20. Gibson

20

GIBSON

I ’ve done more difficult things in my life than try to focus on my work while Christian is sitting across from me at my desk wearing a brand new gray suit, but at the moment, I’d be hard pressed to remember any of them. My tailor is an evil genius.

It’s nearly noon, and whatever cologne he’s wearing must be made entirely of pheromones. I’ve been fighting a losing battle with my erection for the better part of the morning, and he looks like he hasn’t even broken a sweat.

Whatever hang-ups I might have had about being with a man disappeared the second he slid his lips around my dick last night. When I stopped by the club before crashing in my private room, I’d studied the male couples and the way they interacted with each other on the amphitheater seats. Lots of hand jobs. Face-sucking kisses. One particularly erotic show of nipple play. But no one was fucking in the open. I would have pulled up some porn, but after giving Pet the night off, I fell asleep before I even had a chance to unlock my phone.

Staring at Christian now, though, I realize I’m not as clueless about pleasing a man as I worried I might be. I’ve already made him come twice.

I watch as he takes a note while glancing at his laptop, his sleeve revealing a slender wrist with a silver chain around it. His fingers are long—shapely even. But he bites his nails, and this small detail has somehow escaped my attention until today. I’ve never seen him do it. His cuticles are a mess, though, tempting me to do the appalling thing of taking his hand in mine and sucking each fingertip into my mouth to soothe whatever raw skin exists there.

Obsessing over his body—every inch of it—has me drinking more water than usual and taking extra trips to the restroom. I jerk off once, but only because I knew it wouldn’t take long. My hard on had been full and leaking, and all this from watching him hold the cross on his necklace and move it back and forth on the chain as he read an email.

It was one of the sexiest things I’ve ever seen.

He’s driving me utterly out of my mind.

“Christian,” I finally say, at the end of my patience.

He looks up, his blue eyes bright in the sunlight, his lips barely parted.

“Take a break.”

“Can I get you anything?” he asks.

Your ass . I want your ass .

“I’m fine,” I say, a bit too sharply.

He nods, stands, and heads for the door.

“Wait,” I burst as he reaches for the latch.

He turns.

“Where are you going?”

“Just to stretch my legs. I’ll probably get a hot dog.”

“Take your time,” I say, satisfied with his answer. “But finish the hot dog before you get back.”

There’s no way I can watch him eat that without taking him to the floor and rutting into him like a mating beast .

“Text me if you need anything. I’ll be back in what? Half an hour?”

“Take an hour,” I tell him.

But as soon as he’s gone, I want him back.

I loosen my tie and sit back in my chair, spreading my legs to give my semi room to breathe. Resting my elbows on the arms of the chair, I tip my head back and close my eyes. Why is this happening to me? I’ve gone at least twenty-five years without more than a passing interest in anyone but Marianne, and now I’m lusting after my doorman—my dead friend’s son, no less—like a dog near an unattended steak.

How bad is this? On a scale of one to ten?

The fact that we’ll scene tonight doesn’t help refocus me—I’m barely looking forward to it. While I may get to touch him and wreck him, I want more of last night. When he was in my lap with his cock smashed between us—the sound he made when he came— God . I can’t stop thinking about it. The way his sighs fell on my mouth. The taste of me on his tongue. He moved on my lap like a talented stripper, rolling his body to ensure I felt every muscle in motion, every clench of his tight, round ass as he fucked his dick against my abs.

That’s what I want—except while I’m inside him.

A sharp rap on my door bolts me upright. I scoot my chair in to hide the persistent tent in my pants.

Marianne slips into the office and sits where Christian had been. “I saw him go out. Do you have a sec?”

“Uh…sure.”

She looks casually perfect today, and a different kind of ache rips through me. Hair in a ponytail, she’s dressed in an off-the shoulder wheat-colored sweater and soft white leather pants that reveal how thin she is. She’s all firm skin and bones. Lips and eyes. “I need you to make contact with Senator Lawther.”

Jesus. She’s still on this. “Any particular reason?”

“Because you have a penis, Gibson, why else? ”

The penis she’s referring to is caught in an identity crisis at the moment. What got it into its current state has been replaced by the object of its most pathetic longing. I already feel the wilt beginning, but I suppose that’s for the best. “What would you like me to say to him?”

“Speak to him as a friend?—”

“He and I aren’t friendly.”

“To Avery. Suggest it’s in his best interest not to contest any of the terms of the divorce when he hears from her attorney. If he asks why, you’ll show him this.”

She passes her phone to me. On the screen is a video filmed through an apartment window of a man grabbing the edge of a kitchen counter and being fucked from behind. The man being railed is naked. As the camera continues to zoom in, I’m able to discern the face of the young man whose picture she sent me while I was in Rome—Silas Manning, and then—the man fucking him.

It’s unmistakably the Republican senator from New York, down to the neatly trimmed beard and the distinctive mole on his right cheekbone. He’s dressed with only his pants open—like he just couldn’t wait to be inside his lover.

“How the fuck did you get this?”

“I told you we hired an investigator.”

We?

She and Avery are a we now?

“Is that all?” I ask, knowing it won’t be.

“Actually, I’m happy you asked. You know Divina and George are up for re-election this fall. We’d love his endorsement.”

“You expect him to support the opposing party? In this political climate?”

“I think it’s high time he has a change of heart regarding the LGBTQ community, as well. Do you not? Not to mention he’ll need to withdraw all his support of the bills restricting sex work either live or on social media. That one’s non-negotiable. ”

“He’s just one person, Marianne.”

“One person whose stand could make a real difference if he does the right thing for once in his lying life.”

It isn’t that I disagree with Marianne on principle. I object to the means.

“The hypocrisy , Gibson. He really should have to come out. That would set an example and at least go toward making up for what he’s done to Avery. And that man . Do you know they’ve been together over two years? Tell me he’s not in love with him. Try.”

“I…” I look back down at the video, which is still playing. Graham is bending over his lover now, kissing his neck, stroking him to orgasm. “I suppose he probably is.”

“It makes me sick,” she says.

“Which part?” I ask, newly miserable.

“That he’s lived a lie with a woman who loves him while building another life with someone who he has to keep secret. I pity them both. But not Graham. He can burn as far as I’m concerned.”

“And then what?” I ask flatly, guilt tightening my chest.

In a cool voice she asks, “What do you mean?”

“After Avery cleans him out. After he takes his stand in Congress…then is he off the hook?”

She shrugs.

“Marianne…”

“I’ll let you know.”

Where have I heard that before? “Speaking of letting me know…have you thought about Palm Beach?”

She blinks rapidly. Momentarily flustered, she makes a frantic gesture at her phone. “I’ve been a little pre-occupied.”

“I see.” I push her phone toward her and lean back in my seat. “You know where to find me when you decide.”

“Um… Yes. Again, thank you for your patience. I know I’m not the easiest?— ”

“Please,” I whisper, unable to meet her eyes any longer. “Just stop.”

She clears her throat softly. I hear the telltale sniff that means she’s working up a production for me. Tears. Regrets. Rationalizations. I don’t want to hear them today the way I was gluttonous for them yesterday. I’m not in the mood to suffer.

Her voice is shaky when she changes the subject to ask about my day.

“It’s been an easy morning,” I lie.

“And Christian? Is he working out well so far?”

“He’s a fast learner. Very focused.” I say the words quickly in the hopes that my brain won’t try to extrapolate some new meaning from them and make me sound like a fumbling mess. There’s nothing I could say about Christian’s professional qualities that my mind wouldn’t be able to turn to filth in a heartbeat.

“A good choice then?”

“I’d prefer to have him full-time—” And here I go again , “but maybe he’ll come around.”

“Are you free for lunch?” she asks, which is the ultimate bone throw.

“No, I have a call,” I lie again.

“All right.” She stands and walks around the desk. I accept the feather-light kiss on the cheek she offers.

Our marriage: the death by a thousand cuts.

My death of course. She’s perfectly fine.

“Have a nice afternoon. You’ll see Graham tomorrow, then?”

“I’ll reach out.”

“Soon, though, yes?”

“Yes, love. Soon.”

She gives my shoulder a soft touch as she walks away. “Thank you. I’ll leave you to it.”

Once she’s gone, I launch myself from the chair to lie down on the couch, burying my face in one of the soft throw pillows. Crying isn’t my style, but wallowing is. There’s a burn in my chest and a pit in my stomach. One from my dumpster fire of a heart, and the other at the prospect of confronting Senator Graham Lawther with his own ruin.

I understand better than anyone that no one can truly know what goes on in someone else’s marriage. We all put on some degree of a show depending on the company we’re in. For example, the picture I painted for Christian in Rome of mine and Marianne’s was a vague outline at best. Missing was this sick little partnership of ours where I do whatever she asks of me because of my guilt and unwillingness to rock the boat of her stability. Her safety is essential to my own peace of mind. And nothing says Marianne is feeling safe and secure like asking me to blackmail a government official.

My head is fucking killing me. I close my eyes to block out the light.

I wake up to typing. Lifting my head, my eyes land on Christian, reclined in his seat, his laptop resting on his thighs, his pretty fingers dancing over the keyboard. I check the time. Three forty-one. Shit.

My movement catches his eye, and he glances my way. “Don’t worry,” he says. “You didn’t miss anything important.”

I want to tell him to get over here and put his arms around me. Kiss me even though I’ve been asleep. “You should have woken me.”

“I was about to. You have a conference call in fifteen minutes.”

“Right.” Sitting up, I rub my face, especially my eyes, and try to put my hair back in order. When I look over at him again, he’s no longer typing. He’s watching me the way I was watching him earlier. If I snapped my fingers, would he come?

I’m determined not to sexually harass him during working hours. It would be too easy.

I should make a rule never to touch him when he’s in a suit. That should help.

He takes notes during the conference call where I make sure my team is ready to move on a property in Brooklyn. At the end of the meeting, I introduce everyone to Christian and tell them he’ll be doing some of my communications in the future, but they can always count on me for planning sessions like this one.

He does fairly well with the spotlight on him, though I notice some pink creeping into his cheeks while he’s on camera. He has a doorman’s charm. Aloof but friendly. Pleasant without overdoing it. And of course, there’s the way he looks.

Fucking sinful.

It’s about five ’til five when we wrap up the meeting. He checks his watch and looks at me. “That’s it,” I assure him. “I won’t keep you.”

“Meaning I’m off the clock?”

“Ah. Yes.”

“Do you remember what we talked about last night?”

“There’s nothing I don’t remember about last night,” I assure him.

He gives me half a grin. “Same.”

“Is there a time that works for you?”

“Whatever works for you,” he says.

“Mm. Always such a good boy.”

He makes a soft sound, and I suppress my own grin. “Shall we flip a coin? Heads sooner, tails later?”

“Sooner,” he says.

“Seven then. Meet me in The Penthouse. Wash yourself well.”

He raises his brows. “Like…how well?”

In for penny… “Assume anything could happen.”