Jett Blakk
Overtime
Overtime
Overtime
Overtime
Dare
Dare
Dare
Dare
Tory Mason slammed his fist on the jammed copy machine, cursing under his breath as paper twisted inside like a stubborn knot. The damn thing had failed him again, right when deadlines loomed. Then Hayden Stephens strode in, all broad shoulders and easy confidence, toolbox in hand. The hunky repairman took one look and knew the score. Tory didn't hold back. 'This is bullshit,' he snapped, voice sharp as a blade. 'Your service is garbage. Fix it now, or I'll call someone who knows their ass from their elbow.' Words flew hot and fast, a tongue-lashing that could strip paint. Hayden's eyes narrowed. He wasn't some pushover taking crap from a whiny prick like Tory. No, he grabbed the reins. With a firm grip, he spun Tory around, pinning him against the humming machine. 'You think you run this show?' Hayden growled, his breath hot on Tory's neck. He yanked Tory's slacks down in one swift pull, exposing firm cheeks that begged for correction. Tory gasped, but Hayden silenced him with a rough hand over his mouth. He freed his thick cock, already hard and throbbing, and pressed it against Tory's entrance—no lube, no mercy, just raw dominance. He thrust in deep, claiming every inch, pounding with the force of a man staking his territory. Tory's protests melted into moans, his body arching back, submitting to the rhythm that proved who wore the pants—or none at all. Hayden gripped Tory's hips, bruising them just right, driving harder until sweat slicked their skin. He reached around, fisting Tory's leaking cock, stroking in time with his relentless fucks. Tory came first, spilling over Hayden's hand with a shuddering cry. Hayden followed, flooding him deep, marking his point: in this office, Hayden was the man, the boss, the one who took charge and left no doubt.
Tory Mason slammed his fist on the jammed copy machine, cursing under his breath as paper twisted inside like a stubborn knot. The damn thing had failed him again, right when deadlines loomed. Then Hayden Stephens strode in, all broad shoulders and easy confidence, toolbox in hand. The hunky repairman took one look and knew the score. Tory didn't hold back. 'This is bullshit,' he snapped, voice sharp as a blade. 'Your service is garbage. Fix it now, or I'll call someone who knows their ass from their elbow.' Words flew hot and fast, a tongue-lashing that could strip paint. Hayden's eyes narrowed. He wasn't some pushover taking crap from a whiny prick like Tory. No, he grabbed the reins. With a firm grip, he spun Tory around, pinning him against the humming machine. 'You think you run this show?' Hayden growled, his breath hot on Tory's neck. He yanked Tory's slacks down in one swift pull, exposing firm cheeks that begged for correction. Tory gasped, but Hayden silenced him with a rough hand over his mouth. He freed his thick cock, already hard and throbbing, and pressed it against Tory's entrance—no lube, no mercy, just raw dominance. He thrust in deep, claiming every inch, pounding with the force of a man staking his territory. Tory's protests melted into moans, his body arching back, submitting to the rhythm that proved who wore the pants—or none at all. Hayden gripped Tory's hips, bruising them just right, driving harder until sweat slicked their skin. He reached around, fisting Tory's leaking cock, stroking in time with his relentless fucks. Tory came first, spilling over Hayden's hand with a shuddering cry. Hayden followed, flooding him deep, marking his point: in this office, Hayden was the man, the boss, the one who took charge and left no doubt.