12. Gibson

12

GIBSON

I knew something was wrong at St. Peter’s. I’m not a moron. I read people for a living. What I never expected was the call from The Dungeon guard saying Christian was making use of one of the Dommes. Again, I don’t pay these people, but the community is welcoming to newcomers. They love new meat, and the club operates twenty-four-seven.

I debate leaving it alone. Giving him his privacy. Letting him explore—whatever the fuck he feels the need to explore.

But I’m not the type. Too controlling for my own good.

I dress casually in black before making my way down to check on my wayward assistant. “Do you know what he’s doing?” I ask Luca, the guard at the door.

“I suggested the table.”

Seems harmless enough. “He has a safe word?”

“Sacrifice.”

The word makes my skin prick. I’m not sure I like the sound of this.

We all have our reasons for whatever kink we embrace, some more concrete, and others vague, but submission and sacrifice make strange bedfellows. Yes, I’m concerned about him. Not that he’ll be hurt, but that being dominated by someone who doesn’t speak his language may do more harm than good.

There are only three couples in the dungeon—it’s just past noon on Thursday. One couple is making use of a swing and a dildo. Another is a same sex couple—two women—one strapped to the more complicated punishment bench, restrained, gagged, and plugged while her Domme slaps her ass lightly with a riding crop.

And then there’s my Christian—face down on the milking table, his wrists and ankles tied down, his cock limp and dangling through the hole.

His Domme has a small paddle, and she’s tapping him with it, up his spread inner thighs, his round buttocks, and back down. She’s taking it slow, and he seems okay. Jumpy, maybe, but safe.

I allow myself a shallow breath and take a seat at my table. The bartender stops by, and I ask for a bottle of wine.

I’d love to say I’m not staring, but Christian’s prone, restrained body has my rapt attention. I can’t believe he’s naked. Like he’s at a fucking spa for a massage.

Hadn’t he said he liked privacy? What the fuck happened to him at St. Peter’s? I wish he trusted me enough to tell me, but I suppose I blew that by assaulting him with my mouth for nearly an hour last night.

My wine arrives, and I take a sip when I see the first tremor move through his lithe body. It doesn’t stop with one. Soon, he’s shivering as the Domme speeds up her strikes, the noise of the slightly stronger blows carrying to me as I remain slumped low in my booth like a creep. I sneak a glance at his cock, which is still limp.

If I were there, I’d use a softer touch on his inner thighs for a few moments to confuse his nerve endings, make them misfire before the next, stronger impact.

But maybe he doesn’t want to get aroused. Maybe he only wants to feel the helplessness—to give up for a moment and accept whatever she has to offer.

It’s killing me not to know why he’s here. What drove this. What he needs.

It takes so much willpower not to stand up and take the Domme’s place, I shiver with restraint.

The woman taps her own hip with the paddle as she walks in a circle around the table. He twitches from the sound each time it doesn’t touch him. And then she sinks beneath the table, licks her palm, and takes his dick in her grasp.

He jerks, his arms and legs pulling at the restraints, an unholy moan punching out of him. “ Sacrifice ,” he calls out.

I startle, nearly choking on my wine.

The Domme looks equally stunned, letting go of him immediately. She scrambles to her feet, and undoes the buckles, starting with the strap holding down his neck, then his ankles, and finally his hands.

Once he has his palms beneath him, he shoves up his chest and looks around. The woman hands him his pants first. He sits up, his back to me, and slides off the table giving me a view of his entire backside. I probably should have gone the rest of my life not seeing that.

His body is immaculate. I love how slim he is. How broad and angular his shoulders are. The perfectly round globes of flesh that form his ass are pink from the paddle. He pulls up his jeans, hiding it all away and then shrugs into his shirt, head bent as he does up the buttons.

I lick my lips, tasting the tart wine on them. I should go. I would go.

Except—I need to talk to him about this, regardless of how uncomfortable it makes either of us.

He thanks the Domme, and she gives him a polite nod before turning away and heading into one of the backrooms where some of the less cute stuff happens and bodily fluids are more often exchanged rather than spilled.

Christian turns, and his eyes land on mine. He stills, but his face is unreadable. Impassive. As he approaches my booth, he rubs his wrists before running a hand over the back of his neck. His hair is a perfect mess, the strands partially covering his eyes. Between that and his lips, he looks well used, but I know better. He’s barely been touched.

“Do you mind?” he asks, reaching for the bottle of wine as he takes a seat.

I don’t get a chance to respond before he has the rim to his lips and is chugging a few swallows back. He sets the bottle down, wipes his mouth with the side of his hand, and takes a deep breath.

“First time?” I ask.

“You tried something new. I figured I could too,” he says, his voice flat.

“It’s a risk to be dominated by someone who doesn’t speak the same language.”

“I thought it might help clear my head. I wasn’t too concerned about my safety.”

“And yet, you safe’d out.”

“Wasn’t in the mood for a hand job.”

“Ah.”

“Do you want to talk about it?” I ask.

He shakes his head, stoic, not looking at me.

“Something triggered you at St. Peter’s,” I say.

“Yeah. Brought up a lot of bad memories.”

“You’re hurting,” I surmise.

“Yes.” He has another drink from the bottle.

“I’m here if you need anything.”

For that, I get a glance. Brief though it may be, it makes me feel slightly better for watching what he likely wanted to keep to himself .

“Thank you,” he mumbles. “I think what I actually need is a shower and a nap.”

I open my mouth to offer to help and shut it immediately without a clue where that came from. I don’t think he needs aftercare, but my urge to offer it is messing with me.

Some subtlety is required.

“I’ll have lunch sent up. We’ll eat, and you can rest.”

“You don’t have to come with me.”

“I only came down because I was told you were here,” I admit. “I won’t bother you. I’m only checking in.”

“Interesting way you have about that.”

“Hm. Well. No comment.”

Christian smirks, grabs the bottle, and slides out of the booth. I leave from the other side and follow him up the stairs.

It’s another breathless slog up the flights, and by the time we’re in my private stairwell, we’re both leaning on the walls to reach the door. “Fuck. My quads,” he says.

His quads. Yeah. Hard not to think about those.

Once the door is open, he walks in, leaves the wine in the kitchen, and disappears into his bedroom.

I scrub at my face with both hands, blood pumping hard through my chest. I’m aroused again. To distract myself from the idea of Christian in the shower, I order food and call Marianne, who’s just waking up.

Her voice sounds deeper, sexier. I pinch my eyes shut. “Good morning.”

“It’s seven a.m.”

“I need to know what you plan to do about the senator.” I must be at the end of my rope if I’m asking to discuss her plans for Lawther.

“Oh, well, in that case. Let me go to another room.”

I sigh heavily at the realization that she’s with someone too precious to wake. Walking into my own bedroom, I sit heavily on the bed, hunching over with my elbows balanced on my thighs .

“First, I want money for Avery. She deserves it for what she’s having to go through. Second—I haven’t quite decided yet. But I think you and I both know how useful a sitting U.S. senator could be.”

“How?”

“I don’t have to tell you politics is a long game, love. You’ve been around long enough to know that. But I do think it’s delicious that he’s in the wrong party, and the right party can use all the help it can get.”

“Are you talking about votes in the actual government?”

“Why not?”

“He’s one person.”

“One person with influence. And that makes us two people with influence. Surely you see that some good can come of this.”

“This is you serving your country?”

“Let me have my fun.”

“Blackmail is fun?”

“Real estate may get your juices flowing, but I like being a little naughty.”

A little?

“I don’t want anyone getting hurt,” I tell her.

“Besides Avery, you mean?” she asks, her voice sounding a warning.

I bite my lips and sigh. “Are you planning anything for the other man?”

“The doorman?” She laughs. “What could I possibly want with him?”

There’s no telling , I think as I remember the doorman in the shower not too far from me.

“I can’t promise Avery won’t want her own revenge. I hope Silas isn’t too attached to New York.”

Jesus. “It’s possible there’s more to the situation than you know. That their relationship isn’t what you think it is,” I say even as my hope of talking sense into her dwindles to nothing .

“Love, you’re adorable. I only sent you one photograph. It’s exactly what I think it is. And I’m holding every card.”

“Well, I hope Avery’s satisfied.”

“She’s devastated. Two years, Gibson. And a man? If this gets out, she’ll never be able to show her face.”

Does she hear the hypocrisy? Is our situation only different because we’re both in on the secret? Because in a weak moment years ago, I agreed to this? An unconsummated marriage with a woman I have yet to stop wanting?

“The doorman is a liability. I’m sure Graham will set him up somewhere comfortable if he actually cares about him?—”

“And if he can’t because you take all his money?”

“Then he should have thought about that before he cheated on his wife.”

Marianne the Avenger. It used to be charming. I used to be able to root for her causes, but she’s only getting more ruthless. Like she needs higher stakes to feel alive. “On that note. I’ll let you get back to bed.”

“Oh…my love. You’re not jealous…”

“Of course not,” I lie. “Enjoy your morning.”

“Let me know how your meeting goes.”

“I will. I love you.”

“I love you, too. Bye now.”

I hang up and toss the phone aside. Standing, I grab my laptop and head into the living room, setting up at the desk near the window. Once I eat, I may take a nap, too, but with all these distractions cropping up, I want to make sure I’m not forgetting something important with work.

Lunch arrives twenty minutes later. Toasted sandwiches with sausage, vegetables and cheese alongside a tray of assorted fruits. I knock on Christian’s door. “Food’s here,” I say without waiting for him to answer. Either he’s asleep already or not.

After I’ve settled back at the desk with my food, he comes out, his hair wet, wearing the black tank and joggers again. Today, the sight makes my mouth water. Something’s different. Is it something in me? Something in him?

He glances at me like he can sense my staring, and I try to act like I’m not checking him out, but I don’t know how successful I am.

“Sorry if I was rude downstairs,” he says, putting a sandwich on a plate.

“You weren’t. I should have given you your privacy.”

“I wouldn’t have gone down there if I wanted privacy, right?”

I don’t answer, because I’d be prying, wanting to know what he went down there seeking—whether he found it or not.

Or whether he needs more.