45. The Man on His Knees
45
THE MAN ON HIS KNEES
Gunnar
Blow jobs end when someone comes, but photos last forever.
The next morning, the picture is everywhere. It winks up at me from my phone as the town car whisks me from my hotel to the private airport. It flies past me on my social media feed. It flashes at me on Instagram.
It’s in my DMs too—in the form of a note from Zane.
Dude, that better be you on the floor in front of Rafe.
In the back seat, I groan, covering my face with my hands.
Owen warned me to be careful. I should have listened. Instead, I gave in to instinct, and the result? Someone snapped a photo of Rafe Rodman getting pleasured, and that image has been splashed across social media and gossip blogs.
My pulse hammers as I attempt a reply to Zane. But what is there to say? Am I defending myself? Telling my buddy yeah, it was me ?
I shut my eyes and take a few deep, calming breaths as the car nears the private airport. My brother is meeting me there, and I need to get my act together. But my heart will not settle down.
Focus, man .
I need to think about my brother, my sister, my mom.
I’ve been playing with fire since I met Rafe. It was only a matter of time before my fantasies got me into trouble.
Of course there was a photographer somewhere last night. Of course someone took a picture of us. And of course it’s everywhere online this morning. The press were at the party, but this style of image is more the realm of the soulless paparazzi than any sports journalist respected enough to be invited to the event. I dismiss Finn Michaels because he’s after clandestine board meetings, not clandestine blow jobs. And judging by the angle, the photo wasn’t taken by anyone at the party—just some rando in New York.
I want to crawl out of my own skin. I want to jump back in time and find just one ounce of self-control.
But all I can do is wait anxiously for the fallout.
I don’t look at my phone anymore and tuck it in my pocket.
At the airport, Charlie waits inside the terminal, wearing a broad smile or a knowing grin—I can’t tell which. But after we hug, he drapes an arm around me. We walk past a luxury rental car kiosk, and he whispers, “Dude, did you see that picture of your boss? It’s everywhere.”
“He’s not my boss,” I snap, a knee-jerk reaction.
“Whoa.” Charlie holds up his hands as if backing off. “Didn’t know that was a sore spot.” He studies me a moment. “You okay?”
I drag a hand through my hair in frustration. “Sorry. It’s not you. But Rafe’s not my boss. His company is just a sponsor.”
“Why are you so bothered, then? I mean the dude’s a fucking billionaire. He can do whatever he wants.”
Like, get a blow job from a ballplayer who’s just trying to be a good guy, maintain a good reputation, and fight the urge to act on his big, messy, exhibitionist desires.
Charlie arches a brow as we stride across the plush carpeting of the private airport, past a tiny booth peddling magazines like Golf Digest and Travel + Leisure .
“I mean, good for him, right?” Charlie pushes.
I take a breath, part my lips, but I’m unable to speak. I’m shaking, thinking that somebody, somewhere must be putting two and two together in a race to figure out who is the man on his knees in the photo. He’s— I’m —barely visible and very blurry, but is it that hard to figure out?
Does Charlie know it’s me in the photo?
I don’t think so from the oblivious way he continues the subject. “Rafe should have a good time at his own party, right?”
Too good a time.
But I lost control. And I’m going to lose sponsors. And I hate lying to my brother. As I’m about to tell him the truth, my phone rattles, bleats, and buzzes in my pocket.
Shit. Has my ringer always been that loud? My agent’s name flashes across the screen. This just keeps getting worse.
“Hold on a sec, Charlie.” We stop near our gate and I take a few steps away as I answer the call.
“Josh, what’s up?” I’m all business, but all nerves too.
“Hey, I don’t have a ton of time, but I need to talk to you,” my agent says crisply.
Panic spikes and my stomach drops. This is it. He’s figured out I’m the guy on his knees in the picture.
Maybe Owen contacted him. Possibly Marlow is already talking to him about the Dragons dropping me. I am such a fool for giving in to my lust. “What is it?” I blurt, not suspiciously at all.
“Did you hear?”
I grimace, and my gut twists into knots. “Yeah, I did.”
“Yeah, the kickoff event was huge. I’m rushing to a meeting but it’s all over social, trending everywhere.”
He’s so businesslike, I can’t get a read on him—I only know I’m terribly embarrassed. I should have had more control. Just because you want something in bed doesn’t mean you get to do it wherever the fuck you want. “I’m sorry,” I say, still reeling.
“What? Why?”
“Aren’t you calling to tell me Marlow released me? That Rafe Rodman dropped me? That Boyfriend Material no longer wants to work with me? Maybe Seductive Cologne is backing out too,” I say, spiraling as I name my sponsors.
“Hang on. Where is this coming from?” Josh sounds baffled.
Now I’m confused too. “Because of the... picture?”
“That’s why I’m calling,” he says, slowing down to explain. “I’m rushing to a meeting, but those promo shots from the campaign are all over social media today. Everyone is loving them. The You Do You shot. The buzz is incredible, but it’s not just you. It’s all the models. This whole body-positive campaign has tongues wagging.”
That’s why he called? Not over the salacious photo of me sucking Rafe? But the promo ones? “It has?” I ask, just to be sure.
“Yeah, word from influencers—the whole fashion industry—is that this is a very forward-thinking campaign. Everyone’s talking about Rafe’s designs and how the company is embarking on this huge campaign with you and the other models. That you’re going to travel all over Central America next week to take photos. And don’t forget, you still have to shoot another ‘How to do a Thirst Trap’ video for Boyfriend Material. The first one was fire. You are going to be so freaking busy after your mom’s birthday party.”
Now I can read him—he sounds thrilled.
But my head spins with whatever turnaround is happening here, and I have to get to the bottom of it before I board that plane.
“So everything is okay?” I ask.
Josh laughs. “Dude, everything is not okay. Everything is extraordinary. Sales are way up for Rafe Rodman, and the buzz is incredible. You’re gold.”
I sigh, long, deep, and relieved, as if I’ve never let out a breath like this before. “You’re not letting me go then?” I ask, just to be sure.
He laughs. “Why would I?”
I’m so wrapped up in this mystery that I don’t notice anyone behind me until there’s a hand on my shoulder. I jump, spinning around, and stare at the familiar face. Rafe’s eyes blaze into mine, and I gulp.
“I need to talk to you,” he whispers, then glances at his watch.
I didn’t even know he’d be at the airport today. But he’s the only one I want to see. I go on autopilot, telling my agent, “Josh, I need to take off.”
“Yeah, me too, bud. But everything is great,” he assures me.
“Thanks. Good to know.” I hang up without taking my eyes from Rafe. I’m in a trance, hypnotized, but I find my brother, earbuds in, head bopping, seeming happy, and I motion that I’ll join him in a moment.
Rafe guides me into a room nearby and quickly, he shuts the door. It’s a small room, maybe eight by eight feet, with a conference table and uncomfortable-looking chairs.
Once Rafe meets my gaze, though, I don’t see anything else.
“Are you okay?” he asks, with so much compassion that my heart aches.
“I’m still frazzled.” Then I amend that to the truth. “Actually, I’m kind of a wreck.”
He steps closer and smooths my hair. “I was worried you might be.”
“I can barely catch my breath.”
“I texted you,” he says softly, running a thumb over the top of my ear. It’s a caring gesture. And it melts away some of my worries.
“My phone has been lit up all morning. I must have missed it. I freaked out over the picture. I was so sure everyone would figure out it was me on the floor.”
“No one can tell it was you,” he says, calm and certain.
“Are you sure?”
He nods decisively. “Positive. Look for yourself.” He pulls his phone from his pants pocket and clicks on the photo of him. “You can’t see the other person. It’s all my face.”
God, Rafe looks so . . . blissed-out.
I look at the image with fresh eyes, and he’s right. It’s all Rafe. His eyes are squeezed shut, his lips fallen open, and his face twisted, on the brink of exquisite agony. His hands are clearly on the top of a man’s head, but that’s it. You can’t even see the color of the man’s hair or the shape of his shoulders. That’s all.
When I saw the snap this morning, my panicking mind filled in everything I knew was there. Now that I look at it again, I see the picture tells only a sliver of a story. The rest is only for Rafe and me to know.
I’m unseen. I’m unidentifiable. And he made sure of it when he swapped our positions last night.
“But what about you? Aren’t you worried? Everyone can see it’s you. Your name is all over social media.”
A small smile shifts his lips. “And I don’t care.”
“You don’t?”
“There’s more buzz about the campaign than there is this photo.” Rafe shakes his head. “And besides, what I care about is you.” He runs a hand through my hair, and I want to sigh and step into his arms. “I told you I would look after you, Gunnar. All our trysts were designed to protect you. I wanted you to explore everything you were starting to feel and to do it safely,” he tells me.
He hinted at this in his San Francisco penthouse when I confessed what I wanted. But I need more. “What do you mean?”
“The suite at the ballpark? It was risky, but ultimately safe because it was just you and me. And you were on your knees. You weren’t visible. Then at The West House, they are strict about no cell phones, and no one could have seen under the table anyway.”
Rafe could teach a master class in planning perfect exhibitionist trysts. My heart thumps harder.
“And in New York on the phone, you made sure my back was to the window.”
I didn’t think it was possible to fall for him any harder. But what am I supposed to do with all these powerful feelings for him? They’re going nowhere. He made that clear.
Rafe inches closer until there’s barely any space between us, and his thumb strokes my jaw possessively. “I knew somebody would want to take a picture of you. I’d looked up the ballroom online, knew the balcony, and knew we could get away with public sex if your back was to the world. I don’t want your reputation compromised.”
“But what about yours?” I ask. “I care about you. And you’re letting your picture be seen everywhere.”
He just shrugs and smiles. “I’m not a ballplayer. I don’t cater to all ages. I sell to adults. I’m just a man peddling sex appeal.”
“But your deal. Your employees,” I point out, since he’ll beat himself up if he loses focus.
“Like I said, the press is mostly talking about the success of the diverse campaign. But that’s not even the point,” he says in that rich, smooth, sensual voice.
“What’s the point?”
He clasps my cheek, his touch sending a rush of blazing heat through me. “You’re worth it,” he says. “It’s all worth it for you.”
If he’s saying what I think he’s saying... But no. I have to stay in the moment.
“ Rafe ,” I chide.
He’ll have none of my worries. “Gunnar,” he commands, stopping to look at his watch. “You go wheels up in thirty minutes. I leave for London in fifteen. Let me have my fantasy now. Let me finish what I couldn’t start last night.”
Who am I to deny him?
In a private room in a private airport, Rafe gets down on his knees, unzips my jeans, and pushes them down my hips. I help him along, and shove my red rooster briefs down to my thighs, my cock springing free.
Rafe smiles when he sees the design and the goods. “Perfect for you,” he whispers and then my on-again, off-again British lover wraps his hands around my ass, kisses the tip of my dick, then hauls me to the back of his throat.
I groan savagely.
He sucks me deep then eases back, stopping to let me fall out of his mouth. “It’s your fantasy. Be as loud as you want,” he urges. Then he returns my dick to the warm, dirty heaven of his mouth.
So I close my eyes and groan and curse as he lavishes wicked attention on my dick, sucking me hard and fast, fondling my balls, squeezing my thighs, kneading my ass. He hauls me closer, insisting I fuck his face.
Pleasure whips through me, and I’m not far off. Muttering incoherently, I thrust harder and faster. Soon, all too soon, pleasure blinds me and I come down his throat in a white-hot blur.
I’m still in a daze as he wipes a hand across his mouth, rises, and presses a kiss to my lips. Then he looks at his watch.
Rafe stares at me with longing and pain. “I have to go to London, but I don’t want to,” he admits.
It’s like he’s laying his heart in my hands.
“You have to go,” I say, managing to tug up my briefs then zip my jeans.
“Tell me to stay,” he implores.
He sounds so desperate and lost. Desperate for me. I’m pretty sure he feels all the same things I do.
I set a hand on his chest and say again, “You have to go. You need to finish your deal,” I say.
He rests his forehead against mine for a moment, then gives me one more kiss. This one is tender, possessive, and full of promise. “I want you,” he whispers.
I slide my hands over his chest. “I want the same.” But I push him away. I keep my promises. “You need to get on that plane.”
He groans in misery. “I’ll be thinking of you the entire time.”
I smirk, then shake my head, borderline amused. “Welcome to my hell.”
He cracks a smile. But he doesn’t move.
Well, someone has to do the hard part. “Get on your plane,” I tell him.
He growls.
I button my jeans and open the door. We both duck into the men’s room to wash our hands, and when we’re presentable, he walks me to my gate, then stops, locking eyes with my brother.
“You must be Charlie.”
My brother beams. “Yes. Charlie Ford. Pleasure to meet you.”
Rafe shakes my brother’s hand. “It’s lovely to meet you too. Gunnar speaks highly of you.” Rafe’s eyes turn more serious. “Will you look out for him for me?”
Charlie blinks, surprised. “Of course.”
Then Rafe turns to me. He makes a move to step closer but must think better of it. He won’t want to reveal in public who we are to each other.
Instead, he says, “I’ll see you soon.”
Then, he turns on his heel, heads to his gate, and takes off for the other side of the ocean.
On the plane, Charlie asks me what’s going on.
“I think I’m kind of in love with Rafe Rodman,” I say, which feels terrifying and wonderful.
Charlie offers me a fist for knocking, but as I sink back in the chair, I don’t know what the hell I’m going to do about Rafe.