Chapter 26 Twenty-Five
The kitchen gleamed around me, every surface restored to perfect order while Algerone relaxed in the living room, tablet in hand as he reviewed the final Macau briefing documents.
Pages rustled softly from the adjacent room, his finger tapping occasionally against the screen.
Three hours and forty-seven minutes until wheels up.
I'd been tracking the countdown since Reid's team departed.
My hands stilled on the dish towel. The fabric trembled between my fingers. I had never once asked for anything beyond the privilege of remaining at his side. Tonight, that changed. Tonight, I chose how to spend these hours before we flew toward Shaw and whatever waited for us in Macau.
Pathetic, that facing armed mercenaries felt less terrifying than what I was about to do.
I dropped the dish towel on the counter.
The soft thud echoed in the kitchen silence.
I found him in his leather chair, tablet balanced on one knee, cane resting against the armrest. His eyebrows rose slightly as I approached, a question forming on his lips, but I sank to my knees beside his chair before he could speak.
The hardwood bit into my kneecaps through expensive wool. At fifty-four, kneeling required more conscious adjustment than it had at thirty, but the ache felt right. Earned. My forehead found the solid warmth of his thigh, and I breathed in the scent that had haunted me for decades.
This was where I belonged. Not standing at conference tables or orchestrating boardroom victories, but here.
The corporate world saw submission as weakness.
They understood nothing. I pressed my forehead harder against his thigh.
He could have anyone. Command anyone. Yet he chose to accept what I offered.
I didn't deserve it. That knowledge lived in my bones alongside the wanting.
His hand settled in my hair. The touch sent electricity racing down my spine. But this wasn't about arousal. His palm cupped the back of my skull, thumb tracing the sensitive line where my hairline met my neck.
One day, my knees would betray me completely. Arthritis was already making its presence known on cold mornings. Age would eventually make this position unbearable. But whatever came, we would adapt. Find new rituals. The specific posture mattered less than what it represented.
I was getting sentimental. Dangerous before a mission.
His breathing shifted above me, deeper now, matching the steady stroke of his fingers through my hair. I turned my face into the wool of his pants, lips brushing the fabric that separated me from his skin. Beneath the cloth, his thigh muscle tensed.
Time suspended. No Lucky Losers. No Shaw. No tactical briefings or extraction protocols. Just this man and the choice I'd finally made to stop hiding.
I found his calves, palms molding to the firm muscle beneath fine fabric.
The material was soft, perfectly tailored, but I wanted it gone.
Wanted nothing between us. His breath hitched above me, barely audible, but I caught it.
My cock stirred, blood redirecting with the efficiency of a body that knew what it wanted even when the mind tried to complicate matters.
I traced higher, fingers mapping his legs through wool. The hand in my hair tightened. His other hand joined the first, both cradling my head against his leg.
Heat radiated through the fabric where my cheek pressed against him. I could feel him hardening, the shape of his cock becoming distinct through his pants, and my mouth watered.
I looked up at him through my eyelashes. His face had transformed, the sharp edges of authority gentled into something I'd glimpsed only in our most private moments.
I moved to his belt, the Italian leather buttery soft, the buckle cool against my knuckles as I worked it free. He made no sound, but his pupils dilated.
The belt slid free with a whisper of leather against wool. I set it aside, then moved to his pants, undoing the buttons slowly. I wanted to remember this, to file away every detail in case Macau went wrong.
Morbid thinking. Unproductive. I focused on the task.
The fabric parted, revealing the flat plane of his stomach, the trail of dark hair disappearing beneath his waistband. He wore nothing underneath. The realization sent heat straight to my groin, my cock pressing painfully against my zipper. But this wasn't about my needs. This was about him.
His pants pooled around his ankles. His cock stood hard and flushed dark, the head already wet. I'd seen him naked hundreds of times during his recovery. Clinical circumstances. Medical necessity. This was different. This was permission.
I leaned forward, tongue tracing the base of his shaft. He tasted of clean salt and musk, purely him. His whole body shuddered, one hand bracing against the armrest, knuckles white.
I followed the prominent vein from root to crown. His thigh muscles quivered under my free hand. A soft sound escaped him, somewhere between a sigh and something more desperate. The hand in my hair massaged my scalp in slow circles.
When I reached the head, I circled it with my tongue. His hips jerked forward, and satisfaction spread through my chest.
I took him into my mouth properly, lips stretching around him. He was substantial, but I relaxed and took him deeper, inch by inch.
Above me, his breathing turned ragged. The hand on the armrest gripped the leather hard enough to damage it. His other hand never left my hair, fingers now gripping the strands like an anchor.
"Maxime,” he murmured.
I hummed acknowledgment around him, and the vibration made him gasp and thrust deeper. My hands gripped his hips, holding him steady as I worked. This wasn't about technique. This was about showing him what words had never adequately expressed.
I pulled back until just the head remained between my lips, then sank down again, taking him to the root. I held him there, throat working around his length, until my lungs burned.
When I withdrew, saliva connected my lips to his cock. The sight made my own arousal spike, but I ignored it. This was for him.
I established a slow and thorough rhythm. My tongue mapped every ridge and sensitive spot. The thick vein. The head. The slit where pre-cum kept gathering.
His hips began to move, subtle rolls matching my rhythm. The hand in my hair guided without demanding. Partnership, even here.
When his grip tightened to the point of pain, when his control started fraying, I pulled away.
His eyes snapped open. His cock jerked in front of my face, slick and swollen and desperate.
I had other plans.
I rose to my feet, legs unsteady from kneeling, and fumbled with the buttons of my shirt. He reached out to help me. My jacket hit the floor, shirt buttons opening until his palms could span my chest. His thumbs found my nipples, already tight, and rolled them between his fingers.
The sensation shot straight to my cock. I gasped as he pulled me onto his lap and kissed me. His tongue delved deep, tasting himself on my lips, and I let myself melt into him.
When he broke the kiss, his lips traveled to my throat. His teeth scraped against the skin where my pulse hammered, and I tilted my head back, offering access. The bite, when it came, sent electricity through my entire body.
"Yes," I breathed as he worried the spot with his teeth, darkening the mark. Another bite lower, at the junction of neck and shoulder. Then another. Each one was a brand, proof I belonged to him.
My pants and underwear joined the pile of discarded clothes.
His hands mapped my newly exposed skin, reacquainting themselves with territory they'd only recently been permitted to explore.
When his fingers brushed the base of my cock, I nearly came from that alone. Pathetic. I was fifty-four years old.
He tried to turn us, pressing me back toward the chair, but I resisted. My hands framed his face, thumbs tracing his cheekbones, the stubble shadowing his jaw.
"Not like that," I said. "I want to see you tonight."
He nodded once. I took his hand and led him from the living room, through the hallway, up the stairs to his bedroom. His bedroom. In his home, where he'd never brought me before tonight.
The bed dominated the space. The sheets were turned down, city lights filtering through floor-to-ceiling windows, painting everything silver and shadow. The room smelled like him—cologne and clean linen and something indefinable that meant safety.
I backed toward the bed, drawing him with me.
When my legs hit the mattress, I paused.
This was his bed. It was the first time he'd brought me here, to his most private space.
I lay down and pulled him over me, arranging us face to face.
His green eyes locked with mine as he settled his weight against me.
His cock pressed against my hip, hot and slick. Mine was trapped between our bodies, sensitized skin rubbing against the hair on his stomach with each breath. The friction was maddening.
He reached for the nightstand drawer, pulling out a bottle of lube.
He warmed it in his palms before reaching between us. One slick finger traced my entrance. My body was eager, but he took his time anyway. One finger, then two, stretching and preparing me with devastating thoroughness.
When he crooked his fingers and found my prostate, I arched off the bed, a cry strangled in my throat. White-hot pleasure raced through every nerve. My cock leaked against my stomach, desperate for touch, but his hands had other priorities.
"Al," I gasped when I couldn't bear it anymore. "Please. I need you."
He withdrew his fingers, leaving me empty, but not for long. The blunt head of his cock pressed against my entrance, slick with oil. I forced myself to relax as he pushed inside, inch by inch, filling me completely.