Chapter 5
Five
Christian
My urge when I get back to the ambassador’s residence is to get good and drunk. It’s usually the only thing that helps kill the antsy (horny) sensation which often itches and scrapes under my skin. Sex helps too, of course. But the latter is not on the table today as it turns out.
Had I gone over to Asher’s to buy the painting?
Yes. Had I gone over with the hope that he’d make another indecent proposal to me, which this time I would snap up with both hands?
Also yes. As foolish as it was, I hadn’t stopped thinking about him and what had been so temptingly offered all those weeks ago.
About his mouth wrapped around me, about his bright blue eyes looking up at me, about his soft cheeks gently flushed.
It’s my own fault I’ve come home alone. If I’d given him notice, then perhaps this could have been avoided; perhaps I could have looked a little less stupid and presumptuous.
But instead, I wandered over there and right into some post-coital clean-up with a tall, strutting guy his own age.
Let me be quite clear, though there’s some envy at not being the person waltzing out of his shower, I do not begrudge him it.
He could—and should—fuck whomever he pleases whenever he pleases.
This was exactly the line I took with Felix because Lord knows I couldn’t keep up with him.
Felix had needed a lot of attention and a lot of sex, both of which were challenging for a forty-year-old closeted member of the British government.
In my office, I pour myself a large brandy and gulp a generous mouthful before taking a seat in the uncomfortable office chair.
I could do some work. I likely should, given what’s been happening at the Capitol this week.
Infighting between the president and his vice president, and everyone else having to pretend it wasn’t happening, like the children of dysfunctional parents in the middle of a messy divorce.
Tomorrow’s meeting with the State Department was bound to be another omnishambles.
I’ve begun to think that presidential assassinations are, essentially, a greater good, and I’d put a bullet in his head myself if I thought I’d get away with it.
It would certainly be one way to tender my resignation.
I’m pouring myself a second drink when my mobile rings. It’s a number my device does not have saved as a contact, and so I debate letting it go to voicemail, but the need for a distraction has me pressing the answer button.
“Darling,” I say.
“It’s Asher,” he says. I hadn’t saved his number after his text about his painting, simply because I didn’t trust myself.
Then, in a slightly urgent voice, “Please don’t hang up.”
Slowly, glass in hand, I walk back to my desk. “I wasn’t going to.”
“Okay, good. That’s good.” He sounds relieved. “So, about what you saw earlier when you came over, which was so cool by the way, you coming over. I’m really glad you did that.”
“I should have called first.”
“Or texted back, yeah,” he concurs. “’Cause I don’t really do phone calls, you know?”
I frown at this. “You’re doing a phone call right now.”
“Yeah, but like, against my will, and because I know it’s what your generation prefers.”
I chuckle at this.
“So, let the record show that I’m trying here.”
“Why?”
“Because you ran off and I thought you’d just ignore me again if I texted,” he explains.
I didn’t run, but it would be immature to correct him. “I meant, why are you trying?” It comes out sounding piteous. “You aren’t struggling for company, and I’ve been, well, a little vague and difficult. Surely this isn’t worth your time?”
He’s quiet a long moment, as though he’s thinking very hard about his response. “Can I be honest?”
“I’d like that.” I sip my brandy.
“I actually don’t even like company,” he says.
“I mean, unless we’re talking about my own.
People, generally, are not really my thing.
” I can sense he isn’t finished with this train of thought, so I let him go on.
“I spent so many years around people, too many people, and I mean like, all the time, every minute of every hour of every day, I was around people. People who told me what to believe and how to think and what to do. So now I really like being alone. I fucking love it, actually.” He pauses, then takes a deep breath.
“But there’s something about you, I don’t know, you’re relaxing to be around.
Calming. A lot of people are so busy trying to interact with you or impress upon you, expecting you to be something or other.
They all want to take something out of you, you know?
It can be a little overwhelming. But it feels like you enjoy just existing, too.
Like maybe you like being alone with yourself and your thoughts the same way I do.
So I’ve been thinking that we could be alone, together, sometime.
Because, like, it still gets a little lonely sometimes. You know?”
I process this, a little stunned. How completely this boy seems to see me.
The deep parts of me that I keep well hidden from public view.
Almost as though our deepest, most secret parts are the same shape and colour, when on the surface we couldn’t be more different.
Stella knew me—all of me—and when she died, I buried a lot of myself with her.
She’d want me to live, I know she would, authentically and truthfully.
And each day I don’t somehow feels like a betrayal to her.
What would she think of someone like Asher?
Charmed, most likely, just as she’d have been charmed by Felix.
Surprisingly, it’s with the sound of Stella’s voice in my head that I speak my next words.
“What are you doing this evening?”
When I turn up at his house for the second time that day, he’s expecting me.
I’m carrying a bottle of red wine and a smile, and he’s dressed in the most alluring outfit I’ve seen him in yet: a white chiffon top with short, frilled sleeves and a high neck.
Loose, oversized black cargo pants that are belted at his small waist. His ears glitter with diamond stud earrings. He looks divine. I stare.
“You want some?” he asks, indicating the bottle. “Or were you just doing that thing people do by bringing it?”
“You don’t take wine when you go to someone’s house? It’s just polite, surely?”
“Honestly, I feel like my company is enough of a gift.”
I chuckle at this. “I agree. Well, I’ll have a very small glass, thank you.” I’d driven the car over, marvelling again at the sense of freedom I’m able to enjoy here. He moves off to pour us both a glass of the Bordeaux I’d swiped from the rack in the study.
From the kitchen, he says, “I ordered sushi, I hope that’s okay for you?”
“I love sushi.”
“Great. Should be here soon.”
I watch him as he moves, flits really, about his small kitchen. He looks relaxed as I take the glass he offers—he’d poured himself a small one, too—and turn around to take in the apartment again until something occurs to me. “Can I see the painting?”
He gulps down a mouthful of wine and nods.
“Sure. It’s in the bedroom.” His nostrils flare, mouth quirking temptingly as he moves past me toward the bedroom.
I’m not sure if he means for me to follow him in there or not, but I wander after him anyway, glass in hand.
There’s a candle burning on a tall dresser, the scent rich and dark, and a whole wall of trainers lined up neatly by the door of a large closet, which is open and stuffed full.
It’s otherwise tidy, the walls entirely empty, which strikes me as strange for someone who makes art for a living.
I do spot the painting he’d bought at the antiques place propped against the dresser as though in preparation for being hung.
The bed itself is large and mid-century in style—it also looks antique—and takes up most of the space in the room.
Against the wall, between the door and the bed, is the red, pink, and black painting I’d seen via text message.
It’s far more striking than it looked in the photo.
I’m cast in pink, against a red background, black shadows bleeding out from my face.
There are no features to the face, but there’s something about the pose which does, admittedly, feel like mine.
Head turned away, eyes down. There’s a sudden, unexpected rush of emotion in my chest, and I have to blink a few times and breathe deep in order to settle it.
“You’re under no obligation to buy it,” Asher says. “Like, if you hate it now you’ve seen it up close, it’s totally cool. I won’t be offended.”
“I don’t hate it.”
“You feel some kinda way about it though, I can see that.” I turn my head to find he’s watching me closely. I clear my throat and shift my gaze back to the painting.
“Yes. I…” Words are not easy, my voice feels feeble. “Well, it’s rather intense looking at a piece of art in which you’re the subject. It’s a first for me. I suppose I didn’t expect to be so… affected by it.”
I turn my head to see if I’ve articulated that or if I’ve offended him, but he’s still just watching me, same curious expression on his face. Slowly, he reaches a hand up and skims warm fingers over my cheek. It’s quite unexpected. I tremble in surprise.
“You’re really not what I thought you’d be, you know,” he says, almost tenderly.
I close my eyes and lean into his touch, and I sense him move closer.
As though I’m touch-starved, I lean my whole body into his smaller one, and he reaches up to kiss me, wine-stained lips sweet and hot.
His kiss is tentative, as though he’s afraid to overwhelm me.
Gripping hold of his small waist, I tilt my head and deepen the kiss, pushing my tongue into his mouth to taste him fully.
He groans, reaching for me and pulling me to him, where he begins to move against me, the front of our bodies pressed and moving together.
When our kiss turns erratic, lust racing up my spine, he pulls back, takes my glass, and sets both on his bedside table.
He takes my hand and leads me to the bed, where very gently, he pushes me down so that I’m sitting, and kneels up and over to straddle me.
Once he’s settled there, he dives for my mouth again.
I’m hard very quickly, and he notices, because he’s reaching between us—eyes searching for consent in mine first, which I give fervently—to unbuckle my belt and unbutton my trousers.
Easily, he slips his hand inside, curling it around me to stroke at the head with warm, eager fingers.
“I want to taste it,” he says, sweet voice rough with desire. “Can I?”
I nod, and Asher slides off my lap and onto his knees on the floor, where he unlaces my shoes first. I lift my arse up and off the bed and let him strip me.
My socks, he leaves on. When my legs are spread wide for him, he gives me a heavy-lidded, sultry look, flutters his eyelashes, and leans in to lick the pool of precum off the head of my dick without breaking my stare. I groan in pure pleasure.
“Fuck, I’d really hoped you were uncut,” he remarks, sucking on the foreskin as his eyes shutter closed. “I’ve been thinking about this for weeks.”
“Have you?”
He nods demurely, scooping up the bead of moisture at the tip with his small pink tongue, lapping at it like a cat.
“Christ, Asher... that feels…” I reach out to smooth a hand over his ear, fiddling with the diamond first, and then the little silver ear cuff. He shivers. “You’re so beautiful.”
He gives me a delicious smile. “Thank you. You’re so fucking hot…
and your dick tastes incredible.” To demonstrate, he swallows my entire dick into his perfect mouth, and all of my brain function leaves the room.
He works his mouth over every inch of it, licking and sucking it like he’s starved for it, and soon—too soon—I’m overwhelmed.
“Asher, beautiful boy, I’m going to… you need to.”
He gives me a very purposeful look and makes absolutely no move to pull off me.
In fact, he reaches out and takes my hand to settle it on his head.
When I fist his hair, he moans and sucks harder.
I grab his hair in a tight fist and begin to move my hips up off the bed and fuck into his throat rough and fast, the sound of his pleasured little moans a harmony to my ears.
A few moments later, I’m done, folding over him to pour into his tight throat.
It’s then I notice he has his trousers unzipped and a hand around his own cock, fisting it furiously as he swallows my climax.
I loosen my grip on his head and fall backwards onto the bed, breathing fast and hard as every ounce of tension leaves my body, white-hot relaxation melting over me.
Christ, I needed that. Asher holds my cock in his mouth a few moments after I finish, suckling on the sensitive head, before pulling off with a soft pull on the skin.
With a satisfied murmur, he climbs up off the floor and onto the bed to hover above me.
When I open my eyes, it’s to him gazing down at me, blue eyes wide and curious.
“You okay there?” he checks, mouth quirked amusedly.
“Mm. Very much so, yes.” I laugh, breathlessly.
He beams. “Great, that’s great. I’m glad. I really enjoyed that—you have a really nice dick.”
I can’t help the laugh that bubbles out of my chest. “Well, you have an exceptionally pretty and talented mouth.”
“Yeah? Wait until you see my hole.”
This time, the laugh explodes out of me just as his doorbell sounds. He hits me lightly on the chest. “Come on, let’s go eat some sushi and then I’ll sit on your face for dessert.”
He bounds off me and out of the room to get the door.