38. Silas
38
SILAS
G raham is cooking when I wake up. The smell of garlic and meat sizzling in butter lets me know he’s got steaks going. For someone who grew up with a hired cook, he knows his way around a kitchen. He says it’s all thanks to YouTube, which is believable. I now know how to play guitar thanks to some excellent tutorials.
My singing voice could use some work, but Graham loves it, and since he’s the only audience I ever play for, I’m not shy about singing either. I stretch out, relishing the ache in my limbs from being well-used this morning after I got home from work. There’s a bruise on my chest from where the harness dug into my breastbone, and my nipples are both purple with hickeys, making them look obscene and swollen around the piercings.
The shower is my first stop since I basically passed out after I came. I pay special attention to my asshole and my piercings when I wash up, my cock stiffening as I stroke two soapy fingers in and out of my hole.
You’d think a few weeks of living with someone would have me less horny, but the way he travels—I’m constantly hard up for him. It’s like I run on his cum and need to be filled to the brim to keep existing while he’s away. Luckily, he seems to operate on the same principle. Or he has a breeding kink he’s too shy to verbalize. It suits him, though. Suits me, too.
The shades are drawn in the apartment, leaving the low ambient light in the living room and the brighter lighting in the kitchen. Graham’s look of pure longing when he sees me is the strongest aphrodisiac known to man. He’s in a t-shirt and sweats. I’ve got on a tight tank and gym shorts. I wanted to tease him with the piercings because sex before dinner is always a good idea. Works up the appetite.
“Look at you,” he barely whispers.
I lean on the counter, facing him, a couple of feet from the stove where he’s standing, checking out every inch of my body. His gaze lingers on my obvious erection.
“How was your shower?”
“Lonely,” I say. “How was your lunch?”
He shakes his head and turns back to the cast-iron pan. “I’d rather talk about your dick.”
“That bad, huh?”
He doesn’t respond.
It’s easy to tell when something’s eating at him, but he’ll talk about it when he’s ready. Pushing him to talk only makes him emotional. It tends to complicate things that were simple to start with. He needs time to process, and I’ve learned that over our nearly two years together.
“What else are you making?” I ask instead of pressing.
“There’s a salad in the fridge. Potatoes in the oven.”
“Is there some open wine somewhere, too?”
He gestures at the counter on the other side of him. I head over and see he’s had half a glass. There’s an empty one waiting for me. I fill it and top his off. We toast casually in silence and take sips.
I rub his back as I watch him cook. He casts an occasional glance my way—longing, pining, vaguely desperate glances. No smiles, no overt eye-fucking.
When I can’t take it anymore, I hold the back of his neck and keep him in place while I plant a long kiss on his mouth. His lips part, and our tongues slide against each other’s, thick with passion and hot with hunger.
He flips off the burner and shoves the pan with the steaks to the back of the stove, caging me in against the countertop. I wrap my arms around his waist and grind our hips together. Moving to kiss my jaw and neck, he murmurs, “You smell good.”
Unable to help myself, I run my hands up the back of his shirt, palming his hot skin and savoring the feel of his back muscles moving beneath them. My nipples scream in protest at the friction created by our chests and shirts, but my cock is throbbing so hard, it doesn’t matter.
“I don’t want to ruin dinner,” I lie.
“You want to ruin me,” he says. “I know your game. But you’re too fucking late.”
Whatever that means. He slips a hand between us, down the front of my shorts to grip my cock.
“Fuck,” I breathe into his neck.
“You like that?” he asks, stroking it casually.
“Yeah. But I don’t think you want to cook with cum on your hand.”
“You don’t know me as well as you think you do, then.”
“Jesus,” I sigh as his dry strokes quicken. It feels so fucking good, my thighs are already quivering.
“You’re so easy whenever I get back in town.”
“Because I’m goddamn starving.”
“You think you can beat your record tonight?”
“Probably.”
I’m talking a big game because my record for coming in one night is five times, and I thought I was gonna die that night. It was recently, too. It was the game he decided he wanted to play after his last long trip. The tequila flight I’d made for us paid off big time. Honestly, I was surprised five had been my max. If I’d had to bet, I would have said eight. But sex with Graham requires certain sacrifices of my soul. I don’t just come physically, I wring myself emotionally dry with each effort.
The way I feel right now, I’m betting three will end me, if I survive this one.
He drops to his knees, and my head falls back, banging the cabinet. His mouth swallows my cock, and I hang on to his hair while he runs the tight ring of his lips up and down my shaft, his tongue flicking along the way, lighting up every nerve root in my spine.
“Jesus, that feels good.”
He hums like he’s agreeing.
Holding my dick out of the way, he dips his head to take my balls into his mouth, fondling them with his tongue and grazing the sensitive skin of my sac with his teeth. It feels insane. New and different as he slowly jerks my length. He’s so fucking wet and sloppy, I can hear his drool hit the floor as he makes a mess of me. He slurps, sucks, swallows, strokes until my back is arching, and I’m losing my mind. “Baby, I’m gonna come.”
My balls fall from his mouth, but he doesn’t return to sucking my dick like I thought he would. Instead, he pumps me vigorously, until I’m throbbing and grunting. When I inevitably blow, he’s holding my crown an inch from his mouth, his tongue out to catch what he can of my load, but it’s a strong one, and it sprays his cheeks first, right where his beard starts, until the drops fall into his mouth. He laps at my tip to collect the smaller gushes as I watch in total awe at what a slutty, degrading show that was. It’s hot as hell and has me coming for so long my vision blurs.
Eventually, I swipe the streaks from his face with two fingertips, and he opens his mouth again like he expects me to feed it to him. So I do, shivering as he sucks my fingers and stares into my eyes .
There’s a desperate plea in his. “I need to come, baby.”
I nod, ready to make that happen for him.
But without further conversation, he takes his dick out of his pants and jerks himself to orgasm in seconds, squirming on the floor as I watch cum shoot from his tip, listening to his cries of release as he spills and spills in the most humiliating fashion, emerald eyes locked on mine the whole time.
His chin trembles as he begins to come down. I slide to the floor, my legs spread out on either side of him as I cover the hand that’s still wrapped around his own cock with mine.
I don’t know what to say, so I kiss him, my taste heavy on his tongue. His hands cradle my face as we make love to each other’s mouths. There’s no other way to describe it. It’s tender and passionate but not greedy or forceful. Just a deep, slow kiss that lasts for so long I’m consumed. His eyes are red and full of unshed tears when I pull away.
“You okay?” I whisper.
He nods, jaw tense.
“Should we eat?”
Another nod, and we help each other up. We drink our wine in silence while he finishes the steaks, and I set the table, find the salad and some utensils, and take the potatoes out of the oven.
I go to open the shades.
“Don’t,” he practically barks, startling me.
I drop my hand and ask, “Why not?”
He looks like he surprised himself, too. His answer is sort of a scramble about how he wants to be able to focus on us, dinner, he likes the lighting the way it is, et cetera.
“Okay,” I acquiesce, not really caring except for the obvious way he’s upset. I might have to press the issue, but maybe if we both have some more wine—some sex—we’ll both chill out.
Sometimes when he gets home, especially after being in DC, it takes him a day or two to get back to normal. We definitely have a don’t ask, don’t tell thing going on with whatever he gets up to in the senate. I trust him not to be evil, but I don’t expect I’ll love all the things he does in Washington. Since I moved in here, I’ve stopped paying attention to politics at all, not that I did much before. But even the occasional news article on my phone I used to read, I swipe past now. If gay marriage suddenly becomes illegal, or something equally awful happens, I’m sure I’ll hear about it, and that’s pretty much all I care about. The big stuff. The stuff I’m sure he can’t control.
But the longer he’s been a senator, the more I notice the pressure of the office weighing him down. It can’t be easy to represent as many people as he does—as diverse of a population. Not to mention keeping his family satisfied at the same time. I don’t know how he does it, and I honestly admire the hell out of him. He’s fucking amazing, and I’m proud to be his safe space.
Dinner is good. The steak is slightly overcooked, but it’s a filet, so it’s still tender and delicious. The wine gets better with every sip, a perfect buttery compliment to the comfort food.
And I was right, after a few glasses and a full meal, he finally smiles at me.
I return it easily, my own three glasses making me bold. “What would you think about coming out to Queens with me and meeting my mom and Trixie?”
He nearly drops his glass. “What?”
“It’s about time, don’t you think? If you’re worried they can’t keep a secret?—”
“No, I—it’s not that, I just—” he shakes his head. “It’s so amazing that you would ask, but I…can’t.”
“Why not?”
“Because it’s…things are crazy right now. It’s not a good time.”
There’s a dismissiveness in his tone that hurts slightly. Like a hair being pulled.
“Not to be too blunt,” I say, “But she’s not gonna live forever.”
And that’s no joke. This has been a bad year for Mom. I don’t know how she’s still alive except for the fortune I pay to make sure she stays that way.
Graham gives me a stricken look. “Silas…”
“I’m gonna need a better reason,” I tell him.
He hesitates before stuttering out. “I-I d-don’t have one.”
“Then how about this weekend?”
“I have plans this weekend,” he says quickly.
“What plans?”
“Dinner with my parents. To discuss the divorce.”
I narrow my eyes. “What about it?”
“Well, obviously I can’t afford a decent lawyer, so I’m sort of dependent on their help.”
I sigh, trying my best not to let my irritation show. “I want them to meet you. Before it’s too late.”
“I understand,” he says, but it’s stiff and not understanding in the least.
I finish what’s left of my wine and clear my plate from the table.
He doesn’t get up, so I clear his, too. As I’m about to start on the dishes, I feel his arms wrapping around me from behind.
“Baby, I had a shitty day. I don’t want to fight. Please. Come to bed. Make me feel good. Let me make you feel good.”
“It’s a lot of dishes,” I say, but I don’t turn on the water.
“They can wait. I’m prepared to beg. Are you ready for that?”
I get it. He’s got his reasons. He’s not ready to talk. I’ve been drinking, and if I hadn’t been, I would have thought twice before asking him to come to Queens, but it would mean a lot to me. It would mean a lot to my mom to see us together. To know I love someone who loves me back the way he does.
She’s been asking for so long to meet Graham, and it’s been hard not to tell her everything about why I haven’t brought him by.
But we can be careful. I know that unlike my so-called friends, my mom and Trixie will be able to see what I see in him. A man who feels very much like my soulmate. We fit perfectly together. No matter who he is.
When I don’t respond to his seduction, he says, “Give me the weekend to think about it, okay?”
I nod.
“I know it’s important,” he says, almost like he’s choked up. He takes a deep breath with his face smashed to my neck. He squeezes me tight. “Please, baby, come to bed. I really fucking need you.”
Not only can I not say no to this man, I don’t ever want to.
When the man you love says that, you do whatever it takes.