40. Christian

40

CHRISTIAN

S ince the Fourth of July, something’s come over me. Though I haven’t seen her, I’ve begun to hate Marianne Hayes with every fiber of my being, and while I’m in no way direct about it, I’ve turned into whatever I think Gibson wants or needs at any given moment. In short—a simp. A slut. A constant source of distraction and temptation. My pick-me energy is off the charts.

We’ve been back in Manhattan over a week. I’ve made it a point to stick to our schedule during daytime hours, and I’ve tried not to go out of my way to make myself too available, figuring if I’m slightly harder to get, I’ll be on his mind more. I’m not very good at it, though.

For example, when Jericho and Joe invite me to dinner with Jeremy and Larry Friday night, I invite Gibson, too. He says he needs to be at the club, though.

Do I believe him?

Not really. The club seems to run itself. Am I hurt?

That’s the thing.

I am. It makes me feel stupid for asking. It makes me wonder if he’s sick of my face and needs a break. And it makes me realize how the complete opposite of that is true for me. I want to be with him all the time and asking him out was my version of putting my heart on my sleeve. I’m not angry he turned me down, just confused.

I don’t even end up going to dinner. I order take out and eat in my apartment writing about uncertainty and inevitability. Fate and missed chances. I haven’t thought about God in a while.

Going through some of my old journals, especially the ones I’ve filled since I’ve been living on my own, I can trace my search for meaning. There’s even a poem about when I met Drew—more specifically about a month into hanging out when we’d begun texting more regularly, and then later when I had the thought about him moving in. I almost hadn’t asked because I realized I was already taking him for granted—assuming his continued presence in my life.

And if he did move in, then maybe it would ruin everything. I’d discover some dealbreaker about him, or he would about me. I didn’t want to mess with our easy vibe by knowing him too well. I didn’t want to fall into the trap of counting on him. I needed a sign, and I wasn’t getting one. Ultimately he asked because he needed a place to stay, and it worked out, but I didn’t count that as a sign.

I was like one of those guys on Survivor looking for hidden immunity idols, trying to read meaning or significance into all kinds of things—billboards I would pass, groupings of people I walked by on the street. In retrospect, I might have been losing it a little. I was working nights then, and the sleep deprivation fucked with me. Weirdly, having Drew around helped with that, too, and I have been able to count on him.

I don’t know. Maybe leaps of faith aren’t my thing. Maybe I’m the kind of guy who needs to be told what to do—lest I start inserting meaning where there shouldn’t be any.

I’m doing my best not to play games where Gibson is concerned. In fact, I’m trying to show him exactly who I am and how I am, and I don’t consider any of this a test for him, but a way of testing myself.

I haven’t been in a romantic relationship since Trinity, and a good year of that was just straight grief, but grief does fade as life moves on. I’ve hung onto more than my fair share because I hate the way she died, and the fact that she wasn’t allowed to be happy while she was alive.

Because I developed a good friend group, I’ve been able to put off intimate relationships, using my time to process all the grief and guilt. I’ve had to learn not to compare everyone to Trinity. She was a sheltered seventeen-year-old girl, and rarely have I met anyone in New York who I’d describe as sheltered. But I do compare how I feel about someone to the way I felt about her, which is to say I wanted to know everything about her. I wanted her opinions and her sharp-witted jokes. I wanted to know her take on the world and what song she was obsessed with. I wanted her quick responses to texts and, yeah, her body next to mine.

When Drew once confronted me about my supposed inability to be in a relationship, I’d been offended and hurt. He accused me of dropping people after a month, but I can’t remember a single person I went out with more than twice. He made it sound like I was stringing people along, when the truth is I wasn’t forming connections. It made me wonder whether he saw me at all.

There I was thinking I had bad luck or some kind of curse, and he thought I was throwing away opportunities left and right. But looking back on my journals from those days, it’s clear I have the ability to form connections—even love people. I just haven’t met the right person. But in fairness to myself, I just turned thirty.

When I told Gibson I wasn’t looking for a relationship, it wasn’t because I’m opposed to being in one. More like I don’t want to force one for the sake of a steady plus one. I have no problems going to sleep alone. It’s better than sharing a bed with a stranger .

But I think shallow hook-ups made me complacent. In a way, I’d given up. And I can blame losing Trinity or say it’s just too fucking hard in this city, but it’s more realistic to say that when you’ve slept with as many women as I have—it’s pretty fucking disheartening when none of them are the one.

And yeah, maybe there have been too many times I thought my ability to fall in love died that night with her while I was asleep. But I feel something now, and the person I feel it for probably isn’t the one. Which sucks. Probably isn’t definitely though. So I’m not giving up because he’s habitually devoted to someone else. He’ll have to push me away. I’m in no way ready to let him go.

According to Gibson, Marianne is still in the Hamptons, but he’s more keyed up than ever—checking that doors are locked, encrypting his emails, changing passwords. He’s constantly asking me to move meetings around and get his accountant to come in. It’s gotten so ridiculous, I finally broke down and called Olivier myself to see if he told Gibson something else I don’t know about. What am I missing here?

But from what Ollie told me, it sounds like even less of a big deal than I originally thought. If it doesn’t start to make sense soon, I’ll have to talk to Elodie, but I’m trying to be respectful of Gibson’s privacy. I’ve witnessed a few things while working on the Upper East Side for as long as I have, and I know there are occasional shake-ups in society that get everyone talking. I’ve also seen more than one man or woman lose their fortune or spouse and move out of Gramercy with a hat and sunglasses on, head ducked in shame.

I’m not into gossip. It’s not interesting to me. The less invested I get in the residents of this building, the easier it is to dismiss their careless attitudes, casual displays of wealth—and their indulgences.

Lately, though, I wish I paid more attention. I might be able to help. As it is, I get to sit by, try to think of something witty enough to say to make Gibson crack a smile, and demonstrate that I’m available when he’s ready to wind down—even if I do make him wait an hour or two sometimes. I still have a shred of pride.

It’s nearly six on a Wednesday evening, and we’re in his home office. I’m starving because lunch was a million hours ago, and all I had was a turkey sandwich from the kitchen. I’m not even sure Gibson ate.

He’s going through a stack of paper on his desk, one sheet at a time, glancing over each one before putting it through his shredder.

I clear my throat softly, and he glances over at me, his new glower fixed in place. “Do you need me right now?” I ask. “Because I have to get some food.”

“Yes. I need you. Twenty minutes,” he says shortly, turning back to the stack without saying what he wants.

I sigh.

“I said I need you. Come here.”

Oh.

I perk up and stand, walking over to his desk to stand opposite him. He snaps his fingers at his side and points to the floor next to his chair. “Here.”

I don’t hesitate. He’s barely touched me today, and it has me questioning whether I don’t look good or he’s sick of me, but this is promising.

“Kenny’s supposed to call. That’s all I’m waiting for. Once I’m done with that, we’ll get you fed. Until then…” He unbuckles his belt, opens his fly and pulls out his semi-hard cock.

I grip him by the thighs and kneel, mouth open and ready to take him. His phone buzzes.

He swipes to answer, holding the phone to his ear. “One second, Ken.” He pushes the mute button while he holds his cock away from my mouth. “Look at me.”

I do .

“Don’t suck.”

I raise my eyebrows.

“I mean it,” he tells me. “You can hold it as deep as you want—stuff your mouth—but don’t suck it, lick it, or bite it.”

“I don’t get it,” I whisper, not that Kenny can hear me.

“It’s what I need, and you’re the one who offered.”

Did I? I guess, kind of ?

“This is some real entry level shit, Christian. You’ve suffered worse for me.”

So, I’m not blowing him. I’m submitting. My calorie-deprived brain must have missed the memo. Got it.

I nod and let him insert his cock between my lips. In order not to suck him deep, I knee walk toward him and let him sink further into my mouth until I’ve got about half his length resting on my tongue.

He gives me a long, heated look and strokes my cheek. “That’s perfect, baby.” Then, with the push of a button, “Kenny, what do you have for me?”

He doesn’t take his eyes off me as he listens to the fast talker from Boston in his ear and warms his cock in my mouth. I swallow—not technically against the rules—to take more of him. It’s very hard not to lick. No sucking, no biting, fine, but the longer my mouth is wide open, the more saliva gathers, and my tongue has to move when I swallow, so…

His abdomen rises with a deep breath as his hand continues to caress my cheek. He makes some nonchalant sounds of acknowledgment for Kenny, but for me, he’s burning, his eyes telling me I’m perfect. He wants me. He misses me.

His swelling shaft stretches my limits, making my eyes water. I breathe through my nose. It’s almost unbearable—staying still—and maybe he knows how hard this is to do. Maybe this is a new way for him to make me suffer just a little. Just enough. I want more than he’s letting me have, and I know he knows it .

He has to know it. I can’t possibly look any more desperate than I feel.

“Go through that again slower, Kenny. I got distracted while you were talking.”

My next breath is sharp and thin. I choke on my next swallow and Gibson rubs his palm over my throat, shaking his head with those molten eyes, warning me to keep quiet.

It takes massive amounts of control— control I don’t have —to let his crown hold my throat open without gagging or sputtering. As Kenny drones on, tears pour down my cheeks, and drool drips off my chin.

But it’s not until my throat starts convulsively trying to swallow that he cuts Kenny off mid-sentence and tells him he’ll speak to him tomorrow. He hangs up, tosses the phone onto the desk, grabs the sides of my head and pulls me onto his full length. His crown slides far beyond my gag reflex, choking and overwhelming me.

He lets out a serrated breath and throbs in my mouth, pulling out as he continues to gush cum on my tongue and lips. It’s stunning. I had no idea he was that close. It’s everything I can do to swallow what he feeds me.

“Come here, baby,” he whispers harshly, like he’s the one whose vocal cords are ruined.

I lift my ass from my heels as he brings our mouths together. He licks his spend off my lips then brushes his tongue over mine to take more. I melt into kissing him, my arms reaching up to encircle his shoulders. A moment later, he’s pulling me onto his lap, and I slot my shins alongside his thick thighs in the chair.

I kiss him feverishly, wrecked with wanting him. He gives in to my relentlessness, and kisses me back the way I need, answering to my demand. “Need to fuck you,” I tell him between long sucks on his mouth.

“Not here.”

“Need to come. ”

“Hold it for me, baby.”

I whimper against his lips. “Please.”

“Patience, Christian.”

I shiver, channelling my rabid need into another kiss—sloppy, wet, and doing its best to change his mind. He allows it long enough for me to nearly come in my pants, but eventually cuts me off, unsatisfied.

“You need to eat,” he says.

“I just ate.”

He smiles and kisses my cheek several times in quick succession. “I have a few more things to check on. Go get some food, wash up, and wait for my text.”

“You don’t want to eat with me?”

“I don’t want to slow you down. I won’t be long.”

“What do you have to do?”

The look he gives me tells me everything I need to know. He’s checking in with Marianne.

“Never mind,” I say, getting off his lap and trying to fix my face and hair. I can’t imagine how fucked up I look right now. If it’s half as messy as I feel, no wonder he wants me to clean up.

As I gather my things from the couch, he says, “As much as you don’t want to talk about it, if you want to keep spending time with me as an employee or otherwise, we need to get on the same page.”

“I’ll think about it,” I mumble.

I’m not aware he moved until I feel his hands on my hips and his chin scraping my cheek. “Maybe it’s time to tell me what you need.”

“I just did, and you said no.”

“I said not here. I’m sick of being in here. I want you in my bed.”

“What about…?”

“That’s what I need to check on.”

“Oh. ”

“Would you rather I came down to your place? Get some takeout and be normal for a few hours?”

Now that he mentions it, we haven’t been “normal” since the holiday weekend. I find myself nodding. “Yeah.”

“Promise you’ll still fuck me?”

I smile. “Swear to God.”