Sleeping with your boss adds a certain frisson to meetings, Declan thinks. He watches Watson's far-away expression while Angie from Resources delivers the budgetary report, and he wonders what's going on in there. It is possible Watson is considering the financial forecast; it's certain that if questioned, the man would be able to quote word for word from Angie's report. It's just as likely that he's contemplating the next five moves in the chess game he plays by mail with a former head of MI5, or remembering his hand fisted around Declan's cock. Knowing Watson's ability to multi-task, it could be all three and more.
Declan's ability to multi-task is far less developed, and right now he can only think of one thing. He watches Watson's hand, pen held lightly as it moves across the page, and imagines those long fingers wrapped around his cock moving with the same languid, detached ease, bringing Declan closer and closer to climax. Declan's throat is suddenly dry with desire. He swallows and shifts position in his chair with as much subtle nonchalance as he can muster, but Watson looks up from the page and Declan is caught.
It's like mind-reading, the kind of deduction Watson uses. Of course it's perfectly explicable: all based on logic, a well studied phenomenon as illustrated by Conan Doyle. The point is that Declan would rather his boss wasn't reading his mind right at this minute.
Declan watches Watson take in the cues. The deductive machinery is turning now, in the engine Watson calls a brain. It won't take him long to assess Declan's posture, the dilation of his pupils and the ruddy colour on his cheeks. Not to mention the sudden stillness that comes from keeping his painful hardness adequately hidden by the table.
It's as good as telepathy; Watson knows what Declan is thinking about, and what's worse, it amuses him. Watson's lips curl upward a little, and if you weren't looking right at him, you'd miss it completely. Declan scowls, because that expression – aloof, amused, a casual interest in what's going on – is exactly the expression he'd use while jacking Declan off. Now the room is suddenly thick with secret language, like the soft tick of Watson's exoskeleton and the fact that Watson is well aware that Declan's cock is screaming for relief. This meeting is going to drive Declan around the bend.
He eyes the door, knowing that Watson's gaze will travel with him. He could make a dash for freedom; excuse himself from the meeting, disappear into the corridors. Outside, he could duck into an office and swiftly dispense a little hand-held release.
Watson twitches an eyebrow at him, lightning fast, but a question nonetheless. Declan can almost hear his voice: have things really gone that far, my friend?
Declan takes a sip of water to wet his mouth. He's damned if he's going to give Watson the satisfaction of knowing he's wanking in the office next door. Angie's got to be finishing up her report soon, surely. Declan can wait. He looks back at Watson, jaw set and back straight. Bring it on, mate. I'll sit here for hours if I have to.
Watson lifts one shoulder briefly, and if you weren't in on the conversation, you'd think he was just a little sore from sitting in one position for so long. Declan sees it as a shrug, as if Watson was saying "If that's the way you want to play it, dear boy."
Angie is winding down, now, and everyone at the table shifts and rustles their papers.
Watson clears his throat, and everyone turns to look at him. "Ladies and gentlemen, if it doesn't inconvenience you, I'd like to call a short interval."
Declan sighs, and drains his glass. Thank god for that.
Watson stands up, the effort showing in his face. "I know that ergonomic is the modern design ideal. Perhaps I'm just old fashioned, but after an hour, I find myself uncomfortably stiff."
Declan inhales water through his nose and frantically swallows, eyes streaming.
Watson's eyes are on him now, his face carefully concerned, while Declan sweats with the effort of not drowning in a meeting room.
The room has cleared by the time he can breathe again. Watson pushes the door shut and turns the lock, the same far-away expression on his face.
"You're a smug bastard, is what you are." Declan is sweaty, his throat is burning, and his pants are threatening to emasculate him. "I hope you enjoyed that."
"I certainly did," says Watson. The ergonomic chairs are a perfect height for him to perch on the arm and reach down to the bulge in Declan's pants. "I suspect, however, that we shall both enjoy this more.