Bossy - N.R. Walker
So, before I tell you how this all began, I want to explain something real quick.
Sex for the purpose of just-sex is a thing that happens. Uncomplicated, no-strings-attached, mutual-physical-gratification kind of sex. As long as it’s consensual, safe, and satisfying for all involved, everyone wins. Right?
Not everyone needs an emotional connection to enjoy sex. Sometimes said emotional connection just complicates matters, and who needs complicated in their lives?
I certainly didn’t.
I was a busy twenty-eight-year-old gay man living in an amazing apartment in Darling Harbour, Sydney, with an amazing career, living an amazing life. I was a corporate realtor. I worked ridiculous hours under ridiculous pressure. I earned big money because I lived a high-stress, high-demand life. I was very good at my job. I got shit done and I got it done well.
I had neither the time nor the inclination for complications.
And I know what you’re thinking.
You’re thinking he’s sooooo gonna get blindsided and fall head over heels in love and it’s gonna be both gloriously and spectacularly bad.
Well, I’d just like to say in my defence, I didn’t see it coming. And yes, that would be the definition of blindsided. I know what that word means. It just means something different when it happens to you.
I did not see this coming . . . Much like driving a car onto train tracks and getting stuck and looking out the window to see a train thundering toward you, getting closer and closer, and you know you’re gonna hit and you’re gonna hurt, and you’re completely incapable of stopping it.
That’s what it’s like.
Highly traumatic and life-changing. With a dash of possibly wonderful.
Not that I think being hit by a train is wonderful by any stretch. But the impact and the aftermath would be similar, I’d imagine . . .
See what it’s done to my brain?
See what my high-IQ, tenacious, driven, hyper-focused brain is like now?
A steaming pile of gooey mush.
Lord help me.
I swear, last-year-me wouldn’t even recognise today-me. Well, he’d recognise the expensive clothes and perfectly styled blond hair, but probably very little else.
So, how did the derailment of my life begin? Let me take you back . . .
It was Friday night, the bar on Sydney’s George Street was busy, the music loud, the vodka and limes were going down a little too easy. There were so many suits and egos, it was hard to tell where the corporate world ended and the supposed night off began.
It was Friday night, for God’s sake, and all around me were conversations about commissions, clients, contracts, cases, and codes.
I mean, I loved it.
It was what I did. Corporate deals, high-end clients, prime real estate. Fast-talking, smooth and savvy, high-pressure, high-stress. Location, location, location.
But after an excruciatingly long week, I wanted to leave work behind, if only for a few hours. I wanted to not talk about business.
I wanted to let it all go, just for a night.
I wanted to find some guy who could make me forget. A guy who could take me home, forgo all manners and small talk, and take me to bed. I wanted to destress and detangle.
I just wanted uncomplicated sex.
But not just any sex. Oh no. I wanted really, really good sex. I wanted to get dicked so hard and so completely, I couldn’t remember my own name.
So, while some Friday nights I did come here to network like most of the other suits, tonight I was looking for a different kind of working relationship. A physical relationship with mutual benefits.
A lot of the faces were familiar. This was the finance district after all and we all moved in the same circles. I’d been with a few of these guys as well, and yes, sure, I could have given Brad a nod or Hunter a smile, and I knew damn well how the night would end.
But I wanted something new. Something fresh and exciting and someone I didn’t have to ever see again.
And that’s when I saw him.
Tall, dark hair, solid build, dark eyes, and a nervous smile. The way he looked around the bar told me he was new here, and he wasn’t sure he fit in. Call me superficial, but I could tell by his T-shirt that he didn’t fit in here.
Don’t get me wrong. Don’t misunderstand. I wasn’t judging him. But in my line of work, I could spot money when I saw it. Or when it was missing. Like telling the difference between a thousand-dollar suit and a ten-thousand-dollar suit. Or real Italian leather