Ward's hips.

"Terms," Rett said against his mouth. "Nights only."

"It's midnight," Ward said.

"First names."

"I haven't said it tonight."

"Not yet," Rett said.

Ward took his jaw in one big hand and tipped his head back.

"I want to see your throat," he said.

Rett let him.

Ward's thumb pressed under his jaw, over the pulse, and Rett felt his cock go rigid.

"You like that," Ward said.

"Shut up," Rett said.

"You like being held."

"I like when you stop talking," Rett said.

The grip tightened just a little.

It was nothing, a warning, and every nerve in Rett's body lit.

"Turn around," Ward said.

"Make me."

"Gladly."

Ward spun him with both hands, bent him over the bench, and flattened a palm between his shoulder blades.

The wood was cold on Rett's cheek, and he could smell oil and old lacquer.

He heard his belt open, then his zipper, and cool air touched his skin as his jeans came down.

"Beautiful," Ward said behind him, in a voice that scraped.

"Is this where you tell me about the grain?"

"This is where I do what I wanted last night."

Something wet and hot touched Rett's hole.

He jerked, and a hand pinned his hip, and Ward's tongue pressed flat against him and slid up.

"Oh, fuck." Rett's fingers scrabbled at the edge of the bench. "You can't. Nobody. Oh, God, you can't."

Ward licked him again, slow, open-mouthed, and then the tip of his tongue circled and pushed.

Rett's whole body bowed.

He had never been touched there by a mouth, not like this, and the shock of it blew his thinking apart.

Ward ate him out with a low hungry hum, and every time Rett's knees buckled the hand on his hip dragged him back.

"Please," Rett said, before he could catch it.

The tongue stopped.

Rett pressed his face into his arm.

"I didn't say that," he said, muffled.

"I didn't hear anything." Ward's breath was warm against him. "I heard a man who's about to come on a workbench. Say it again."

"No," Rett said.

"Say it again, and I'll give you what you want."

"I want your cock. Not your tongue, your cock, you bastard," Rett said.

A breath of laughter touched his skin.

"That I can do."

A finger went in, slick with something Ward must have kept in a drawer, and then two.

They stretched him thoroughly, and Rett swore and pushed back onto them.

The whole time Ward's other hand lay at the back of his neck, heavy and possessive.

"You're so tight," Ward said. "You take it so well."

"Just fuck me."

"Not yet," Ward said.

"I swear to God," Rett said.

"Tell me you want it. Tell me who it's for."

"For me," Rett snarled. "It's for me."

Ward gave a rough, delighted sound and withdrew his fingers.

The head of his cock pushed against Rett's hole, and Rett pressed back, and the stretch went through him like a burn.

He was on the edge of pain and pleasure, and then it was only pleasure.

Ward went in all the way in one long slide.

He stayed there, buried, breathing against Rett's spine.

"You feel like you were made for me," he said.

"Don't say stupid things," Rett said.

"It isn't stupid."

"Move," Rett said.

Ward moved.

He fucked Rett over the bench with his hands locked on his hips, slow and deep, and each thrust shoved Rett's cock against the wood.

The bench groaned.

A pencil rolled off the edge and clattered on the floor.

Rett's mouth hung open.

"Harder," he said, and Ward gave it to him.

The pace broke.

It turned wet and fast and filthy, skin slapping skin, the work light swinging a little from the vibration.

Ward's hand slid up Rett's back and closed on his throat, not choking, just holding, and Rett's cock leaked on the wood.

"Mine," Ward breathed in his ear. "You said it was for you. And you're mine."

"I'm not."

"Say it's for you again."

"It's for me." Rett was crying out now, he could not stop. "It's for me, you bastard, and you're mine, too."

The sound Ward made then was nearly a sob.

His grip faltered, and his rhythm went ragged, and he reached around and took Rett's cock in a slick fist.

Two strokes.

Rett came across the bench with a hoarse shout, his hole clamping around Ward.

Ward followed him a moment later, his forehead pressed to Rett's back.

They stayed like that.

The work light hummed.

Eventually Ward slid free, and Rett heard him fumble for a rag, and felt gentle hands cleaning him.

He wanted to protest and did not.

Rett straightened, pulled up his jeans, and turned around.

Ward stood with his shirt open and his hair wild, and he looked, for once, like a man with nothing to hide.

Rett looked past him at the stack of broken plywood.

"Where are my chairs?" he asked again.

"Safe," Ward said.

"You've said that."

"It's true," Ward said.

"Where, Gibbes?"

Ward went still.

He opened his mouth, and for a moment Rett thought he would answer.

Instead he reached out, and with the pad of his thumb he wiped a smear of dust from Rett's cheekbone.

"Go home and sleep," he said. "My uncle is coming to your shop at ten tomorrow."

"How do you know?"

"He told me. He wants to meet the man who owns the rocker."

Rett stared at him, and the answer to his question went on sitting unanswered in the air between them.

← Chapter 2 · All chapters · Chapter 4 →

Want to keep talking to characters like these? Chat with AI romance characters: AI Boyfriend · AI Girlfriend · Dark Romance · Fantasy Romance · BL (Boys’ Love) · Billionaire Boyfriend · Mafia Boyfriend · Possessive Boyfriend · Hockey Boyfriend · Older Boyfriend · K-Drama Boyfriend · Anime Boyfriend · Vampire Boyfriend · Werewolf Boyfriend · Demon Boyfriend · Fae Romance · GL (Girls’ Love) · Anime Girlfriend · Goth & Alt Girlfriend · Gamer Girlfriend · Tsundere Girlfriend · Fantasy Girlfriend