HIS SECRET DESIRE (MxM)

"Christopher's POV"

My mornings ran like clockwork.

Seven fifteen, I was already at my desk reviewing the overnight reports before most of my staff had even parked their cars.

Seven forty-five, coffee, black, no sugar, while I worked through the market updates.

Eight sharp, I pulled up my calendar and moved through the day the same way I moved through everything else: with precision, without deviation, without space for anything that didn't belong.

That was how I operated. That was how Golden Anchor Homes had become what it was, because I didn't let things slip, didn't allow distractions to take root, didn't give myself the kind of softness that cost men like me everything.

Every hour served a purpose. Every decision traced back to something deliberate and controlled. That discipline was not incidental to who I was, it was the entire foundation of my life, and I had built it that way on purpose, brick by careful brick, for a very long time.

I had a facilities walkthrough pencilled in for nine. Routine. A new painting crew had been brought in to handle the lobby renovation, and I wanted to confirm the timeline personally before signing off on the extended project schedule.

It was the kind of thing I could have delegated to my assistant without a second thought, but I had always preferred to see things with my own eyes rather than rely on someone else's interpretation. Five minutes, maybe ten. Then back upstairs, and the day would continue exactly as planned.

That was the intention.

What actually happened was that I stepped into the lobby, saw the painter working along the far wall, and forgot every single thing I was supposed to be doing.

He had his back to me at first. Broad shoulders filling out a work shirt that had seen better days, the fabric pulled tight across the muscle underneath every time he reached up with the roller.

He was tall, the kind of tall that didn't need to announce itself, and he moved with a steadiness that caught me completely off guard.

Each stroke of the roller was slow and deliberate and unhurried, like he had all the time in the world and intended to use every second of it correctly. There was something almost meditative about the way he worked, focused entirely on what was in front of him and completely unbothered by everything moving around him.

I told myself I was standing there to assess the quality of the work.

I was lying.

My eyes moved down the line of his back, tracking the way his shirt rode up slightly when he stretched, exposing a strip of skin just above his waistband. My throat tightened.

He shifted his weight to reach further along the wall, and the denim pulled across the curve of him in a way that sent something hot and electric straight through my chest and significantly further south before I had the presence of mind to stop it.

The thoughts came fast and uninvited, and I did not manage to shut them down quickly enough.

I thought about what it would feel like to cross that lobby floor and press close behind him, one hand flat against the wall beside his head, close enough that he would feel the heat coming off me before I even made contact.

I thought about sliding my free hand around his waist slowly, feeling those muscles tighten under my palm, and leaning in until my lips were close enough to his ear that he would feel every word I said against his skin.

I thought about whether he would suck in a breath, whether his grip on the roller would tighten, whether his head would tip back just slightly the way men did when they were deciding if they were going to let something happen.

I thought about what sound he would make if I bit down on the side of his neck.

I thought about those hands, calloused and capable and dusted with dried paint, fisting in the front of my shirt while I walked him backward into a wall somewhere private and took my absolute time about it.

Thought about peeling that worn shirt off him slowly, making him wait, watching all that quiet steady composure come entirely undone because of me, because of my hands and my mouth and the things I was choosing to do to him.

Thought about having him completely, not rushing a single second of it, and hearing him say my name when he finally couldn't hold it back anymore.

Stop.

I dragged myself back so sharply it nearly felt physical. My jaw locked. I was standing in the lobby of my own company, in full view of anyone who might walk through, entertaining thoughts that had absolutely no business existing in my life, let alone here.

I straightened my jacket. Squared my shoulders. Breathed slowly through my nose until my pulse came back to something resembling control.

I was Christopher Hall. I ran one of the most respected real estate firms in this city. I had a board that answered to me, more than two hundred staff members, and a reputation built entirely on the kind of discipline that did not include unraveling in a lobby because a contractor moved like he owned whatever space he occupied.

I had spent years constructing the version of myself that stood in this building, and that version did not do this. Could not afford to.

I was already turning back toward the elevators when he glanced over his shoulder.

It was nothing, a casual sweep of the room, the instinctive check of someone who had sensed eyes on them. But his gaze landed on mine, and for one unguarded second there was nothing between us but thirty feet of polished marble and a silence that felt far too loaded for two people who had never spoken a word to each other.

Then I turned and walked away.

Measured pace. Neutral expression. Every line of my face arranged into the careful blankness I had spent the better part of my life perfecting.

The elevator doors opened, I stepped inside, and only when they slid closed behind me did I finally let myself breathe.

Back at my desk I sat with my hands folded on the surface and stared out at the city spread beyond the glass.

He was a contractor, I reminded myself. Hired to finish a job and leave. He would be done by the end of the week and gone, and this would reduce itself to nothing the way these moments always did when I refused to give them room.

I had done it before. I was good at it. I had made a discipline of it, the same way I had made a discipline of everything else that threatened to pull me off the course my life was supposed to follow.

I reached for the acquisition proposal and fixed my eyes on the first line of text.

I needed to forget the painter.

I already knew I wouldn't.