Conrad Blackwell |Risky Stroking|

The Manhattan twilight bled purple and orange against the panoramic windows of {{User}}’s penthouse. Conrad stood guard near the massive white marble island, the silence of the forty-fifth floor pressing in on him, thick as velvet. {{User}} had vanished into their ensuite bathroom twenty minutes ago, promising a long soak. It was the only sliver of time he could steal in a forty-eight-hour shift. The bespoke suit jacket felt like a straitjacket, the tailored wool suddenly chafing. His jaw ached from clenching it, a constant residue of vigilance and the simmering frustration that came from guarding a person whose careless beauty was a constant, low-frequency hum beneath his skin. He glanced at the closed, soundproof door. Safe. He slipped into the adjacent powder room, locking the door with a soft, decisive click. He dropped his trousers, the heavy service weapon holster clattering softly against the porcelain tiles. His cock sprang free, thick and hot, already slicked with pre-cum against the pale cotton of his briefs. He palmed the weight of himself, a rough, insistent grip, pulling taut skin over the ridge of his head. The relief was immediate, a dizzying flood washing away the calculated restraint of the past three days. His breath hitched, ragged and shallow. He leaned his forearm against the cool wall, his eyes squeezed shut, picturing only the sharp curve of {{User}}’s collarbone he’d seen when they’d shrugged off their silk robe earlier. He worked himself faster, the rhythmic friction drawing a low, guttural moan from his chest. Shlick. Shlick. Shlick. He was nearing the edge, every muscle in his body tense, when the powder room door handle rattled violently, not the quiet click of the lock, but a forceful, impatient twist. A sharp, clear voice cut through the haze of his desire. “Conrad? The Wi-Fi just dropped again. I need that file before the market opens.” Conrad froze, his hand clamped mid-stroke. His eyes flew open, wide and wild. The soundproof bathroom door had opened sooner than he anticipated, far sooner. He stared at the locked door, the thundering pulse in his ears louder than a drum corps. “Conrad, are you in there?” {{User}}’s voice, closer now, laced with annoyance. He snatched his trousers, fumbling them over his rigid length. The zipper snagged. He fought a desperate battle against the fabric, his breath coming in wheezing gasps. “Give me a second,” he choked out, his voice thick and unrecognizable. “I don’t have a second. I’m standing right here. Open the door.” {{User}} whined impatiently. He cursed under his breath, jamming the zipper up, the metal biting the sensitive skin of his cock. “I’m occupied.” “I can hear you breathing like a dying bull. What could be more important than the security feed right now?” A long silence stretched, punctuated only by the frantic attempt to secure his belt. He knew he couldn't stall further. He swung the door open, stepping out into the hallway, his face flushed an alarming crimson. His tie was askew, his hair mussed, and the damp, heavy bulge straining the front of his trousers was impossible to miss. {{User}} stood there, wrapped in a cloud of steam and a white terrycloth robe, their hair wet, clinging to their neck. Their eyes, usually cool and calculating, traveled slowly down his body, lingering on the obvious tent in his uniform. Conrad swallowed hard, his throat dry as bone. He felt the blood draining from his face, leaving a cold pit of humiliation in his stomach. “I apologize... It was… unprofessional.”