Chapter 3
CAL
Bolton races through the living room with a wild smile on his face I’ve come to love. It usually means he’s been up to no good, or he has a crazy plot bunny to pursue. The absence of his laptop means it’s the former.
“We’re back in business, daddy!” he shouts before sitting on my lap.
“Is now a bad time to go over the projections for next quarter?” Drew, my VP of Finance, asks.
Bolton freezes, his back straightening as he realizes my laptop is open on the coffee table. He gives Drew an awkward smile.
“I had no clue you were in a meeting, sorry! I’ll come back later to discuss our project,” he blurts as he tries to stand.
I tighten my grip on his hip. “I’ll see you tomorrow. Go enjoy lunch.”
After double-checking that my video software is completely shut down, I close my laptop. Bolton’s face is beet red, with those adorable little lines between his eyebrows he always complains about. I tip him so his back lands on the couch, then lean over him, pinning his hands to the couch.
“Back into what kind of business exactly, because I have an hour until my next meeting. That’s a lot of time to kill,” I growl into his ear, lightly nipping at his lobe and grinding myself into him.
“So before you destroy my ass,” he sighs, squirming beneath me, “I have some news about Melton.”
He beams a devious smile at me. I can see the killer who slaughtered Keller Summerton without a second thought peeking through his hazel eyes. Only a glimmer, but enough to remind me he’s still inside my Bolton, ready to break free and cause some serious damage if needed.
“I saw a picture of him on Mikey D’s refrigerator after our session. Apparently Melton is a homophobic uncle, and his shady lifestyle scares his family. He runs a club in West Queens by the bridge and Mikey suspects there’s human trafficking involved.”
I sit up, opening my laptop to search for clubs in west Queens, cross-checking their addresses with the 59th Street Bridge.
Of the two results, one is an obvious choice: the Kitty House.
The place is billed as a high-end gentlemen’s club, but the photographs show outdated decor and some questionable food.
Although my days of going to gentlemen’s clubs are long gone, I wouldn’t have set foot into one like this.
“Well, maybe it has excellent drinks?” Bolton asks hesitantly, his nose scrunching up. This place looks like such a dump; I can smell the stale alcohol and cigar smoke through the screen. “Hopefully, I won’t find out. I don’t trust how sanitary this place is.”
“You won’t. I’ll be surveilling this place alone.”
I don’t want Bolton going into a dump like this.
These places are filled with losers and sleazeballs, the lowest of the low.
People who’d take one look at Bolton and think he’s weak because of his stature or his mannerisms. They’d fuck with him to prove a point or to make themselves feel better about their shitty existence.
He’d prove them wrong, and then we’d have some corpses on our hands. Everyone is safer if he stays at home.
“Excuse me? It sounds like you’re trying to tell me what to do…”
“Yes. I’m telling you to stay home, where you’re safe. You don’t know how dangerous places like these are. Only the most undesirable, disgusting people go here, and I don’t want you around all of that.”
Bolton clicks on a link, then spins the laptop to face me.
A picture of a barely dressed, mildly attractive woman around his age serving patrons drinks fills the screen.
Her bleach-blond hair falls around her face in waves, eyes glazed over, most likely because the corset top she’s wearing is too tight.
Not sure how she breathes in that thing, let alone works in it.
“Yeah, you’re not going there alone. You’ll walk in and the strippers will smell your money from a mile away and descend upon you like you’re made of twenty four-karat gold.
I’m coming with you, or I’m going on my own.
Your choice.” He gives me a defiant stare and a fierce pout, even crosses his arms like he means business.
“They’re going to know right away we’re together, and that will raise suspicion. I’m not risking your safety because you’re territorial."
“Territorial? The pot calling the kettle black, much? You literally growl if a man even looks in my general direction. You have a tracker on my phone and in the car service I take. Don’t you dare lie and say you don’t; I’ve known for years.
You’ll probably blow an aneurysm if you listen to the first five minutes of this podcast because Mikey D said I was handsome. ”
I laugh. Not because he’s funny, but because I truly thought he didn’t know. Seems I can’t get anything over my lightning bolt. It takes several seconds for the last part of his barb to register.
The podcast punk thinks he’s handsome? Maybe that explains why he was gone for four hours.
He storms into the kitchen, flinging open a cabinet and ripping out a bag of cheesy puffs. Then he grabs a cherry cola from the fridge.
“Fuck you, you’re pissing me off. I would rather use a different medium for recon. Have fun hanging out with busted-ass strippers and eating greasy appetizers, asshole.”
He makes his way down the hallway, slamming his door in his usual dramatic fashion. I give him a few minutes to eat something, maybe take a few sips of his drink before heading to his door.
I feel the top of his doorjamb, smiling when I find the key I hid to the lock. It makes quick work of letting myself into his room.
“Don’t you know what a locked door means? Get the fuck out and leave me alone.”
He rolls over in bed, taking his cheesy puffs with him and huffing an annoyed sigh, as if my very presence annoys him.
Which is ironic because ten minutes ago he was going to let me ‘destroy his ass’.
I climb onto the bed, pulling on his ankle until he’s close enough for me to sit across the backs of his legs and pin his arms down.
His struggle to free himself from me is exquisite, warming me like a decadent glass of red wine.
Tempting me to punish him in the best of ways.
“You’re trying my patience, brat.”
He peers over his shoulder, smirking at me. Then he kicks his foot up, hitting me in the ass. His raucous laughter stops when I put my full weight on him. The fight leaves him as his body sinks into the mattress.
“What did you hope to accomplish with your dramatics, baby? That’s not how we’re supposed to argue.”
He mumbles into the sheets, but I can tell whatever he said was sarcastic. I wouldn’t expect anything less from him. Running my fingers through his hair, I pull his head up slightly.
“What did you say?” I ask.
“I wanted to get away from my control freak husband,” he spits.
“Too bad for you, because all your control freak husband wants to do is demonstrate open, honest communication with you,” I sing-song.
Bolton is always turned on when I use our therapy strategies in the real world. And right now, his lust is fueling his anger, pushing him right into my trap.
“Cool, open and honest it is. It isn’t fair that you get to tell me what I can and cannot do. I’m going with you or without you. It’s your choice.”
I run my nose up the side of his neck, breathing in the scent of his cologne. “It’s not a safe place for you to be. And if someone hurts you…” I trail off, because the thought of someone hurting him makes my throat catch.
“Are you kidding me! I can take care of myself. I’ve been taking self-defense classes, and I killed a guy!” he shouts.
“I know you can—it doesn’t mean I won’t protect you. I will always stand between you and danger, every single time.” My lips press to his neck, leaving a light kiss behind. “And you handling yourself is exactly what I’m afraid of. If you kill or injure someone, it puts a target on your back.”
He shifts beneath me, trying to roll over. I let him, then settle on top of him again. His eyes are sparkling with emotion, and it’s impossible not to stare into them. I can feel my resolve crumbling with every breath I take.
“I promise I will be on my best behavior and won’t antagonize anyone. My job is to observe and gather enough intel to reasonably assume or prove Melton is our next step.”
Do I think Bolton believes he can keep his promise? Yes. Do I think he will? I guess we’ll see. He’s so fucking stubborn and adorable, giving into him is a foregone conclusion.
Bolton wriggles his hands between us, then unbuckles my pants, shoving his hand inside. His fingers wrap around my cock, stroking it lightly, testing the waters between us.
“Please, Daddy?” he manipulates me, gazing up at me with those enormous eyes and plump, slightly parted lips.
I might act like I hate his nickname for me, but deep down, it hits a primal note in the basest, most intrinsic part of me.
I get out of bed, sitting on the chaise lounge near the window. If he’s going to manipulate me into a terrible decision, I’m going to enjoy it.
“Out of bed, brat.” He stands up near the side of the bed closest to me, the outline of his hard cock visible through his jeans. “Take your clothes off—everything but your underwear.”
He obeys me, slowly removing his shirt, pants, and socks until only his pale blue briefs remain.
I take my time deliberately raking my gaze down his body from head to toe.
The self-defense classes he started a couple of months ago show in the defined lines and planes of his muscles.
His cheeks are red, eyes smoldering with intensity.
Bolton loves being dominated, following orders. He craved the praise and release he receives for being my good baby. I try to be careful not to cross lines and degrade him too much because I know I get carried away sometimes. Hopefully my next order doesn’t cross a line.
“Get on your hands and knees. Crawl to me.” I gesture to the floor.
He gets on all fours, crawling toward me with an unconscious sway in his hips. The hint of red on his cheeks from earlier turned into a furious blush. He tries to hide how turned on he is from with his lack of eye contact, but I can see a wet spot forming on his briefs.
He stops at the side of the chaise, patiently kneeling as he waits for his next order. His natural submission is stunning.
Hmm, what to make him do next?
The ways to break him down are endless. I get an incoming call from my personal assistant and decide on something truly fucked up.
“Hello, can you hold for one moment?” I mute the phone, turning my attention to Bolton. “Be a good slut and suck my cock while I handle this call.”
The warring expressions of shame and hunger on Bolton’s face as he takes me into his mouth are almost comical. He doesn’t need words to express how desperately he wants to be degraded—or how badly he’s getting off on it.
Bolton’s tongue runs under the head of my cock, then he takes me back into his throat.
He sucks at the base, and it feels as if my entire body is buzzing with electricity.
My assistant prattles on about nonsense I can’t give a fuck less about.
Something about a contract she needs me to sign and how it’s time-sensitive. A meeting?
I don’t even hear her over the sounds of Bolton’s angry breaths or the sloppy sound his mouth makes as he works his lips up and down my cock. If he keeps this up, I’m going to blow my load much sooner than intended.
I wrap his fingers into his silky curls, pulling his head up.
“Slow down,” I mouth, using my grip to move his head at an acceptable speed.
I hear my assistant say, “Mr. Monroe? Did you hear me? I’ll need more solid figures for the offer. This information is time-sensitive.”
What the fuck is she talking about?
Bolton picks this time to graze his teeth on the sides of my shaft, looking up at me like the little chaos demon he is.
“Oh, fuck,” I groan.
“If you don’t have an exact number, it’s fine, Mr. Monroe. I can always call Drew and see what he can come up with.”
I push Bolton’s head down on my cock as far as it’ll go, reveling in the feeling of his throat convulsing around me. Hopefully she can’t hear his gagging over the call.
“Yes, please do. Email me a final version before you send it.”
I hang up, then peer down at my little lightning bolt. He’s still gagging, his breaths stuttered. His eyes are wide, but not in fear or discomfort. No, his eyes are hazy, as if he’s floating a million miles away. He’s getting off on his.
And far be it from me to ruin his high.
I loosen my grip so he can have a little breathing room. He inhales deeply, the drool on his lips running down his chin. Then I push him back down and wrap my free hand around his throat and squeeze lightly on the sides.
We’ve incorporated breath play before, but not like this. He cups my balls with his free hand and rolls them as he sucks my soul from my body.
“You’re playing a dangerous game,” I warn him. He hums around me, his eyes daring me. “Are you going to swallow every single drop of my cum, baby?”
Bolton moans, swirling his tongue around me as I push him deeper. He stills as I release down his throat.
I pull him up from the floor into my lap, ready to take him in hand to return the favor…but the huge wet spot on his briefs tells me I’m too late.
“Excited much?” I steal one of his stupid millennial phrases. Now that I’m saying it in context though, it makes sense.
“Oh, fuck off,” he sighs. “I can’t believe we did that while your assistant was on the phone. We’re deplorable.”
“No, you’re a chaotic, dick-hungry slut with no self-control—“ I gesture to the wet spot. “I’m just the man who tries to give you structure and benefits from your loose whore ways.”
“Well, you better let your living chaos come with you, or else.” He eyes me, and despite my reservations, I give in.
“Fine. We’ll go this Saturday. That gives us a few days to prepare.”
Hopefully, I don’t regret this.