Chapter 16 Andre
SIXTEEN
Andre
After three days, I can see the problem with this situation.
In some ways, Elias is thriving. He’s eating more regularly.
He’s jogging every morning at the nearby park, though I did have to correct him the first day when he went out at six a.m., which is way too dangerous.
Thank god I was already up and working out in the penthouse gym.
I racked my weights immediately and followed.
I made abundantly clear to him that he wasn’t to do that again, not in the dark. He knows very well what could happen.
Looking back, I think that’s why he did it. But that’s not how the game works. I can’t repeat that first chase because I can’t be in that primal headspace when I also have to be in the office with him. Besides, it would be too predictable.
But it highlights the problem. My control is too remote.
Yes, Elias obeys. He wears the collar at night. He comes with my instruction. But he’s still lonely. He’s suffering from lack of touch.
And not just that. Elias needs intensity. He’s adrift without it, disconnected from life. He needs pain and fear, and the only version of me that he’s afraid of right now is the one he works for—and that version can’t actually hurt him. At least, not in the way he needs.
I am hurting him though. I’m frustrated. I’m weirdly, confusingly jealous of myself, and I’m taking it out on him.
Yesterday, Elias had the collar double wrapped around his wrist under his starched cuff. It was well hidden, but I’d seen him put it on, so I knew it was there and made an excuse to touch his wrist while he was pulling a book from the bookcase.
He yanked away from me, which really pissed me off, so I trapped him against the shelves. I pretended to be concerned, asked him if he was okay. His breathing shallowed. His eyes darted back and forth. He started sweating.
When he got home last night, I asked him over the phone, through the voice modulator, what was wrong. I could tell he was upset. I knew he was upset—and he fucking lied to me.
He said it was a hard day at work, that he’d made a mistake and felt stupid. And I couldn’t fucking call him out on it.
Worse, he got insecure. He struggled to come. I’d shamed him, and I’m very fucking upset with myself about it. I don’t want to shame him.
Scare him? Yes. Degrade him? Sure, when it’s part of the pleasure. Push his boundaries? Absolutely. But shame him and make him feel small and awful? Fucking no.
The problem with playing two roles simultaneously is that I’m always denying satisfaction to one part of myself while giving it to another. So it’s win-win but also lose-lose. It’s fucking up my head.
But I have an idea.
Rather, I had it at three a.m., and it’s well underway by the time Elias is riding the elevator with me up to my penthouse in the evening. I have that stupid fucking party to attend, and he’s going to help me dress for it.
It’s been a long day for him, though, between the anal plug and the way I’ve casually touched him at every opportunity. He’s so damn hard right now. I am too, but I’m better at hiding it. His eyes are half glazed.
I did, however, give him a pair of compression briefs with the new plug. He’s getting quite a collection of boxes and purple silk.
When the elevator doors open onto the penthouse foyer, Elias takes a fortifying breath. It’s a perfect excuse for me to put my hand on his lower back.
“Come on,” I tell him, guiding him into the huge living room. The kitchen opens to the left. I head that way.
Elias stalls halfway there. In this role, I have to let him.
I grab the Macallan and two crystal glasses then turn to the island.
I glance up at Elias in his slightly rumpled suit.
I can never tell whether he likes this version of me or not.
I can never decide whether I want him to.
After all, I don’t like this version of me.
But I do like that it gives me access to him.
“I need something before this goddamn thing,” I explain as Elias watches me pour whiskey into one of the glasses. “You want any?”
The other glass is waiting. Suggesting.
“I don’t really drink whiskey,” Elias hedges.
“Try it then.” I pour. “You don’t have to finish it if you don’t like it.”
Elias comes to the island. There’s the slightest smile on his face. He’s relaxed a little. Because I poured him a drink? Or because I admitted that I needed one?
“You really don’t want to go to this party,” he observes.
I snort. “What gave it away?”
Elias doesn’t say “the drink” or my tone or the words “fucking thing” like I’ve set him up to do. Instead he says, “When you previewed your schedule this morning, your jaw clenched and your eyes went hard. Then your face went blank.”
Well, fuck. I didn’t think there was anything to read on my face this morning.
Elias blinks. “Sorry. My mouth is stupid tonight. I don’t know why.”
I know why. There’s a huge toy pressing against his prostate. He can’t think clearly. Rather, he can think clearly, but he doesn’t have great control.
But his mouth isn’t stupid, and I hate when he says shit like that. I want to punish him for it. But all I can do is frown.
“No, it’s not.” I slide him a glass. “And you’re right. I don’t want to go. I hate shit like this.”
I pick up my glass while Elias fiddles with his. He asks, “So this person throwing the party isn’t a friend?”
“Business acquaintance. I barely know him and don’t give a shit about him.” I throw back the whiskey and pour another shot.
I can see thoughts in Elias’s eyes, but this time he doesn’t voice them. He tries the whiskey.
“What do you think?” I ask.
He frowns. “I’m not sure.”
“It’s an acquired taste.”
“I guess I’ll keep trying then.”
He’s so serious about it, so determined as he takes another sip. It makes me chuckle and that makes him smile and that makes me want to spend the evening here with him instead of at this fucking party.
But even without the party I couldn’t do that. I wouldn’t know how to spend an evening with him. With anyone. I’ve never invented a role like that.
My mood darkens.
“Do you have to go to parties like this often?” he asks.
“It’s always someone’s birthday or some fucking holiday.”
“So you hate all of them, not just this one in particular.” There’s something slightly teasing in his tone, but I can see the wheels turning.
“Stop trying to figure me out.”
He shrugs. “I can’t help it.”
God, he’s beautiful when he’s like this. Aroused. Unguarded.
Doesn’t he know how vulnerable it makes him? I’m the one who’s done it to him, but he’s the one who’s let me. Not just let me. He asked me to.
He needs me to bring him to this state.
“Come on.” I grab my glass and walk out of the kitchen.
Elias leaves his own glass on the island as he follows me down a hallway to the master bedroom.
The room is huge and luxurious and pristine.
The crisp covers on the bed don’t look touched, and there’s nothing lying around, no books or clothes, no devices charging.
I wonder if it’s obvious to my very observant Elias that I never sleep here.
I replaced the mattress, thinking I would, but I can’t sleep in Peter Grange’s room.
I do, however, make use of the walk-in closet. It helps me get into my role.
“Whoa,” Elias marvels as I turn on the light.
I shove my hands in my pockets and let him look around. He’s walking by the hanging suits, his back to me, when I hit the button on the remote.
He cries out sharply. His muscles seize like it’s an electric shock rather than a vibration inside him. His knees buckle and he falls, grabbing at the sleeve of a hanging jacket on his way down.
He’s in no state to notice my momentary delay as I watch his reaction, as my body reacts to what I know is happening to his. Then I rush to him. He’s on his hands and knees.
“Are you okay?” I ask, crouching, crowding him, making it impossible for him to get up even when he manages to get one foot under himself.
“Shit,” he mutters. “Fuck. I’m sorry, I—”
“Elias.” I put my hand on his lower back. He flinches, shudders. He’s in a bad position. The plug is vibrating right against his prostate.
An image flashes through my mind: Elias, stripped bare here on the floor of the closet, his wrists bound with the purple silk ribbon located in the accessory cabinet. It would be so easy.
But that’s not the game we’re playing.
I help him up. He scrambles a bit, but I keep my hands on him to slow the movement. He turns to face me. I still have my hands on him, one on his waist, the other on the crook of his neck.
“I tripped,” he tells me breathily.
I pretend to believe him. “Are you all right?”
His dark eyes are huge. He’s fighting the shudders in his body, but I can see them. Beautiful red has bloomed across his cheekbones.
Arousal doesn’t show easily in dark eyes like his, but it surely shows in mine. Can’t he tell that I want him? Or is he too worried to notice?
He is, certainly, worried. He’s in agony from his arousal and his fear. But he’s a masochist and I’m a sadist, so we both just stand there and experience his suffering.
Elias breaks first, breaks away. In my other role, I wouldn’t let him, but in this one I have to. He bends down to pick up the jacket that he dragged to the floor.
I hear his bitten-off cry as the vibrating plug tortures him with pleasure. His hands are shaking when he straightens with the coat.
“I’m sorry,” he says as I take it from him and hang it up. “I probably wrinkled it—”
“I don’t give a fuck about the suit. All that matters is whether you’re okay.”
“I’m just … embarrassed,” he admits. His eyes are begging me for mercy.
Oh, baby, never ask for mercy from someone who has none.
He says, “I just need to use the—”
My fingers settle lightly on his belly to stall him. “Help me pick something.”
“Um …”
I still haven’t fixed the “um,” maybe because I’m starting to like it. Of course, it’s pretty understandable under the circumstances. I turn him toward the hanging suits.