28. Adrian

When I got on the train this afternoon, I was nervous that this "grand gesture" as Casey tried to call it would backfire. Mina had promised me that Jamie would welcome the surprise, and I trust she knows her best friend. But that didn't stop the little voice in the back of my head from saying, "if he really wanted you here, he would have asked you himself." But when I saw the wired look in his eyes through the door and felt how tightly he clung to me standing in the lobby, I knew I made the right call.

His nerves are so shot that I almost offered to drive us to his apartment myself. Although, honestly, that probably would have made it worse for both of us. Plus, he weirdly finds driving calming. I don't get it, but I've watched him, and every time he's behind the wheel, he looks relaxed, like he belongs there. Except for tonight. Not only was he uncharacteristically silent the entire drive from his campaign headquarters to his apartment, his hands had a death grip on the wheel the whole time.

He's in bad shape and trying desperately to pretend everything is fine—either so his staff doesn't worry about him, or in some sort of attempt to gaslight himself into believing it. I'm familiar with both tactics. But even though it's just the two of us, now, he's still pretending.

"Do you want anything to drink?" he asks as he drops his keys in the bowl by his door.

"No, I'm—"

"What about food? Did you eat dinner on the train?" He toes off his shoes, then walks over to the sleep area to set my bag down.

"Baby, I'm fine," I assure him. I close the distance and rest my hands on his arms. "I'm worried about you."

"I had dinner," he says, and when I give him a flat look in response, he deflates. His forehead drops to my shoulder as he lets out a shuddering exhale.

I run my hands soothingly along his arms. "You don't have to pretend everything's fine, Jamie. Not with me, okay? You can let whatever it is out. I've got you."

He lifts his head and steps out of my arms. "The problem is that I don't know what it is. I don't know what's wrong," he snaps.

I take a deep breath and let it out. "Let's sit, okay?"

Calmly, I walk over to the couch, but instead of following me, he starts to pace.

"God, I don't know why I'm so nervous about this. I love debates. I was president of the debate club in high school. Last election, I killed at the debate. I'm fucking good at them. But I feel like I'm going to break down at any moment, and I don't know why." He stops mid pace and shoves his hands into his hair as he stares at the floor.

"Baby," I say, gently trying to get his attention.

He lets out a shuddered exhale and shakes his head.

"Jamie," I say, trying again, this time more firmly.

He lifts his head and turns to me, and my heart clenches seeing the panic on his face.

"Come here." I hold out my hand to him, but don't move from my seat on his couch.

Wordlessly, he lets his arms fall to his sides, then rounds the coffee table to stand in front of me. His hand slips into mine, and I use it to pull him to sit in my lap. He lets out a breath as he sinks into me, his arms coming to loop around my neck. I stroke his sides for a few moments until I feel more tension leave his body.

"Sorry," he mumbles into the space between us.

"Why are you apologizing?"

"I thought I was getting better. I thought I'd gotten past this—at least enough that my stress levels felt like they were back at what they were my first year in office," he says, a familiar frustration in his voice.

I remember being equally frustrated in college when I first got diagnosed with my anxiety disorder.

"It takes time to recover from stress like the kind you've been under, especially when you're still actively in the environment that's causing it," I tell him.

"But it hasn't been this bad since the primaries. I feel like I'm trapped in my head, and there's all of these voices in there shouting at me—telling me I'm going to lose, that Mitchell is right about me being the worse candidate, that I should just withdraw from the race because clearly I'm not cut out for this, that maybe I don't love politics as much as I thought." His voice cracks, and I hold him a little closer as he continues. "And I know that none of those things are true. As much as it sucks sometimes, I love politics. I know I do. And I know I'm good at it. But right now I can't get any of those stupid voices to fucking shut up, and I don't know what to do."

I stay silent for a moment, allowing it all to sink in. "Do you want me to listen and validate right now, or do you want me to help problem solve?"

"Both? In that order?"

I nod. "I understand all of that—like, on a very fundamental level, I know how you're feeling, and it sucks."

He sighs, allowing himself to relax deeper into my lap. "You thought about quitting being a vet and moving to Hawaii to run a surfing school?"

"I almost quit vet school twice," I admit. "Although, instead of a surfing school in Hawaii, it was a bookstore in Ireland."

"Why Ireland?" he asks.

"Honestly, the accents," I say, earning a small chuckle.

"So, how did you get past it?"

"You're not going to like it, but…"

"Time?" he guesses, deadpan.

I nod. "Time. I also went to therapy, which helped me figure out where the feelings were coming from and what triggered them."

He sighs. "Unfortunately, I don't really have time since the debate is tomorrow, and I don't have a therapist to help me figure out what my triggers are."

"I have a theory, if you want to hear it," I offer.

"Yes please," he says, his voice small.

"I think it's facing Mitchell head on." I pause for a beat to let it set in. "You said you haven't felt this level of anxiety since the primaries, which was when it was solidified that you'd be facing him on the ballot. And now, you're literally coming face to face with him for a debate."

His brow furrows as he processes for a minute. "Well, the timing makes sense for that to be it, and I also get more agitated, even when he's just mentioned. But why? Why is facing him such a trigger for me? Is it just because he's my opponent? I wasn't like this in the last election."

"You also weren't outed and facing an opponent who likes to bring it up with subtle digs every chance he gets." I lift a hand to card my fingers through his hair. "I know it probably isn't what you want to hear, and it's also easier said than done, but you have to try to be gentle with yourself. Coping with anxiety only gets harder when you beat yourself up over experiencing it. Same with recovering from burnout—especially as far into the stages of burnout as you are. The more guilt you feel over experiencing these feelings, the more they're going to spiral out of control and the longer it's going to take to heal."

"You're right. That's not what I want to hear," he says, and the resignation in his voice is the only thing keeping me from immediately apologizing for overstepping.

"I needed to hear it, though." His fingers drift up into my hair, and he drops his forehead to rest against mine. "Thank you."

"You're welcome."

He lets out a slow breath, then nuzzles our noses together. "I'm so grateful you're here. I know it's only been a week, but I missed you like crazy."

My breath catches. "I missed you too," I say, barely above a whisper.

Tugging gently on my hair, he angles my head back to press a barely there kiss on my lips.

"I know there isn't much I can do to help with the source of your stress, but maybe I can try to help get you out of your head, at least," I suggest.

"And how would you want to do that?" he asks.

"What would help right now?" I ask.

"Honestly?" He sighs. "I just want to turn my brain off. I want a few hours where I don't want to have to think, or make choices, or be a leader… so if you have any ideas of how to make that happen—because I sure fucking don't—then please tell me what to do."

I think for a moment, sifting through the things I usually do when I'm feeling the same way. But snuggling a cat isn't an option right now, and something tells me that reading or watching television isn't enough to pull him out of this mindset he's in. Then my brain snags on the last thing he said—to tell him what to do.

I've never fully experimented with any sort of power dynamic before. I've never been with someone I trusted enough to try. But in the past few months, I've definitely picked up on some of Jamie's tells—his response to praise, his earnest desire to please, the way his body reacts anytime I push him against something to kiss him. Perhaps playing with that element of control might be enough to get him to relax.

"I may have one idea," I say, biting the inside of my cheek.

He stares at me for a moment. "Are you suggesting what I think you're suggesting?"

"If you're up for it."

His eyes go a little dark, but there's also apprehension behind it.

"Let me take care of you," I say, combing my fingers through his hair again. "Let me be the one to think for a little while."

His breath catches as he leans into my touch. "Okay, just so we're on the same page, are you saying you want to, like, dom me?"

I nearly choke. God, even anxious, he still doesn't bother beating around the bush. "No, nothing like that," I say, my voice tight. I clear my throat. "I just want to give you a space where you don't feel like you have to make decisions or be in charge, but… soft."

His body relaxes against mine and his eyes fall shut as he nods.

"I need words, baby."

"Yes," he says before I even finish. His eyes snap open to lock on mine. "I want that—I really want that. I've kind of been thinking about it since that night in the shower."

"Which night?" I ask. "We shower together at least once a week."

"When you fucked my thighs. You sort of gently bossed me around, and I think—well, I liked it," he says.

"Thank you for telling me that," I say, keeping my voice steady, calm. "If we're going to do this, though, I'll need you to talk to me, okay? I don't want to accidentally misinterpret your body language and make you uncomfortable as a result."

"I can do that."

"And if you want to stop, or pause—"

"I'll say so," he promises.

"Thank you." I smile, then tighten my grip in his hair—not hard enough to hurt him, but enough to surprise him. "But don't interrupt me."

His breath hitches. "Sorry."

"This is alright so far?" I ask.

He nods, then seems to remember and says, "Sorry, yes."

"Good." I lean forward to kiss him. "But you don't need to apologize. We're just exploring."

"Okay," he whispers.

I kiss him again, quickly, and can't help smiling when he chases my lips once I pull away. "Patience."

He exhales sharply.

"Now, I want you to stand and strip for me. Can you do that?"

"Yeah." Untangling himself from my lap, he stands, staying within arms reach. He takes his time undressing, carefully undoing the buttons of his shirt, peeling the T-shirt underneath over his head, then slipping out of his jeans. He kicks them off to the side, then looks at me patiently, awaiting my next instruction.

"Underwear too," I tell him.

Once they're gone, I let my eyes rake over his body. It feels a little weird to be so blatantly admiring him while still fully clothed, but based on the flush that spreads up his chest and neck, he doesn't mind it. And it makes me feel a little bolder. I'm tempted to pull him back into my lap, the idea of the power I'd have with him being naked in my lap while I'm fully clothed is incredibly appealing. But he said he liked it when I bossed him around, so perhaps I should give him something to do.

"Kneel." I keep my voice gentle, but firm, as I spread my legs to give him room.

Without missing a beat, he falls to his knees in front of me. His hands go to my thighs, sliding up toward my torso like he can't help himself. His pupils are wide, the warm brown color barely visible as he looks at me.

"God, look at you, so good for me," I murmur, cupping his cheek. "So pretty on your knees for me."

He whimpers, turning his face into my hand a little.

"Do you like being good for me, Jamie?"

He kisses my palm. "Yes."

"Yes…?" I prompt, wanting to see if he'll say it himself.

"Yes, I like being good for you. Let me be good." His voice has a desperate edge as he slides his hands further up my thighs, as though wanting to go for the fly of my jeans.

My breath leaves in a rush. Fuck me, he's going to kill me one of these days.

"Hands in your lap," I instruct, and he gives me a confused, almost wounded look that immediately has me softening. "I want you to only use your mouth."

He relaxes again and gives my thighs a quick squeeze before clasping his hands in front of him. I quickly undo my jeans and shimmy them down my hips just enough to give him access, then cradle his head with both hands to guide him forward. His tongue darts out to wet his lips as he stares at my cock, then his eyes lift to mine.

"Still good?" I ask.

He nods. "Great, darlin'."

"Then be a good boy and show me what that mouth can do."

Without hesitation, he takes me in his mouth, swallowing down as much of me as he can in one go. His tongue swirls around me, and I barely stop myself from immediately bucking up into the wet heat. He's gotten exponentially better at this over the past few months. Actually, that's selling him short. It was always good—even the night of our one night stand. So good that I still struggle to believe that it was the first time he'd given a blow job. Now, he's amazing, knows exactly how to make me fall apart within minutes. He's still new at it, though, and I don't want to make him choke.

He surprises me, though, moaning around my cock at the strained thrust of my hips.

"Do you like that?" I ask, a little hesitant.

He moans again, this time hollowing his cheeks.

"Do you want me to fuck your mouth?"

He nods, then seems to remember my verbal response rule and pulls off.

I can't help tensing at the sudden loss of heat.

"Yes," he says.

"Rest your hand on my calf."

He gives me a quizzical look, which makes sense since I told him I didn't want him using his hands. Since his mouth will be otherwise occupied, we'll need a way for him to communicate if he needs a break. Despite the question in his eyes, he complies, wrapping a hand around my leg.

"If you need me to stop, squeeze twice, understand?"

He squeezes twice in quick succession. "Like that?"

I nod. "Just like that. Are you ready?"

He smiles softly, squeezing my calf once, which I take to mean yes.

I waste no time guiding him back onto my dick. I keep my thrusts shallow at first, testing the waters so I don't hurt him or cross any of his boundaries. But after a few seconds, I feel him give my calf a single slow squeeze, as if to encourage me to keep going. I speed the snap of my hips, earning a low moan. I watch his eyes flutter shut as I keep moving my hips, fucking up into his mouth as I chase my rapidly building orgasm.

He continues to moan around me, and the vibrations push me closer and closer to the edge. Through my lust haze, I see his shoulder start to move—like he's jerking himself off to me fucking his face—and it makes me snap. I come with a curse, bucking my hips one last time as I spill into his mouth. He takes over and works me through it, swallowing the best he can.

Once I've gotten hold of my senses enough, I fist his hair and pull him off me. He stares up at me, his face utterly wrecked, his arm still moving.

"I thought I told you no hands." Technically, I said I only wanted him to use his mouth, which implied that was only for me. But I'm interested in seeing what he does—if he talks back or simply stops.

He does the latter, pulling his hand away from his own cock to wrap around my other calf. "Sorry."

I can't help warming at that. "No need for apologies. It's hot that you were so turned on you couldn't help yourself." Tenderly, I stroke my thumb along his cheek. "Go get on the bed. I'm going to take care of you."

"How do you want me?" he asks.

"On your back," I reply.

He nods and slowly climbs to his feet, wincing slightly as he straightens his knees. He wobbles a little, and I practically jump to my feet to steady him.

"You're not hurt, are you?" I ask.

"No, I'm alright. Just stiff."

I spend a moment checking his face for signs of discomfort, then nod. "Okay, on the bed."

I tuck myself back into my jeans as he lies down. I didn't expect to, but I'm kind of enjoying the slight bit of power I'm getting from him being naked while I'm clothed. I spend so much of my life feeling out of control. It's nice to take it, especially when it's being given so freely. I pull off my sweater, though, leaving me in just a T-shirt and jeans.

When I turn to face the bed, I'm struck by how relaxed into the mattress he is. It's a far cry from the pure tension that radiated off of him a few hours ago.

"Adrian?" He lifts his head, looking at me through slightly droopy eyes.

"I'm here," I say, crawling over him. I straddle his hips and kiss him deeply, tasting myself on his tongue.

"You're still dressed," he observes once I pull back.

"I like having you at my mercy," I tease.

A soft whine escapes his lips, and I capture it with a quick kiss.

"Now, I want you to be good and just lie here, okay? I'm going to take care of you, but I want you to trust me."

"I do," he replies instantly.

I smile, then dip my head to nip at his neck. I take him apart slowly, mapping his body with my lips until he's writhing beneath me. If I had a shorter refractory period, I'd probably be hard as a rock again, by now—especially hearing the small whimpers coming from his throat with every brush of my lips on his inner thighs. But I'm honestly content just giving him pleasure. The orgasm earlier was amazing, but my needs aren't what this is all about.

It's about his, which is why, after one last bite at his hip bone, I wrap my hand around the base of his cock and suck him down in one smooth stroke.

"Fuck," he breathes, his hands flying to my head. His fingers fist my hair, a little hard, but I actually don't mind the dull ache.

I can tell he's close to coming, so I pull out all the tricks I know drive him crazy. His breath leaves him in gasps with every swallow and flick of my tongue. Then, when I can feel him about to snap, I hollow my cheeks, sucking hard, and earn a low whine.

"Darlin', I'm…" he keens, his back arching off the bed.

I lift my head for a second, just long enough to say, "Come, Jamie." I barely have enough time to swallow him back down before feeling the first burst of salt on my tongue.

He shatters with a broken cry, and I work him through it, swallowing around him as he rides out the waves. When his body finally relaxes back into the mattress, I pull off him with a quiet pop. I look up, expecting to find him looking right back at me, but his head is tipped back to look at the ceiling. His hands go slack in my hair, but stay cradling my head like it's grounding him. Smiling to myself, I kiss my way back up his body until I reach his face.

It takes him several minutes to come down from his peak. His limbs are even more malleable post-orgasm, so he moves willingly when I pull him into my arms. I hold him close, pressing my lips to his hair, his forehead, his temple.

Eventually, he starts to stir. He stretches a little—the best he probably can without changing positions—then nuzzles into the crook of my neck.

"Hi," I say, dropping another kiss to his forehead. "How are you feeling?"

He hums happily and reciprocates with a kiss to my collarbone. "I think you broke me a little."

"In a good or a bad way?"

"Good way. I've never come like that in my life. I'm all… floaty," he says after a beat.

"That would be the serotonin," I explain. "So, does your head feel clearer?"

"It does. I don't know how long it will last, but it's nice to feel a reprieve from the circus inside my head."

"Don't worry about later," I tell him. "Just focus on this moment—how you feel right now."

He nods against my shoulder. "Right now, I feel tired," he says, then after a beat, "and thirsty."

"I'll get us some water, then we can sleep." I carefully extract my arm from underneath him. "Do you want pajamas?"

"Can we sleep in just our underwear?" he asks. "I want to feel your skin against mine—see if it keeps me feeling all light like this."

"Sure, I'll get you a clean pair."

"Thank you." He catches my arm before I can climb out of bed. "And thank you for this—for being here. I don't know what I would do without you."

The statement makes my breath catch. Realistically, I know it's probably just the oxytocin in his system making him say it. But even still, I find myself feeling the same way, and it's more than a little terrifying.