Demming by Avril Ashton

Six

Hart couldn’t focus. The talk he’d had with Sawyer the night before kept playing over and over in his head. It didn’t help that he’d stayed up way later than he’d intended to, replaying the same fucking conversation.

Now he sat in his conference room, his lawyers around, all five of them talking at him at once, and he didn’t have the bandwidth for their shit. He held up a hand and their bullshit came to a halt.

“I’m not asking your permission,” he told them firmly. “I’m telling you this is what’s going to happen.” He’d called them in to discuss the sale of Larchmont to Sawyer’s company and all they’d given him so far was a mild headache.

“Hart—”

He ignored the one who spoke, Jason Tran, the youngest and newest member of the team. The Malaysian-born, American-raised lawyer had been Hart’s personal hire and he tended to listen to Jason more than the others. But today, he didn’t want to listen.

“Your job…” He met all of their gazes. “Your job is to make sure what I want can be done and that everything is on the up and up. I don’t want any fucking surprises.”

“Does your father know what you plan to do, son?” William Alpert was one hell of a lawyer, but Hart disliked him more than he disliked anyone in his employ. Bill was the oldest out of all of them there, he’d been with the company the longest, and he insisted on seeing Hart as that gangly kid who’d spent his evenings in the office with his father because Emmanuel had insisted his son needed to be familiar with the business.

That had taken priority over what little friends Hart had, or any extracurricular activities.

“In case you need a reminder, my father is not the CEO of this company,” he told Bill. “You work for me. If you don’t want to, you know where the door is. Next time you question me or pull that bullshit as if I’m a kid who doesn’t know what he’s doing, you’ll find yourself out of a job.” He sat back, ignoring the twin smirks on Phillip and Fredericka Samuels’ faces. Phil and Fred were a married couple and cool as hell. He knew they were also tired of Bill and his bullshit.

“We just want to ensure you’ve done your due diligence,” Ted Forsyth said. “We’re only now hearing about this. Why?”

“Because it just came up.” He didn’t have to explain himself, but he gave them something. “It just came up,” he repeated. “And it’s something I want to get done as soon as possible, so do your thing and let’s make sure this sale goes smoothly.”

“Bill isn’t wrong,” Fred pointed out. “This is your father’s pet project. He went through a great deal to acquire it if I remember correctly.”

Oh, Hart knew all about the lengths his father went to. He didn’t need reminders.

“I know all that, but ultimately, the property in question is owned by the company, which means I have control over what happens to it. I would like to sell it. Tell me how I can do so in the quickest, cleanest, and most legal way possible.”

Jason pursed his lips. “Our first step is to talk with the buyer’s lawyers.”

Hart nodded. “I’ll have Kenya get on that. Anything else?”

“We’ll let you know if anything arises.”

He murmured his thanks as they all filed out of the conference room, leaving him seated alone at the table, his phone facedown in front of him. This sale was a big deal. All the questions the lawyers posed opened his eyes to that fact. It was a big deal. Was he doing the right thing here? Why was he willing to do this? He could just as easily tell Sawyer to fuck off and ignore his request, as he’d initially done. illegal. He had every right to laugh in Sawyer’s face.

But after reading the file Jeb sent, after knowing the tiniest bit he knew about Sawyer, Hart couldn’t not listen to him, couldn’t not feel for him. It wasn’t right what his father did; there should have been better ways to go after what he wanted. There had to have been areas for compromise.

But Emmanuel didn’t take them, leaving Hart with the tough decisions now.

He should call Sawyer, but something inside him filled with trepidation at the thought. What he heard in Sawyer’s voice last night, had it all been in his head? Until he went over to Sawyer’s place there’d been no attraction.

Had there?

Maybe fascination.

Definitely fascination.

He stared at the phone in front of him. He’d been surprised when his phone rang just as he’d arrived home last night, and even more surprised it’d been Sawyer on the other end. The things Hart told him…

Shit. He rubbed his forehead.

He had a million things on his plate and he still sat in this spot thinking about Sawyer. This and him was a distraction Hart didn’t need. Not now and not ever. He snatched up his phone and made the damn call.

“Hart.” He sounded pleased Hart was on the other end of the line.

Hart ignored the way his back straightened and his heart thumped at the ludicrous notion. “I just finished speaking with my lawyers regarding the property sale.”

“Okay.” Sawyer paused. “What’s going on? You don’t sound good.”

What did he know about Hart to be able to identify his moods and tone? Hart shook his head. “Kenya will contact you regarding the necessary information. Bye.” He hung up before Sawyer could speak. See, that phone call hadn’t even been warranted. He could have allowed Kenya to do that; it was part of her job after all.

He’d wanted to hear Sawyer’s voice.

He shot to his feet with a curse. Was Sawyer even into men? Hart couldn’t tell and he’d dealt with enough men who didn’t know what they wanted or were ashamed of it, and he wasn’t doing that again.

And why was he even thinking about any of that? Sawyer wasn’t interested. He shouldn’t be either.

He went back to his office and tried to focus on the actual work he had in front of him. They’d recently landed a project for upscale student housing and he was actually looking forward to the challenge. It took a while but he finally got his brain to settle down, and about an hour later, Kenya informed him his lawyers and Sawyer’s lawyers were in contact and already hammering out details.

Several phone calls split his attention from his laptop and as he hung up on the third call in the span of half an hour, his office door opened. His head jerked up, eyes widening when he spotted Sawyer standing there, a frantic Kenya almost hidden behind his broad shoulders.

“Sir, I told him you weren’t available but—”

“It’s okay, Kenya.” Hart waved off her apology. “Please close the door behind you.” He waited until Kenya left, the door clicking behind her, before he turned his attention to Sawyer, who stood there, all broody. “Demming, what can I do for you?” He didn’t get to his feet.

Sawyer narrowed his eyes, stalking closer. Hart had to keep from swallowing or doing anything else to give away his nerves.

“You sounded off on the phone.” He said it as if his reaction to just pop up on Hart out of the blue because of his tone on the phone was a fucking no-brainer.

Hart shook his head. “What does that have to do with you?’

Sawyer blinked slowly, looking lost. That was something Hart didn’t think happened to the other man much and it was slightly endearing but mostly annoying as fuck. It was as if Sawyer hadn’t considered that question let alone the answer.

“You should leave.” Hart brought his gaze back to the screen in front of him, refusing to admit to the disappointment that made his stomach churn. “And maybe return when you have an answer for me?” He acted as if Sawyer wasn’t there, picking up his pen and writing on the notepad on the desk.

But Sawyer didn’t budge and Hart couldn’t keep up the pretense, not when Sawyer’s presence made him squirm—made the back of his neck heat.

He finally put his pen down and lifted his head. Sawyer watched him with shit Hart couldn’t begin to decipher in the depths of his green eyes. “Sawyer.”

Awareness flickered in Sawyer’s gaze, the sight hitting Hart in the lower belly. He inhaled sharply.

“I like when you say my name,” Sawyer finally spoke as he turned to the door. “See you later, Hart.” Then he was gone as abruptly as he’d appeared.

Hart frowned only to let out a curse when he recalled telling Sawyer he’d show him his art collection later that day. “Son of a bitch!”

* * *

Demming waitedall day to hear something from Hart, but he got nothing. He wanted to see Hart’s art, sure, but more than that he wanted to see the other man again. Be close to him again. Listen to his voice while he talked about whatever was on his mind. He still couldn’t pinpoint what happened earlier that morning to warrant Hart’s short tone. Had he unknowingly done something? It frustrated him no end that he couldn’t say for sure, that he didn’t know what the hell was happening, and that he’d spent his entire goddamn day staring at his phone willing a text from Hart to come through.

It never did.

Night had fallen now and he was back in Brooklyn after dinner with his mother. Once again Bryce was gone and their mother looked so sad. Demming didn’t know how to get Bryce to stop acting like a fucking twelve-year-old. It took everything in him not to mention anything about buying Larchmont. He wanted to keep the news close until all the details had been ironed out. It would make her happy. He just knew it.

At dinner, his mother asked once again about when he’d be leaving, and he’d had the pleasure of watching the sadness lift from her gaze when he told her he’d be around for a while. When they were finished, he kissed her on the cheek and left.

Now he was back in his empty condo waiting around for a text.

Hart didn’t owe him anything, he knew that. Demming still wanted to call him and demand to know what was going on.

“Fuck.” He raked his fingers through his hair as he slouched on the couch. “Losing my fucking mind,” he muttered into the silence surrounding him.

Maybe Hart had decided to keep things strictly business, which should be something Demming welcomed and applauded. But the mere thought of it made him want to put his fist through a wall. What was it about Hart that interested him? He was the son of—

His phone vibrated in his hand and he glanced at the lit-up screen, jumping to his feet when he saw Hart’s name along with an address. Demming didn’t think twice before rushing out the door.

It took longer than he would have liked to drive from Brooklyn into the city and by the time he arrived at Hart’s penthouse apartment, frustration had his teeth on edge. As he stood in front of Hart’s door, which was slightly ajar—he frowned at that—he couldn’t tell if his racing heart was because of yelling at people in traffic or the prospect of seeing Hart.

He knocked.

“Yeah, come in!” Hart called from somewhere inside.

Demming pushed the door wider and stepped in, closing it behind it.

Hart appeared from around a corner, wearing a black t-shirt, jeans, and red, black, and white sneakers.

“You left your door open?” Demming took him to task, hoping the question masked the thudding of his heart. “Anyone could have walked in.”

Hart scoffed. “I only opened it once the doorman let me know my guest had arrived, which was what? A minute ago?”

“A minute is more than enough time for some crazy shit to happen.” He’d seen enough out there to know.

“Yeah, okay.” Hart stood in front of him with an indulgent smirk on his face.

Demming couldn’t stop staring at him. This was the first time he’d seen Hart in black and it did nothing to cover up the spark in him that pulled at Demming. He shifted from foot to foot. Seemed they’d both forgotten how to speak for a moment and their only mode of communication was their eyes.

Their breaths.

Hart was breathing faster, judging by the rise and fall of his chest.

The charged air swirling around them made it hard for Demming to think, let alone inhale. Breath got all strangled in his throat, narrowing his vision to the man in front of him who watched him with a lot of confusion and a little trepidation.

When Hart licked his lips, Demming felt that shit in his lower belly. Heat unfurled like a coiled snake and slithered down to his cock. He blew out a shaky breath that seemed to snap Hart out of his daze.

“Uh…” Hart blinked then averted his gaze. “Follow me.”

Demming did, following closely behind him as Hart led him farther into the apartment. The living room walls were blue with white trim, the floor-to-ceiling drapes yellow, and the sofa white with little blue and yellow pillows. Demming couldn’t help but smile. “It’s you,” he murmured, gaze on the curve of Hart’s neck. “This place feels like you.”

Hart glanced at him over his shoulder, expression difficult to read. “Does it?” Then he disappeared into the kitchen.

That question had another question behind it, one Demming couldn’t quite make out. He hated this feeling of not being sure of his footing, not knowing where he stood or what he was doing. As a grown man he was supposed to know, wasn’t he?

But Hart stripped all that away from him and left him vulnerable.

Hart returned to where Demming stood in the middle of his hallway, holding a bottle of champagne and two drink tumblers. “Drink?” When Demming lifted an eyebrow, Hart shrugged, stance switching to defensive. “It’s the only thing I have in the fridge.” He held up the glasses. “And these were the first things I grabbed, so they’ll have to do.”

Demming’s lips quirked. “Well, if it’s the only thing…”

Hart rolled his eyes but held out a glass to Demming then poured the champagne, filling first Demming’s then his own glass. Hart held on to the bottle, both of his hands occupied as he nodded down another hallway. “Come on.”

Not only did his place feel like him, but it smelled that way too, warm and intoxicating. Demming tried not to be too obvious as he took deep, dragging breaths. Hart led him down a hallway and to a black door.

“Come, this way.” He gestured with his chin for Demming to open it and once he did, Hart entered ahead of him.

Framed photographs, sculptures, and paintings took up every inch of wall space. Demming grabbed the bottle of champagne from Hart and poured himself another as he just stared and stared.

It was all so breathtaking. He took his time, studying each one. He didn’t know much about art, but Hart definitely seemed to have an eye for it.

“You’re surrounded by about fifty or so million dollars worth of art,” Hart told him, but it was no boast, no ego on display. Just raw love in his eyes.

For a moment Demming found himself jealous of those paintings. Jealous they elicited that kind of expression from Hart. Demming wanted to touch his face. His fingers twitched where they stretched around the glass he held. The energy between them was crazy, the force of it rocking him back on his feet. He watched Hart swallowing without taking a sip of his drink, and the way his throat worked shouldn’t be so interesting.

But it was.

Tension crackled between them, wetting Demming’s palms and frightening him with its intensity. He’d never felt like this. Apparently, that would be his theme when it came to Hart.

“We can…” Hart motioned to the double doors to his right—Demming’s left. “We can sit out there if you want.”

Demming didn’t answer, he simply stood up and opened the doors that led onto a wide balcony with an amazing view spread out before them. He sat on one of the loungers, stretching out his legs. Hart did the same on his right, placing the almost empty champagne bottle down on the floor between them.

The night was cool and silent and comfortable in a way that had him uneasy.

Fuck.

“Tell me about the painting Sydney took.” He kept his voice low since Hart was mere inches away. If he stretched his arm out, he could cup the other man’s chin, stroke his lip. He could lean over and kiss him if he wanted to.

Hart blew out a breath. Clearly, he didn’t like talking about what Sydney had done. “That one is set to be in an LA gallery in two months.” He fell silent for a few moments and when he spoke again, his voice was deeper, heavier. “I haven’t told anyone except Jeb—my PI—about it.” He swiped a hand across his forehead. “If I allow myself to dwell on it, I get so fucking pissed, and I can’t afford that.” His hand fisted where they sat atop his thigh.

Demming barely held himself back from touching him there, soothing him. He swallowed. “You should be pissed. What she did was fucked up, a violation.” Hart didn’t respond, he just stared off into the distance. “What happened today?” Demming asked softly, gaze caressing the curve of his neck. “This morning on the phone and when I came to the office, what happened?”

“Do you have an answer for me?” Hart shot back, gaze swinging to Demming’s. “Answer the question I asked you this morning. What does how I sound or what I feel have to do with you?”

“I do have an answer,” Demming rasped. “But answer me first: what happened this morning?”

Hart sighed and broke their stare-off. “Nothing happened. I just had a realization that there were certain things I couldn’t do, things I couldn’t afford to do.”

Demming narrowed his eyes. “And do they have anything to do with me, those certain things?”

Hart barked a laugh and rubbed the back of his head, side-eyeing Demming. “Give me your answer, Sawyer.”

The way he spoke Demming’s name was like tossing kindling on a fire. The blaze got brighter and rose to the sky. “After you left my place the other night, I found myself wishing you were still there,” he confessed in a hoarse whisper.

Hart jerked upright.

“And I found myself missing the sound of your voice.”

“So you called me the next day.” Hart’s voice sounded so far away.

Demming nodded. “So I called you. And you told me things that just…things that I wish I could make better for you.”

“Not your job.”

“No.” He nodded again. “But if I want—look at me.” He waited until Hart did, eyes dark, expression vulnerable. “What if I wanted to make it my job?” He waited, body strung tight, for a response.

Hart’s nostrils flared. “Are you even into men?”

“Apparently, I am. Are you?” he asked before he remembered Hart mentioning being with a man in college.

“I’m pansexual. Gender isn’t really a factor to me. I’m into whoever interests me.” Hart chuckled. “Breaking that down so my parents could understand turned out to be a trip. Sawyer—” He scrubbed a hand over his face. “This is—What are we doing?”

Demming shrugged. “I don’t know, but you should know I’ve never been attracted to a man before.”

Hart’s eyes widened and he gulped audibly. “I don’t know that I want that responsibility, Sawyer.”

And he understood that. Respected it. “Driving over here, I didn’t know if I wanted to acknowledge this either.”

Hart leaned back. “But now?”

Now, Demming wanted to touch him to feel the texture of his skin. He wanted to kiss him to learn his taste, to see if that alone could get him drunk. He wanted to learn all the ways he could please a man. This man. Hart watched him as if he could read Demming’s mind, body poised as though he was getting ready to leap from that lounger and land face down on Demming. He wouldn’t mind that. In fact, he found himself leaning closer to Hart, feeling as if his body was levitating, drawn to the other man by the force of their attraction alone. “Now?” he rasped. “Now, it’s all I want.”