Chapter 28
Twenty eight
Asher
Christian’s palace is lit up like the White House on the Fourth of July as we pull up in the Uber. The Uber isn’t allowed through the gate, only pre-approved vehicles are, so I get out first and help Am out, and we begin to make our way on foot towards the white security tent that’s been set up.
“This is actually insane,” she whispers, holding onto my arm.
Since my legs are trembling with nerves, I really should be the one holding onto her.
The most immediate fear is about not getting in; about there being an issue with our invite or security clearance that ends up with us being fucking arrested or something.
The second layer of fear is about getting in and being surrounded by politicians and diplomats and millionaires who know from a single look that I don’t belong there, and as much as I love her, neither does Amata.
Why the fuck did you come then, is what you’re thinking, right? Well, because he invited me. Because, despite how risky it is for him, despite how impossible I am for him, he wanted me here. So I’m fucking here.
The line moves quickly, and then we’re being waved forward by the guard, all of whom have fucking assault rifles. Big ones. I’m not a gun guy, but these are the real deal.
“Good evening, gentlemen,” Amata says breezily as we’re assessed by four sets of very dark, very serious eyes.
This isn’t about customer service here, so they give her barely a nod and take the envelope I hold out to them and inspect it.
Christian had it couriered over with my passport last night.
He’d wanted to bring it himself, but he’d been too busy with work, and so I actually hadn’t seen him all week.
He’d been in New York, then California, then San Diego, then fucking Ohio, of all places.
He’d had some time last night, but he’d sounded exhausted on the phone, so I’d suggested he go home and get an early night, knowing I’d be seeing him tonight anyway.
Which is likely all I’ll get: to see him.
After the guards have confirmed my invite is genuine, and that we match the picture of us on their computer, they give us a quick search before sending us through those electronic security frames you see at the courthouse.
“He make you do that every time you come over?” Amata asks as we head up the drive toward the house.
“Ha. Funny. I’ve only been here once, when everyone was out of town.”
“I still actually can’t believe it, all those James Bond jokes and the guy is like on Her Majesty’s Secret Service.”
“His Majesty’s Secret Service. The queen died.”
“Shit, that’s right.”
“Anyway, tonight I’m the one on secret service. How the fuck do I pretend I barely know him?” The words of the great philosopher Elsa spring to mind: Conceal, don’t feel. “I’m gonna say something and fuck everything up, I just know it.”
“No, you’re not. Stop it. Pretend you’re back at HHM—don’t speak unless asked a direct question.” She lowers her voice to a whisper. “And no one’s going to ask if you’re secretly fucking the ambassador, so it’ll be fine.”
“No, they only ask me that on the street outside my house.”
“Thomas, it’s going to be fine. I’m going to be right next to you,” Amata promises.
“Now, how do I look?” We’re about to step through the large open door, where inside is a literal soiree of well-dressed people.
I don’t need to look at her to confirm she looks fire in a vintage red Calvin Klein dress she’d thrifted online.
Louboutins she hadn’t. Her make-up minimal except for a bright red lip.
“Like a fucking queen.”
She beams and pulls me tighter against her body.
“And if he is able to keep his hands off you looking like that, then he is broken.” I’d gone for loose, black, work-style pants belted tightly at my waist and a sheer black top that has the appearance of being a single layer of fabric wrapped around my body, torso to throat.
It was a risk wearing an outfit that showed off my nipples, but once I realised I only had to dress for Christian, no one else, it was easier.
I’d drawn dark, winged liner over my eyelids and dabbed some glitter, glossed my lips, and pulled on an oversized black ankle-length coat—also vintage Calvin Klein.
Just inside the door, a man offers to take it, but I decide to leave it on a bit longer.
Feels almost like armour as we move into the very busy entrance hall.
We both immediately grab a glass of champagne from a passing server and find a place near the stairs to stand and take everything in.
“Oh my god,” exclaims Amata. “Who is that?”
I turn, expecting to see someone famous or maybe even Christian, but when I follow her eyeline, it’s to a tall, dark-skinned, incredibly hot guy in a full tuxedo.
“Don’t recognise him.”
“Is he checking me out?” she asks.
“Eh, it could be me.”
“Maybe he recognises you from your asshole.”
“In which case, it’s definitely me. Well, he’s coming over, so I guess we can ask him.
” Beside me, Amata straightens, flicking her hair over her shoulder in the way she does when she’s interested.
The guy, when he stops in front of us, looks dazzled as he blinks at Am, before seeming to have to drag his eyes to me.
“Asher?” he asks.
“Who’s asking?” My heart starts beating faster as I try to prepare for what’s coming next. I know two people here, so there’s only one reason this guy knows my name.
“I’m Gael,” he says. “I work for the ambassador.”
I breathe out. “Oh, okay.”
“He asked if I can take you to him? He’s in his study.”
“Sure,” I say.
Gael nods and looks at Amata again, smiling this time (his smile is diabolically perfect), before we both follow him towards the back of the large house.
We pass another large room where, inside, a bar has been set up and a band is playing the kind of classical music you hear in fancy hotels.
Turning a corner, we’re passed by a line of servers, all holding gold circular trays laden with small parcels of food.
They’re being given instructions by a woman in a grey suit who’s wearing one of those earpieces–come–Britney microphones. Gael stops and gestures toward a door.
“He’s alone,” he tells me before looking at Amata. “Ma’am, I can keep you company for a bit if you’d like?”
“I’d like that, Gael.” She practically swoons into his arm as he holds it out for her to take, and they move off back in the direction we came. I knock on the door gently.
“Come in,” Christian’s voice calls from inside. I glance behind me first—no one is paying any attention—before slipping inside.
My mouth drops open at the sight. It’s James fucking Bond. He’s perched on the edge of his desk, hands in his pockets, and in full black tie. His hair is slicked and styled, stubble trimmed almost all the way back but not entirely. He looks like a million fucking dollars.
“Holy shit,” I blurt, drawing my eyes over him. “You look like all my fantasies came at once.”
He looks pleased, but definitely a little shy about the compliment. “I could say the same about you. Though, disappointed you didn’t go for the vinyl number, if I’m honest.”
“Too understated, like you said.”
“Lock the door,” he says. When I’ve done it, I cross the dimly lit office toward him. It’s cozy and wood-panelled, with the biggest desk I’ve ever seen. When I’m close enough, he reaches out and touches my cheek. “I missed you.”
I close my eyes and lean into his touch.
“I missed you, too.” I step into his body, tilting my head up to kiss him.
Still holding my head, he presses his mouth onto mine, slipping his tongue inside to taste me with a soft moan.
There’s the barest hint of scotch on his tongue, the bold scent of his cologne—sea salt and sandalwood—and I feel myself go all the way hard for him immediately.
The kiss deepens, and I move to wrap my arms around him, but the oversized sleeves of the coat make it awkward.
He notices. He takes hold of the lapel and pushes it off my shoulders, where he catches it and sets it down on the chair opposite.
Then, he wraps his arms around me and turns us both before hoisting me up onto his desk.
He takes a small step back and looks me over hungrily.
“Christ, darling, look at you.”
“Was kind of hoping you’d do more than look, Ambassador.”
His nostrils flare, and then he’s on me again, kissing every part of my face he can reach: chin, lips, cheeks, ears, neck, eyelids.
I’m vaguely worried about my eyeliner, but not enough to tell him to stop.
When I reach for the button on his pants, he lets me, and I open and fumble his dick out.
I move to slide off the desk. I want to go to my knees, pull it into my mouth, and fucking choke on it, but he’s reaching for my belt, so I know this is about to be something else, and I’m not mad about it. My hole practically clenches with want.
“Asher,” he moans into my mouth. “I need to be inside you.”
“Yes, me too,” I pant. “Do it. Fuck me. Right fucking here.”
He makes some ‘fuck it’ noise and yanks open my belt and the button on my pants, then I turn and fold myself over the desk, looking over my shoulder at him. He’s looking at my ass and then at my face, conflicted.
“If you say the word lubricant to me I’m going to laugh, and it will only ruin the moment,” I pant. “Spit on it. It’ll do.”
He doesn’t love this idea, I can tell. “I don’t want to hurt you.”
“You could never hurt me,” I say as sincerely as I can. “Please, I need to feel you stretch me open. I want to go back out there filled with your cum. I want you to know I’m out there, walking around with it running out of my stretched-out hole. Please, daddy.”