9. Christian

9

CHRISTIAN

G ibson has a kitten. Who paws his chest while she sucks his dick. And this is a visual that is now permanently seared in my brain because I know exactly which woman he’s referring to down to the cat ears. I thought they were a quirky fashion choice, but my eyes are wide open now. “Have you um…always kept pets?”

“No. It’s something new I’ve been trying out.”

“And how’s it going?”

“It’s getting a little boring if I’m being honest. Some of them won’t even talk. This one does, though.”

I halfway want to ask what they talk about, but not enough to actually know. Sensory overload is one thing, but drunk sensory overload is making me wish I’d made better use of the food upstairs. “Wait—you don’t have a pet here you’re neglecting to talk to me, do you?”

He chuckles. “No.”

“So you’re really only here to watch?”

“As the owner, it’s polite to make appearances when I’m in town,” he says, like a true professional. And then, “Also yes.”

I’ve been watching him watch, and he does so with a cool detachment, as if he’s unaffected by the cries of women and grunts of men. I suppose he could be hiding how turned on he is—I can’t see beneath the table, after all, nor would I look—but his assessment of the various scenes feels more clinical than voyeuristic.

I did notice the woman attempt to approach him and her abrupt change of direction. I hope I’m not interrupting anything he’d rather be doing. On that note, and considering how drunk I am, I figure I should probably go. Not that I’m not enjoying the conversation, but it’s been a long day. “In that case, I think I’ll head back upstairs.”

“Did you not like my answer?” he asks.

“It’s not that, but I’m probably cramping your style.”

“Not at all.”

“I’m also drunk.”

“Ah, well, in that case…I should go with you. Make sure you don’t trip on the stairs.”

I smile, gesturing at BDSM wonderland. “I’m trying to give you your space.”

“You don’t like it,” he says.

“It’s not that.” The vibe is cool down here. Kinky, but respectful, and even relatively tame, considering.

“Will you be visiting St. Peter’s tomorrow morning?” he asks.

I nod. “If that’s okay with your schedule.”

“It’s fine. Like I said, I wouldn’t mind coming along. I’ll give you plenty of space.”

It’s something I imagined doing on my own, but I’ve also never been in another country besides Canada, and I’m sure St. Peter’s is big enough for the two of us. “Sure,” I say. “And I’ll look forward to the private night tour of the Sistine Chapel, too.”

“Right, I need to get on that. Let’s go back up. I should get some food and rest, too.”

“I don’t want to cut your night short.” He got all dressed up.

“Please—if I can’t sleep, I’ll come back down. ”

Interesting to know.

He swipes the bottle of whiskey from the table, and we make our way back up what has to be thousands of stairs. By the time he’s unlocking the stairwell to the penthouse, my legs are shaking. I’m light-headed and out of breath. “Jesus,” I mutter halfway up the narrow staircase, leaning heavily on the rail as I try to will my legs to work for a few more steps.

He puts an arm around my waist. “Almost there. You gonna make it?”

“Didn’t realize how out of shape I am.” At the same time, I’m speaking, I register how close he is in the narrow space, the strength of his forearm across my lower back—bracing me in case I fall backwards. It’s a strength I want to rest on. Lean my head on and close my eyes—something warm and solid and sure, something to take the ache away.

“Mmm.” I feel the hum coming from his chest because I suddenly realize my hand is there, pressed to his breastbone. My forehead has also found a place to be, and somehow that spot is against his. It’s not full frontal—not that intimate, but I’m leaning against him, using him to hold me up, and he’s allowing it by bending to accommodate my sagging frame. “You okay?”

“Dizzy,” I tell him, my eyes closing.

“Deep breaths,” he says, and I follow his instruction like it’s a command.

“That’s it,” he murmurs while I try to catch my breath and get the blood flowing back to my brain.

I’d be embarrassed about all this, but I’m too drunk, and I don’t hate the feeling of being held up. I’ve always respected Gibson. Relied on him, to an extent. But it’s obvious I trust him, too—to keep me from falling, not judge me, get me to bed in one piece.

“Sorry,” I whisper.

“It’s okay,” he says, his voice an equally low hush that has me hypersensitive to all our points of contact and making me crave more.

I run my hand up his chest to rest on his shoulder, letting my forehead fall against the side of his neck where he smells like whiskey, fresh cut wood, and clean wool. He’s so comfortable. Big.

Fuck, I’m drunk…I need to retreat.

“Deep breaths,” he says again.

“You smell good,” I sigh with my exhalation.

“Yeah?”

“Uh-huh.”

“Christian, I…” He doesn’t finish his thought, but he doesn’t move a muscle, either.

I’m stuck inhaling him, forgetting we’re halfway up a barely lit stairwell in the center of Rome, a bed of my own to sleep in only a few yards away. Where I’m at is so deeply satisfying, I’ve lost the will to move.

“You what?” I ask, buying more time before he physically forces me up the stairs.

“I’ve enjoyed getting to know you better tonight.”

“Me too.”

“Sorry for getting you drunk.”

“It’s not like you were holding me down,” I say, which of course makes me picture what that would look like.

Fuck, I cannot get a crush on Gibson Hayes. He’s my boss. He knew my father. He’s married. He’s straight.

Also, he’s a man, and my experience with men is limited. Comically sparse. I identify as bisexual, sure, but only because I think certain men are hot. I’ve kissed a few guys at clubs. Exchanged hand jobs in a men’s room two or three times when I’ve been wasted. The bartender at trivia night was my first male blow job, though. I’ve never dated a man—nor had sex with one. And certainly never one I knew. Never one I actually liked.

I’m casually bisexual—not really a practicing bisexual, but the way my dick is perking up at my boss’s proximity is reminding me that I do in fact get turned on by men from time to time. It’s actually hard for me to believe not everyone does. That anyone is a hundred percent straight.

Still, I shouldn’t be thinking any of these things. I should be catching my breath, not losing it again.

My blood should be coming back to my head, not rushing to my dick.

His hand moves up my back, splaying open between my shoulder blades, his other hand moving to steady my hip.

“I can walk,” I whisper.

“You can lean on me.”

I nod, my nose brushing the skin of his neck, wanting to nuzzle, but cognizant enough to know that would be pushing it.

“One step at a time,” he says, and I swear I hear a hint of shakiness in his voice—a breathiness that wasn’t there before.

I lift my unsteady leg and take the next step with him bearing half my weight. We make it to the top, and he steadies me again as he opens the door. “You good?”

“Yeah.” I’m staring at him, and the vision of him in the dark stairwell lit by running lights alone is heady and sensual. His hair is falling over his forehead, which is bunched in concentration. He’s breathing heavy, too, his lips parted slightly.

Light spills into the passage as the door swings open, and he turns to me. I don’t know if he realizes I’m blatantly staring, but he bites down on the corner of his lip and drops his gaze briefly. “Need help getting into bed?”

Yes.

“I need to eat something.” Proving I’m capable of moving independently, I walk to the couch, flopping onto it the second I get close enough. I figure I’ll give myself a second to recalibrate, catch my breath, and stop having dirty thoughts before I find some food.

Fuck, I am soooo drunk . It’s impossible to calculate how much whiskey I’ve had in the last two hours. A lot. And it wasn’t the cheap stuff. Now that I’m horizontal, the room moves in staccato shifts and tilts. Closing my eyes doesn’t help.

Distantly, I feel my shoes coming off and clunking to the floor. A hand brushes my hair back from my forehead. “Can you drink some water for me?”

I nod.

“You’ll need to sit up.”

I push myself up on a hand and take the water Gibson’s offering while he sits on the couch with me, his hip aligned with mine. The move brings us up close and personal again, and I sneak a glance at his dark eyes while I’m gulping the water. He’s watching my throat.

This shouldn’t be hot. He shouldn’t be turning me on. He never has before. I have a guy type, and it’s not him. I like young and eager. Smaller than me with smooth faces and Golden Retriever energy to overcome my reticence.

Gibson is large and broad and rough-cheeked. He’s elegant, ripped, and dark. And he’s all the other reasons I shouldn’t be wondering about how to make a move on him.

I finish the water, and he takes the bottle before I have a chance to set it down. I could use another, but we’re staring into each other’s eyes now, and my curiosity is about to get the better of me.

“You feel okay?” he asks.

“I don’t feel sick if that’s what you’re asking.”

“It is.”

“Then I’m okay.”

He glances at my mouth again. “Want some food?”

“Don’t you?”

“I…” He goes quiet.

I swallow hard. “I won’t say no.”

“To food?”

“To whatever. ”

He hesitates. “I don’t feel like myself right now.”

“Yeah, I get that,” I tell him.

“I’m so fucking unhappy,” he says, showing his cards on how drunk he is, too.

I put my cold hand on his neck and lean my forehead against his. “I get it. I’m sorry.”

He stiffens slightly and then shudders before his mouth meets mine.

Fuck .

On the one hand it was sort of inevitable, and this was what I was going for—on the other hand, I’m shocked he was the first to make a move, and I’m determined to make it good.

My fingers tighten, nails digging into his skin, and I open my mouth before he can pull away.

His tongue meets mine in a brief caress, and I groan, deep in my throat, angling my mouth to seal it to his. I want this.

His slow, careful kiss has blood surging to my relatively numb cock, but my lips are tingling, relishing the wet slide of his tongue as it licks and explores mine.

Neither of us says a word. We lean against the back of the couch and continue kissing.

It takes a few minutes to find the right angle, the proper depth and rhythm, decide where to put our hands, but when we do, it’s because he’s got a fist in my hair holding my head in place to fuck my mouth with his tongue while I lie there and let him have his way with me. It feels so fucking good.

He’s all power and control, slick sweeps and teeth tugging lips. He’s bruising me. It’s a kiss that hurts—that’s hard and unforgiving. It’s no longer careful, nor is it playful or romantic. It’s sex and dominance. It’s got me gasping and whimpering.

“Fuck, you taste good,” he murmurs before coming in for more punishing strokes.

I finally move. My fingers twist themselves in his jacket lapels, using them to keep him close. It allows me to hold my head in one position for him to make a target of.

I’m incredibly turned on, but too drunk to get completely hard. I’m more than content to let him continue to abuse my mouth, but then he pulls away to look at me, and some of the haze clears from my eyes.

He looks wrecked—unlike I’ve ever seen him. Pupils blown, lips shiny and red, a pinch in his brow beneath his disheveled hair. “What are you doing?” he asks.

I frown. “Me?”

“Why won’t you kiss me back?”

“I can’t,” I say without thinking about it.

“You don’t want to?”

“No, you’re…”

“Don’t say married,” he says quickly.

“I was gonna say overpowering me.”

“Oh.”

I lick my sore lips, and he does the same. I’m having even more trouble catching my breath now than I was on the sixth flight of stairs.

“I thought you wanted…” he starts and stops again.

Assuming he was going to say some version of this , I speak quickly. “I do.”

“You shouldn’t.”

“You look so good tonight,” I tell him stupidly. “And you smell incredible.”

“We’re drunk.”

“Yeah,” I agree, giving his lapels a tug.

His mouth lands directly on mine.

I slip him my tongue, and he growls , taking over once again.