Daniel's desk wasn't built for this. Its surface is buried under paper, books and coffee mugs; it's the wrong height by a crucial two inches, and Jack's sure one of them is going to end up with a splinter somewhere… personal.

But getting Daniel to spell out his fucked over a desk fantasy in stammers and throat clearings, punctuated with blushes and three, count 'em, three, nervous rubs at his glasses, was too much trouble for Jack to bail now.

And Daniel's naked, hard, waiting, looking back over his shoulder, that appealing, determined, trusting look on his face.

Perfectly positioned.


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