10. Gibson

10

GIBSON

I ’ve never experienced anything like this. There’s a knot in my stomach that won’t loosen, no matter how deep I shove my tongue in his mouth. No matter how well I map his lips, or grow accustomed to his soft sighs, whimpers, and low moans.

It’s wrong. I pay him. I promised his father I’d look out for him. I’m not gay. But I haven’t kissed anyone like this in two decades.

His mouth is whiskey-soaked crack. His tongue is heavy and hot. His lips are plusher than they look, soft and pliant. I’m terrified to touch him, afraid I’ll grip him too hard, force too much. I worry his head in my hands, rubbing the silky strands of his hair between anxious fingers as I plunge my tongue repeatedly into his open, inviting mouth.

But fuck, I’m hard. My cock strains against my fly, and I’m afraid to touch that, too. Kissing is something I can downplay in the morning. Coming isn’t.

But if I don’t stop kissing him soon, I might not be able to deny myself some relief .

He’s just so… fuck … different . It’s turning me into someone I don’t recognize.

“Should I stop?” I whisper into his mouth.

“No. Please. Do whatever you want to me.”

What I want is to get him on his back, sew my mouth to his, and rut on his cock until I come in my pants, which is nothing like anything I’ve wanted before. Not even close.

If I wanted to kiss a man, I’ve had my pick of hundreds over the years—high priced escorts and closeted CEOs alike. Broadway producers and movie stars who made no secret of wanting to show me a new way to express my sexuality. Kissing isn’t really my style either. Long story short, I don’t know what’s come over me, or why it won’t let me go.

I kiss him so hard for so long, I forget to breathe. Pulling away, I gasp, my hand on his chest so he doesn’t pull me in again.

“We’re drunk,” I say, the first stirrings of guilt confusing my body.

“I’m sorry.”

“No—it was me. You should go to bed.”

He studies my face. “You sure?”

I hesitate because no , I’m anything but sure. Fuck me, I want more. “I’m not sure what that was.” I take my hands off him and rub my sweat-slicked palms down my thighs. I’m burning up. The lights in here are too bright—both lamps, the kitchen—I’m an exposed, perverted opportunist. A sexual harasser with no clue what I’m doing.

“I apologize,” I tell him.

He sits forward and puts a hand on one of mine, sending a thunderous surge of sensation up my arm. “It was just a kiss. And it was good. But I’ll grab some food and head to my room. Don’t sweat this, okay?”

“Really?” He’s giving me a pass for that ?

“It’s been a long, weird day. Our wires got crossed. It’s fine. I still feel good about being here. Are you okay? ”

His words go a long way to assuaging my guilt. “Yeah. I’m good.”

“We’ll reset in the morning,” he says.

I nod, liking the sound of that, too.

We stand together, and he glances up at me, his eyes narrowed. “I had a nice day. Thank you.”

That eyeliner . God, he’s sexy. “You’re welcome.”

With that, he walks to the kitchen, scrounges up something, and disappears into his room. The door clicks shut behind him. I sink back down on the couch, my legs jelly, and my dick still throbbing.

Running a hand down my face and back up through my hair, I sigh heavily, still tasting him on my tongue and craving the adrenaline rush that left my body wired and exhausted.

That can’t happen again.

I pull my phone out of my pocket. It’s buzzed a few times in the last hour, and I need the distraction. Running the heel of my hand down my still firm dick, I unlock the screen. Marianne has left messages.

Perfect.

One of them contains a photograph—a close-up shot of a young man around Christian’s age in what appears to be a zoomed in shot from across a city street. He’s handsome with dark hair, perfectly tailored scruff, and sad brown eyes. I’ve never seen him before, and I can’t put together why she’d send me a photograph of a stranger. Scrolling down to the message she left, I get it, and I don’t like it.

Marianne

His name is Silas Manning. He’s been living with Graham for almost two years in the apartment Avery found out about. He’s a doorman in Graham and Avery’s building. Can you fucking believe it? I don’t know how I’m going to break this to her .

Then don’t is what I want to tell her, but Marianne thrives on other people’s drama and won’t hesitate to stir the pot.

At least I’m not the only person on the Upper East Side who can’t resist a beautiful doorman. Obviously Christian is more than that to me, but it seems this one is far more to the senator. I admit, I’m shocked. Like Marianne, I was expecting an affair with a woman. Some young, gold-digging home-wrecker.

Scrolling back to the photograph, I study the man’s face for any signs that he’s got bad intentions, but he looks miserable. Certainly not smug or confident or even sneaky. What the fuck does Marianne have planned for him? I hope nothing—that her sights are set on Lawther alone. But messing with a U.S. senator is dangerous business. The thought of it backfiring on me has me cold and anxious.

Marianne must have noticed I saw her text because another pops up.

Marianne

Too bad for him it’s an election year.

My already nervous stomach does a somersault.

Let’s discuss when I get home. I can’t have you going rogue on a government official.

You don’t trust me? ;)

If you want my help, it’s best we get on the same page.

Sigh. Agreed. How’s Rome?

I think of Christian’s swollen lips. The tears he shed on the terrace. His breath on my neck in the stairwell.

Always beautiful this time of year.

I hope you’ll try to have some fun while you’re there.

She says this because she wants me to fuck someone. Or dominate someone. “Fun” in Marianne’s mind is knowing I’m getting laid so she doesn’t have to feel any guilt about how often she has sex.

It’s a business trip, but I’ll see what I can do.

How’s Christian liking it?

Of course she’d ask that. My gut clenches, bile rising. I drank too much. Kissed way too much.

Fine. He’s doing great so far.

You think he’ll take the job?

I’m not sure it’s up his alley.

Then sweeten the pot, love. You need him. I know I’ve made your assistant experience miserable, but I have a good feeling about him for you.

I almost respond that I’ll be lucky if he’s here when I wake up, but I send a thumbs-up emoji instead, effectively ending the conversation. I should eat, but I don’t think I could hold anything down.

In my room, I strip off my suit and drop the shedded garments on the floor. Entering the en suite naked, I turn on the shower and wait for the water to heat. I brush my teeth with some regrets, spitting the taste of Christian down the drain and doing my best to clear what I just did with him from my mind .

My dick has softened, but not enough to ignore in the shower once the water hits my back.

Normally, when I jerk off, it’s to thoughts of Marianne. Fantasies of her wanting me again. Coming to me needy in the night and kneeling to take me into her mouth. Savoring the length of my cock like a long lost lover would. I picture her pretty lips suckling at the tip, drinking from me like a cum-filled straw.

But it’s not working tonight.

The images fail to materialize. What I’m left with instead is Christian’s whimpers. His fists against my chest. The wet heat of his mouth. I picture myself pinning his hands above his head with one hand and holding his mouth open with the other while I lick his tongue greedily and grind my cock against his. I imagine his legs wrapped around my back, and his hips thrusting into mine, needy and seeking my dick. I picture him begging for it. Please I need your cock.

I picture him red-faced and panting. Angry and struggling. I’d overpower him and pin his ass to the bed with my hips, leaving him unable to move while I got myself off on his mouth and his rigid friction.

I’d come on his lips.

“ Fuck …” I grunt, cum spraying the tile in thick streaks. I keep stroking and cursing, emptying myself of every hard-earned drop as aftershocks wrack my body, sending the burn of pleasure up my spine and down my thighs, leaving me limp and breathless.

Christian’s still here.

Dressed in slim-fitting jeans with a dark wash and an equally fitted black, long-sleeved, button-down shirt, he looks great. He glances up from stirring his coffee as I enter the living room. His eyes are red-rimmed and weary. His lips are purple with bruises.

Jesus.

“Boun giorno,” he says.

“Buon giorno. Were you able to sleep?”

“Like a rock,” he says. “You?”

“Just fine,” I say. I slept like shit. “Is there more of that?”

He nods over his shoulder and drops his gaze again. I move behind him in the kitchen, preparing my own mug on the opposite countertop. Are we supposed to do a debrief? Or is it better to pretend it didn’t happen? Or do we move along knowing it happened, but it meant nothing?

I’m not accustomed to explaining myself.

“I have my route all mapped out if you want to skip St. Peter’s,” he says.

“I appreciate the out you’re offering, but I have a few sins to confess.”

I hear his soft huff of a laugh, and it makes me grin. “This evening we’re having dinner with three of my Italian partners. We’ll head to The Dungeon afterwards.”

“Oh.”

“You don’t have to stay for that part,” I add, offering him an out the same as he did for me.

“We’ll see how the day goes,” he says easily. “Nutella croissant?”

“Please. Shall we take it on the terrace?”

“Sure.”

We turn at the same time. He has a plate in one hand, his coffee in the other. I have a hand free, and I brush my thumb across his lower lip before I can stop myself. His pupils dilate.

“I apologize,” I say. “Again.”

“Don’t,” he says. “I bruise easy.”

Do not fucking get hard , I tell my dick as it throbs with a threat. “I was too aggressive. ”

“Did it seem like I minded?”

“You were drunk.”

“So were you.”

“Fine,” I drop my hand and walk past him to get the terrace door. “I take it back. I’m not sorry.”

“Good.”

The sun is bright on the patio, and I open the umbrella over the table. The piazza below is already bustling with people and pigeons.

“These were on the counter this morning. Did you put them out?”

“No. The staff does.”

“They sneak in, drop off food, and leave?”

“They also empty the trash.”

“Wow. Did you always know you were gonna be this rich?”

“It’s safe to say I’ve exceeded my goals.”

“Where else do you have homes?” he asks as he spreads a healthy portion of Nutella onto a flaky croissant.

I make myself swallow, but my mouth is suddenly dry because I just pictured myself licking Nutella off his tongue, and that doesn’t seem right.

“Um. LA. London. The Hamptons?—”

“Obviously.”

“Palm Beach,” I go on. “And there’s the yacht. Marianne has a place in Quebec.”

“That’s it?” he asks, his tone teasing.

“For now.”

“Where do you keep the yacht?”

“The Hamptons.”

“Do you have a favorite?”

“I like the house in Palm Beach,” I tell him.

“Do you play golf?”

I laugh. “Never. It seems pointless.”

“Why Palm Beach then? ”

“Have you never been there, either?”

“Why would I go to Palm Beach?” he asks.

Why indeed? “It’s beautiful.”

“I’ll take your word for it,” he says before taking a bite of his breakfast.

I sip my coffee, trying not to picture him lying out by the pool at the Palm Beach house, the sun lightening his hair and soaking into his skin. I try not to picture cornering him in that same pool and sliding my hands down his slim sides before forcing myself on him.

Where the fuck is this coming from? Is my sex life really that unsatisfying that I need to incorporate an entirely new gender into the equation?

Apparently.

I wonder if St. Peter’s has a priest available to take my confession.