16. Kurt

What do you call it when you have sex with your dream man? Hashtag goals sex? Finally-OMG-I-manifested-him sex? I-pined-for-him-through-my-screen-and-now-he-sucked-my-cock sex? I don't know. I'm not a wordsmith like my speechwriter. There should be a name for it, though. Having Johnny's mouth and hands on my cock was a fantasy come true. I can't wait until we can do it again. It's more than the physical, though. He's the whole package—kind and caring and sexy—and I genuinely want to get to know him better.

As we get up, shower, and dress, we're more affectionate than we were last night. Our hips jostle while we brush our teeth and shave.

Johnny's hand rests on my waist as I make coffee, and he kisses the nape of my neck. I groan into his touch. "You keep that up, and we won't go anywhere today."

"I'd be all right with that," he says. I turn to look at him with an eyebrow raised, and his face falls. "Yeah, okay. I know."

My amazing housekeeper, Galen, stocks plenty of breakfast food, so we have a hearty meal. When we're done, Johnny helps me with the dishes, looking right at home in stocking feet with a towel draped over his shoulder. It's like having the partner I've always wanted.

But it doesn't mean anything. I need to remind myself of that. He's here because I refused to accept any other outcome. Him being in my house doesn't make us anything beyond slightly more than strangers in a fucked-up situation.

That doesn't stop me from checking out his ass in the new, tight, dark Wranglers I bought him. A few times, Johnny looks at me and seems to want to say something, but then he closes his mouth. I assume he's considering either apologies or something he doesn't want to say under our honesty policy. I don't ask. I've been pressing him a lot. I can give him a break.

We have some time before we need to head out for his appointment. "Do you mind if I make a few phone calls?" I ask.

He shakes his head, gesturing to the balcony. "I'll check out the view and give you some privacy." I like that idea, because there's nothing for him to hurt himself with out there. I suppose he could jump, but he seems calm.

Watching over someone else's mental state is so hard. Can I trust him with anything at all? I feel like I can, but I know I need to be careful. I compromise by staying in the living room. That means I can study his stance as he braces himself against the balcony railing, arms straight and ass out.

Damn.

Reminding myself that I'm not allowed to spend all day ogling Johnny, I turn to my phone. First up, my momther.

"Kurt! Why didn't you call last night?"

"Sorry. I've been busy."

"I'll say." She lets out an annoyed laugh. "Your father and I have been wondering what you were thinking. Marrying a … a … a total stranger?"

A stranger? When he's gazing at me, Johnny focuses so intently I feel seen for the first time in my life.

And I seem to please that big, sad cowboy.

"I don't really have a good answer for that, but I do like him. A lot."

Her pause tells me that's not the answer she was expecting. "Okay. So … he's not simply a mistake you made while drinking too much?"

Yes. No. "I don't know yet." I cringe as I ask, "Has there been any impact on your approval rating?"

"Too early to tell, but predictions are that I'll drop eight points."

I recoil. "Oh, damn," I mutter.

"It could be worse." She sounds resigned rather than angry. "I'm more worried about you and your life … and the primary."

My stomach dips. With all my concerns about Johnny's mental health, I'd set my own issues off to the side. But now they come roaring back. "I'm fine. What are they saying?" I ask. I'm not sure who I mean by "they." People who talk shit, I guess.

"It's … not positive, honey. While you have some defenders, the majority of social media posts I've seen are about how your behavior doesn't show strong family values."

"For god's sake," I mutter.

"I'm sorry for passing along bad news. Your father and I love you no matter what, of course. You just need to find a way to convey your goodness to the voters."

The stress of the past few days is crashing down on me. My failure at obtaining funding. My decision to drink my cares away. My drunken marriage. My suicidal husband.

I want to scream. "I don't know how to do that."

"Talk with Paige. She'll have ideas. That's what you hired her for."

"I know." My voice lowers. "While it's unconventional, I really like him, Mom."

Another pause. "Then let me know what I can do to support you. And him."

I blink back unexpected tears. While part of me thinks she's being pragmatic—because a united front's always stronger than a splintered one—this is also her being more of a mom than a politician. I like it when she skews that direction. "Thanks, I appreciate that." I have to clear my throat before I can continue. "Can we talk more later? I need to take Johnny to an appointment soon."

"Of course. Oh, Kurt? Does he want to meet Dad and me?"

"At some point, we should do that, yes," I say. "But we have a few things to do around here first. When are you next coming down south?"

"I'll check my schedule and talk with Dad. Likely not for a few weeks."

Am I even going to be with Johnny in a few weeks? My gut tightens. I want to be. Does he?

He'll still be alive then, right? Fuck. He damn well better be.

"We'll see you then," I say, sounding more confident than I feel. We hang up, and I immediately call my campaign manager.

"You motherfucking bastard," she starts.

I cough a laugh. "Hi, Paige. I'm fine. How are you?"

"I am not fine. Do you know how many angry messages I've had to field via every medium possible—email, phone, direct messages on all possible social media platforms. Carrier pigeons. Town criers. I swear, Kurt, I thought you were boring, and then you go and do this."

"Not boring anymore?"

"No. It's going to take a lot of work from both of us to save your campaign. While politicians have come back from a lot worse things than an unexpected wedding, this is an unexpected wedding to a porn star." She quickly corrects herself: "Sorry, adult film star. You know I have nothing against people in unconventional professions. But a lot of voters aren't as enlightened." Her sigh's so loud I think it moves walls. "Just … we need to come up with a way to turn the narrative back into something that we want."

"I'll meet with you soon," I say. It's important, but Johnny's all that matters right now. "Tomorrow or the next day. Will that work?"

"I guess," she whines, and despite everything, that makes me smile. She's got my best interests at heart, even if she's angry at me right now.

We say our goodbyes and hang up. Johnny is still on the balcony, but he's moved to sit on one of the couches. Though he appears to be gazing out over the water, I suspect that he's not seeing the waves or the Pacific Coast Highway but is lost in his thoughts.

I go out and sit beside him, and he wraps an arm around my shoulders. "You okay?" I whisper, leaning into his chest.

"Yeah." His voice is hoarse. "Well, no."

"Sorry, babe. How are you feeling?"

"I … I dunno."

Is the stuff with his mom—his fears for her well-being, his frustration and sense of inadequacy—the only thing that's got him so messed up? Or is there more going on? Not that there needs to be more, but … I feel like there is.

"Want to talk about it?" I ask.

"Not really."

I want to be here for him, and I hope he feels safe talking to me, but ultimately, that's what his therapist is for. "You sure?" I try.

He nods.

"Okay." I give him a smile and snuggle into him. He doesn't pull away or seem like he's uncomfortable. On the contrary, he tightens his arm around me, holding me close. He seems to like to do that as much as I like him doing it.

Maybe he experiences life through his body, needing touch.

I need touch, too. I've been wanting it for a long time.

Moving slowly, to give him time to indicate if he wants me to stop, I shift so that I'm straddling his thighs. His nostrils flare, and he puts his big hands around my neck and pulls me down for a kiss.

I shiver, and it's not from the cool ocean breeze. I love kissing Johnny. I love the scrape of his jaw against mine and how he tastes. How active he is. How single-minded he is when he kisses me. How his tongue delves into my mouth, taking over my body.

"Don't treat me like I'm fragile," he whispers when we pause to breathe. "This is helping."

"Do you think it's just dopamine?"

"Not sure what that is, but maybe. Or maybe I just like you." His strong hands palm my ass and knead my butt cheeks. I start hardening, wanting to grind against him.

"Fuck," I gasp. "You're so beautiful."

He gives me a crooked smile. "That's my line. You're the beautiful one, precious."

Johnny reaches between us to undo my jeans. He glances up at me, hopeful. I'm lusting for him and already raring to go. Fantasy life part two.

I look around, though. We're up on a bluff, but the balcony balustrade is glass—to preserve the view from indoors—and telephoto lenses exist. The last thing I need is sex pictures of Johnny and me hitting the internet. "Can we take this inside?" I ask, hopping off his lap and holding out a hand.

"Sure thing," he says, and follows me into the living room. Before I even turn around, he's dropped to his knees in front of me and is deftly unbuttoning my pants and tearing the zipper down, then bringing out my hard dick. With one rugged hand, he gives it a light stroke. Then he tugs me closer.

"Oh my god," I gasp as Johnny's lips close around my cock. "That feels so fucking … fuck."

He lets out a deep chuckle from his chest, and I gently thrust into his mouth. He nods, and I slide farther down his throat. I try to be careful, not wanting to use him, but it seems he's good with this.

He pulls off me just long enough to say, "Fuck my mouth, darlin'. I want to feel you get off." Then he gets back to work—but not before sucking a finger wet so he can reach between my ass cheeks and go exploring.

This is a dream come true, and he's as good as I suspected he'd be. On top of that, the scenario is surreal. I've imagined him doing this so many times—and watched it on-screen—but feeling his hot, wet suction and tongue makes my knees weak.

His big hands pull me to him as I rut into his mouth. He doesn't seem to have a gag reflex, which is un-fucking-believable, and his finger is nudging my prostate, and I'm about to explode.

"Keep this up, and I'm gonna—" I warn.

He nods quickly, clear permission.

I get to the edge and let myself go over, coming hard with the extra-good feel of that internal massage. I keep thrusting gently even after I finish, needing the come-down, loving how he lets me use his mouth.

I kind of collapse to the floor, then get to my knees, pushing him down on his back, wanting to return the favor. I reach for his fly, but he puts a hand on top of mine, stilling it. "I'm good, darlin'."

I look at him quizzically. "You sure?" Because it feels like he's almost … shunning me.

Johnny coughs. "Yeah. Not quite in the mood. I'm … good. I don't always need to bust a nut."

I want to tempt him, but I can listen to what he's saying and trust that he knows his own needs. I tuck myself back into my pants, and we both sit on the floor. I tug him over and kiss him. "Hey." I smile against his lips. "You made me feel really good just now." I want to thank him, but that seems maybe cringey and clumsy—things I'm good at. I don't know. Maybe I'm overthinking this.

"I'm glad, darlin'."