15. Christian

15

CHRISTIAN

G ibson doesn’t want to talk about what we did on the flight home. He wants to meet with me once we’re back in our real lives with Rome solidly in the rearview mirror. I get it. I’m still raw, and I’m definitely reeling.

We work and sleep on the flight, usually in alternating shifts, which gives me plenty of time to stare at him. He could easily go lie down in the bedroom at the back of the cabin, but whenever he finds himself dozing, he reclines his seat, lifts the footrest, folds his arms over his chest and leans his head to the side as his eyes close.

I study his entire body with critical eyes, trying to find something to dissuade me from this growing attraction, but everything about him from his thick thighs to his flat abs and massive shoulders is God-tier. His face is a special case. It no longer looks like the face I associated with my father. It stands alone now—square-jawed and darkly handsome. His hair is untamed under these casual circumstances and roguishly sexy as it falls across his forehead.

He’s become an object of desire—no longer a benefactor or boss, and yet I am hyper aware of that connection between us. I can’t do anything to undo it, nor do I have any desire to stop working for him.

Whatever he did to me on that bent leather mat worked. It did help me, and I feel somewhat beholden to him for it. For being right about what I needed.

The kiss afterward…I’m not sure what to think about that, other than it being the most erotic experience of my life. I would have probably come if it hadn’t been for the soul draining orgasm I’d had with my dick humping that leather mat while the flogger teased my crease.

If my hole could talk, it would have been screaming at his cock to fill it up.

I’ve never wanted a dick in my ass as much as I wanted his today.

Which is probably why my gaze keeps landing on his crotch. I try to imagine what’s in there. How big it is. How thick. Is it dark? Is it cut? Would it fit? What does it taste like?

I once met a man on a plane

Whose rock solid body’s insane.

I wanted to fuck it I wanted to suck it

And that’s why I need a new brain.

This is my mind on Gibson: reduced to typing out bad, dirty limericks.

I write about half a dozen more before he wakes up again and stretches his arms overhead, his black sweater revealing a healthy slice of tan abs and a peek of his dark-haired trail.

It strikes me that I haven’t thought about my past for several hours, but because I have the thought, I’m at risk of slipping back into it, so I say something to him instead. “Good nap?”

“Not as good as the one earlier. ”

I look down at my laptop screen to hide my grin and possibly a blush judging by the way it feels like all my blood just rushed to my face.

“I figured out your schedule for the week. You should check it out.”

He lifts his eyebrows and runs a hand through his hair. “Yeah? How’d you work out the conflict with the walk-through on Thursday?”

“I moved your conference call to the morning and got the contractor to push the walk-through back an hour.”

“The conference call has nearly twenty people on it.”

I frown at him. “You do know who you are, don’t you?”

He cracks a smile. “What’s that mean?”

“It means, if you want to reschedule something you reschedule it. If people can’t rearrange their days, it’s their loss.”

“They’re investors, Christian,” he argues.

“And you’re a busy man. If they want in, they can fuck up their own days.” I give him a casual shrug. “No one expressed an issue with it.”

“Farley didn’t?”

“Farley was the first to RSVP.”

He reaches onto the seat beside him, picks up his laptop, and finds the pointed email I’d sent to his Wall Street investors. He chuckles softly. “Such firm language.”

“No sense dancing around it. It had to be moved.”

“Most people would have rescheduled with the one contractor, not eighteen investors.”

“A contractor?” I scoff at that. “In this town? Do you know in all the years I’ve worked at Gramercy how many contractors showed up on time—much less on the scheduled date?”

“How many?” he asks with that smirky grin.

“Zero times.”

“You gonna stick around, then?” he asks. “Help me out? ”

“Thought you said you didn’t want to talk.”

“We can talk about the job.”

“It’s kinda related, don’t you think?”

“You’re what?” he asks. “Twenty-nine? Thirty?”

“I just turned thirty.”

“Then you should be more than capable of separating your personal and professional life.”

“You’re assuming I’m a mature thirty,” I say. “Let me assure you, I am not.”

Gibson’s smirk blooms into a full grin. “I think you can manage it. If you need any tips, hit me up. I compartmentalize like a fucking boss.”

Trying not to laugh when he’s sleepy, cocky, and hot as hell is futile. I’m like a school kid with a crush, wanting to flirt, but also knowing it’s not my strong suit—at least not without some alcohol on board.

He checks his watch and the flight path.

“Where are we?” I ask.

“Greenland,” he says. “Almost home.”

The first thing I do when I get back to my basement apartment is shower. Though I’m starving, I’m meeting up with my friends for dinner so they can hear all about my trip.

I’m still trying to process everything that’s happened. Friends don’t really serve a purpose if you can’t be honest with them and get their feedback on any possible mistakes you’re making, and I’ve never been shy about sharing my escapades before, but something about being restrained and flogged in such a humiliating fashion doesn’t sound like the kind of thing I can discuss over dinner.

I met Jericho years ago when I was briefly dating an editorial assistant who worked at the same publisher Jericho does. While a relationship between me and Heather failed to materialize, Jericho hit it off with my former roommate Drew, and since he and I were close, she and I got to be good friends.

While the two of them are no longer a couple, they remain on good terms, which is surprising because he totally cheated on her. Granted, their relationship was going nowhere, and he wasn’t exactly at his peak mental health at the time, but I’m always impressed when two exes are able to make it work. He’ll be at dinner tonight, too.

He might actually be a good person to talk to about Gibson—if I can manage to tear him away from his husband for ten minutes.

Once I’m clean, my bed is screaming for me to climb into it. It’d be two in the morning if I were still in Rome, but I pound back an energy drink, determined to power through and get back on my usual schedule.

I take the subway to SoHo and walk four blocks to the Mediterranean restaurant where everyone is already having drinks and shouting across the table at each other.

Jericho sees me first and springs up to give me a hug. She smells like magnolias, and the cloud of her soft, natural frizz tickles my nose. Pulling away to look at me, she gives me that blindingly white smile that takes up half of her face. With skin the color of dark honey and light hazel eyes, her mixed racial background makes her uniquely beautiful.

As in—this is not the kind of woman you cheat on. But the cheater himself is the next to greet me, and I can’t help but give him a hug, too, because Drew has also never looked better. Or happier. His new husband Olivier gives me his usual tight smile and a reluctant handshake, but I’m greeted warmly by everyone else. Elodie and her girlfriend Mallory—both tenants in the building where Drew once worked as a doorman—and Jericho’s new man, Joe. Come to think of it—Joe was Jericho’s assistant before they started dating. Not that I want to date Gibson—but he might have some insight into whether you can fuck around with your boss and still maintain a healthy professional boundary.

“Where’s Jeremy?” I ask. This group of friends almost always meets up together. They’re tight like that.

“He and Larry were in the Hamptons all weekend. They said they’d stop in later if they were up to it,” Jericho tells me. “Apparently, traffic was a nightmare.”

I squeeze in between her and Drew. The waiter arrives promptly and takes my drink order. Elodie lets me know appetizers are on the way. My mouth is already watering.

“So how was Rome with the boss?” Drew asks. He used to work for Gibson, too.

“Educational,” I say, because I settled on that word on the train ride.

“Where’d you stay?” Joe asks.

His bright green eyes grab me a moment because they’re such a stark contrast with his olive coloring and his longish dark hair. He looks like he fronts a band instead of hustling new clients as a freshly minted literary agent. Although—with looks like that, I imagine if he takes meetings with editors over lunch, he’s not going to have any problems making book sales.

“We stayed at one of Gibson’s hotel properties in the Piazza Navonna.”

“Great location,” Joe says.

“You’ve been?” I ask.

“I was an art history major. I’ve been four times.”

“I could have used you. I kept knowing what I was seeing was important but not having a clue why.”

He laughs, one dimple popping and making him even more ridiculously good-looking. I’m literally the ugliest person at the table tonight .

“Show me the pictures,” Joe says. “Switch places, Jer?”

She sighs like she’s all put out, but they do switch spots, and I pull out my phone. Drew taps my hand with his knuckles. “How was spending all that time with Gibson?”

“As his assistant you mean?” I ask, not sure whether it’s kosher to mention we stayed in the same penthouse. It’s not like we shared a bed, though. Much.

Drew grins. “Or whatever.”

“I don’t think I realized how rich he is.”

“How rich is he?” Olivier leans forward to ask, his dark curls grazing his pale cheeks. He and Drew couldn’t be more different in temperament, looks, upbringing—literally everything, but I’ve never seen a more fiercely attached couple.

“I don’t have a net worth for you,” I say, “But his company is about ten times the size I thought it was. He’s got properties all over the world. I guess I thought he mainly dealt in Manhattan.”

“I assumed that, too. You’re not expected to keep track of all that are you?” Drew asks.

“I gathered that the job would mostly mean keeping track of him. He’s got plenty of presidents and vice-presidents all over the place doing their own things and some dude named Geoff with a G to oversee them.”

“So, what does he do exactly?” Olivier asks.

“Initial client contact. Site visits. He picks the properties and plans the purpose.”

“Listen to you,” Jericho says. “You’re giving executive assistant.”

“Part time,” I add.

She gives me an indulgent smile. I’ve always felt like she likes me more than most people do. She’s like a protective big sister, although we’re the same age. I’m one of those slow to warm up people. If you’re not the type like Joe who likes everyone, and you’re more like Olivier or Elodie, I’ll either grow on you, or I won’t .

“Did you guys hang out at all?” Drew asks, like a dog with a fucking bone.

“Yes. We did,” I tell him, looking him directly in the eyes. “What other questions do you have?”

My friend laughs and gives me a hearty clap on the back. “Plenty, but I’ll wait until you get your drink.”