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A Necessary Examination

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Snapping on a pair of blue gloves, Henry says, "Remove your trousers and spread your legs for me, please."

Lucas swallows, and shifts on Henry's desk. He's painfully hard, so turned on he can barely think, has been ever since Henry suggested this before slipping into his lab coat. But the office walls are glass, and even though it's the middle of the night, Lucas can't help asking, "What if someone sees us? I know you fly your freak flag pretty high, Boss—er, Henry—but I like keeping mine a little more, you know, under the radar than this, believe it or not, and I kind of don't want to get arrested..."

"I'd appreciate it if you'd call me 'Dr. Morgan,'" Henry says, elegant voice low and rough, lips curving in a dark and filthy grin that quickly disappears under a mask of professionalism. "Now, trousers, Mr. Wahl. I'd like to start the examination right away—the sooner the better."

One commanding look is all it takes. On autopilot, Lucas unbuttons and unzips his jeans, raises his hips just enough to slide off the tight clothes. The simple brush of denim over his sensitized skin makes something inside him twist, is—God—too much. Cold air hits his thighs, and Lucas sucks in a sharp breath that turns into a moan when Henry's hands join his in removing the clothes.

"Perfect," Henry says, taking over when Lucas's jeans reach his knees, undressing Lucas with care. "Absolutely perfect. You are a most excellent patient."

Henry doesn't comment on Lucas's Batman boxers, thank fuck. Full attention on Lucas's legs, Henry drags his hands up one of Lucas's calves, lightly squeezing the muscle, then pressing along the hard line of shin bone, leaving goosebumps in his wake.

No one's ever focused on Lucas's awkward, skinny legs like this before. It's weird. Lucas shifts again, trying to ease the incessant begging of his cock. God, does he love weird.

When Henry declares one calf healthy and moves to the next, a burst of pride fills Lucas's chest. Henry approves of his body. That is so, so awesome.

Unsurprisingly, Henry's making the whole exam thing incredibly sexy. Of course he is. Henry's hot—the kind of hot that's indisputable, that should probably be illegal, that doesn't go for guys like Lucas Wahl, that doesn't give guys like Lucas "a necessary examination" on their office desk in the middle of the freaking night. Yet here they are.

What the fuck? Lucas thinks. How is this my life?

As Henry studies one knee, he glances up, and his eyes widen. "Oh," he says, that smirk getting even dirtier, and slides his hand up the inside of Lucas's thigh. "What do we have here?"

A choked noise escapes Lucas's throat. Ever so gently, Henry palms the firm bulge tenting Lucas's boxers, and Lucas lets out another strangled whimper.

"This is interesting," Henry says, voice a warm rumble, touch maddeningly light, and he traces Lucas's hard cock with one hand through the thin fabric of his boxers. Lucas burns for more, want painful and hot as a furnace in the pit of his belly as Henry drags his fingers over his length, studying it with an intensity only Henry can manage.

No one's focused on Lucas so closely before, no one but Henry—brilliant, remarkable Henry, who's way too good for a guy like Lucas, and yet here they are, him sprawled across Henry's desk in his scrub top and ridiculous Batman boxers, Henry stripping him bare with his dark eyes and quirked lips. "Very interesting indeed."

Henry's thumb slides over the damp head of Lucas's cock, and Lucas gasps. "Henry—Dr. Morgan, please. I—"

Splaying his hands on Lucas's thighs, Henry licks his lips, and looks up at Lucas with a gleeful, intrigued smile. "I need to take a closer look at your erection. Please remove your underwear."

Thoughts of the clear walls cross Lucas's mind. They're so exposed, the glass shielding nothing from view. God only knows what would happen if someone walked in. But he's so hard he could cry, and the warm weight of Henry's gloved hands on his cool thighs, the sight of Henry's dark curls and handsome face and clean white coat between his legs, so fucking close to his cock—it closes in on him, steals the breath from his lungs, makes his heart race faster and faster, louder and louder, too damn loud as it pounds through his veins.

He doesn't want this—he needs it.

Henry speaks a moment too late for Lucas's self-control. Expression soft, he says, gently, "If you wish to take this somewhere more private—"

"No, no!" Lucas says, cutting Henry off. God, no, Lucas doesn't want to stop. He yanks off his boxers and almost falls off the desk, which earns a chuckle from Henry, and he tosses the annoying garment aside. No turning back now, not when his bare ass is on polished wood, not when his own bare wood is standing tall and eager for polishing where God and anyone could see. A tremor runs through his voice as he says, "Continue, Doctor."

"Very well," Henry says, wrapping his long fingers around Lucas's cock. "But it might be wise to speed up this exam, yes?" is all the warning Lucas gets before he's engulfed in the tight, wet heat of Henry's mouth.

"Oh, fuck," Lucas whispers, between his panting breaths. God, that's... "Oh, fuck."

Henry swallows him down, down, down, mouth and tongue and friction taking over, hot and perfect. Sweet fucking Christ, Henry's mouth. Lucas never can think with that mouth on his cock, with Henry taking him all the way in. It's so good it hurts, and Lucas helplessly clenches his fists in Henry's hair, thrusts into Henry's mouth, getting a pleased hum in reply.

That's totally one of the best things about Henry, Lucas thinks. Henry's not just fucking amazing at making him come so hard it breaks his brain—Henry loves this. He's never been with someone like Henry before, someone who gets off so hard on getting him off first, someone who lives to inflict the torture of tight-slick-slow and broad swipes of tongue and beautiful, beautiful suction.

A warm hand takes hold of Lucas's balls, and Henry teases them, touch slowed by the friction of his glove. Every time Henry touches him, Lucas is almost grateful for all of those embarrassing times he shot off too soon in his teens and twenties. He knows how to enjoy it now, how to fight back the surge of sensation that wants to send him careening off the edge now. Good is an understatement, but it's all he can come up with. Gently, Henry squeezes his balls, rubs them with the pad of his thumb, and it's good.

But far too soon, it's over. Henry pulls away with a wet sound, and Lucas almost whines at the loss of his lips. "What are you—"

Lucas gets a chuckle in reply, Henry’s hot breath reverberating like sound down Lucas's cock. Lucas's gaze meets Henry's, meets eyes that are dark with lust, yet alight with mirth and pride. Oh, hell, smugness shouldn't be so endearing, so hot, but it is.

Henry kisses the tip of his cock, and Lucas shivers. Henry tongues at the slit, teases the sensitive head, licking and sucking, making Lucas squirm. Holy crap, it's good, wet and enthusiastic and perfect, firing up the amazing burn in the pit of Lucas's belly. He wants more, needs more, whimpers, "Please," as he tries to thrust into Henry's gorgeous mouth. "Dr. Morgan, please."

"Patience, Mr. Wahl," Henry says, letting go of Lucas and stepping back, and he crosses his arms. "It's important I do this thoroughly. In fact, now that I think about it, there's another matter I'm neglecting." Man, it would be so corny if anyone else said that, and then licked their lips like that. "Would you mind turning around?"

"What?" Lucas stares at Henry, mouth gaping, dumbstruck with disbelief and want. Fuck. He's not sure he can do it, not without humiliating himself. This is something he's dreamed about since the first time he stepped into Henry's office, the one fantasy that's guaranteed to get him off fast, made real. Is Henry really going to...

"Turn around, please."

Yes. Yes, he is. Aw, yeah.

Lucas bites his lip to keep from letting out any of the ridiculous cheers building on his tongue, tasting his salty sweat, and he does as he's told. He trips over his jeans, and catches himself hard on the desk, his knees colliding painfully with the front and his flailing hand knocking the bottle of lube to the floor. As Henry retrieves the bottle, he chuckles again, like an asshole, but it's fond, not malicious. On his way up, Henry kisses the small of Lucas's back, traces his hand over Lucas's ass, gives one cheek a firm squeeze, then the other.

"Excellent condition," Henry says, moving on to the lube, and Lucas exhales. If someone with such a great ass says that, it must be true.

It takes every ounce of Lucas's strength to keep from crying out, Yes!

Usually, Henry's gentle and careful when he works Lucas open. This time, he's swift and methodical, slipping a finger in, then adding another soon after—more to ease his own mind than to ready Lucas. Still, Lucas moans as Henry slides his slick fingers in and out. It's intense, breathtaking, and when those fingers find his prostate, he thinks he might come or die from the jolts of pleasure. He clutches at the edge of the desk, panting and overwhelmed, and groans when Henry adds another finger. It hurts in the best possible way, but it's painless, all of it too big a concept for Lucas to describe. He might have to borrow a few words from Henry for it. Exquisite, maybe?

Henry buries his fingers deep inside again, and Lucas thinks, Yeah, exquisite.

What's not exquisite is Henry pulling them out again, leaving him empty. But he hears rustling fabric behind him, the crinkle of plastic, the soft hiss Henry always lets out when he first touches himself. The wet, slightly gross sound of lube. The gorgeous, fleeting burn as Henry eases himself inside.

The rest of the world vanishes from Lucas's brain. All that exists is the thick cock slipping into him, the heat in his gut, the sound of Henry moaning quietly as he buries himself in Lucas's ass. Lucas clutches the front of the desk so hard his fingers ache, whispering, "Yes," under his breath to the dark wood below, and, oh, God, he can't believe this is happening. Is it really happening?

Henry begins to move, thrusting into Lucas, steadying himself with his hands on Lucas's hip, and Lucas believes it. He might have a vivid imagination, sure, but it's not this vivid. It can't possibly conjure the warm scent of Henry's cologne clashing with the cold antiseptic smell that clings to everything in the morgue, the tiny noises coming from Henry's throat, the uncomfortable feeling of sweat-damp hair sticking to his forehead, the indescribably exquisite sensation of Henry fucking him. In his fantasies, Lucas is never this ridiculous, never lets out such awkward sounds as he struggles to breathe, never grunts like a panting caveman as he struggles for more delicious friction inside him yet fights the urge to come because he wants this to last.

But he never imagines a sweet kiss on the sweaty nape of his neck, either, nor the sheer reality of Henry's stiff waistcoat and soft shirt brushing against his ass, the sporadic caress of Henry's coat on his thighs, the radiating warmth of Henry's body. The staccato rhythm running through him as Henry fucks him, fucks him, fucks him, erasing his brain with every swift jerk of hips and every slide of cock.

Fantasy pales in comparison to this. It's unbearable, it's amazing, it's perfect and imperfect all at once. It's awesome. Lucas clenches his eyes shut as he loses himself to feeling, to the waning war between the need to come and vain hope that this'll last. It won't last much longer. It never does with Henry.

Henry takes Lucas's cock in hand again, and Lucas lets out an incoherent, breathy noise. Yes, he thinks, as Henry strokes him, guides him forward to that wonderful edge. Yes, yes, yes. His body goes tight, everything tensing at once, so close, so close.

Voice unsteady, Henry says, "You are such a good patient, my darling."

My darling. Before Lucas can process the endearment, Henry drags his thumb over the head of Lucas's cock, and that's it. The tension snaps. A thousand sensations crash through him, colors flash in his tightly-shut eyes, and Lucas comes, probably spending himself all over the front of the desk as burst after burst of heat leaves him a moaning, quivering mess, then a dazed and boneless heap on the top.

Above him, Henry lets out a gusty breath and arches into him with a barely-audible, "Oh."

After, Lucas pillows his head on his folded arms and doesn't move. Neither does Henry, who's a warm, solid weight lying quietly on top of him, nose buried in his hair. They stay there for a while, catching their breath, then breathing slowly together, both of them boneless and tired.

But reality, like always, closes in. Unexpectedly, it hits Lucas first. "We should clean up," he says, voice muffled by his forearm, and Henry lets out an acknowledging hum. "It's gonna be morning soon."

With a tiny huff of amusement that tickles Lucas's skin, Henry says, "It was morning before we began, technically."

"Yeah. But, like, morning morning. With people, and stuff. Also, I'm pretty sure we're gonna be really uncomfortable if we stay here." His back already aches a little, his knees, his lower belly where the desk's edge digs into his flesh. "'specially if we fall asleep. And I don't know about you, but I could really use some sleep." He yawns. "In a good bed."

"That does sound rather nice, doesn't it?"

"And you know who has a good bed?" Lucas asks. "You."

But they don't move away from each other. Not yet. Later. For now, everything's awesome.