60. Graham
60
GRAHAM
E xplaining the stop in Philadelphia to my two-man security detail requires some lying on my part. I eventually settle on a last minute meeting with an unnamed congressperson. If I were able to think clearly, I might have been able to come up with a name, but the only one in my head is Silas, Silas, Silas.
At any rate, they buy it. I’ve been dodging them with ease lately. They never even knew I left my Upper West Side apartment yesterday. I left my real phone in my bedroom and taken a cheap “burner” phone with me to Silas’s place.
This, though, I wasn’t expecting. Not after the way we left things. I can’t presume to know what goes on in my ex’s head anymore, but he keeps surprising me. Initiating a booty call was not on my bingo card of things Silas might ever do, much less twenty-four hours after I told him my family was responsible for everything shitty that happened to him in the last year.
It feels too good to be true—like no way would he let me off this easy. Plus, I’m not sure I want off this hook. If more suffering is in store, so be it. I’m forever at his mercy, provided I can get out from beneath my father’s thumb from time to time .
It shouldn’t be hard tonight. I book three rooms at the hotel, ensuring Luke and Derrick are on another floor. They’ll have the night to do whatever they do when they’re not following me around, and I’ll be neatly tucked into my room, with my phone, free to let in whoever turns up. Since I won’t be leaving, they won’t have a thing to worry about. Tomorrow morning, I’ll tell them the meeting got rescheduled, and I’ll be back on the train by noon or so.
The call from my father comes like clockwork. “Who are you meeting with?”
“She’s local,” I tell him. “You probably wouldn’t have heard of her. Tough primary.”
“What does she want with you?”
“Endorsement.”
“What’s her name? I want to look her up.”
“Hey, Dad—you’re cutting out. Let me call you after I check into the hotel.” And have time to do a little research.
I click into my location app to see Silas’s dot approaching Pennsylvania. I stare at it a long moment, having some trouble believing this is happening. But unless he tossed his phone on a train in some elaborate prank to put me in my place, I have to trust what I’m seeing.
On the drive to the hotel, I manage to find a local Republican woman running in a primary for the state house. She’s fairly extreme, but I send her an email wishing her well and letting her know to reach out if I can do anything to help. Then I send my father her name.
He gives me a thumbs up in approval, and I don’t know what to make of that. If he really thinks I’d support someone whose banner pledge is to return marriage to men and women, then I’ve done a great job at making him believe I’ve turned into a monk.
I admit, the idea of becoming a monk has crossed my mind as a viable next step. I’ve even, in my darker hours, researched monasteries. I’m not cut out for the priesthood—I could never minister to a room full of true believers, but I could lock up my cock, keep my mouth shut, and learn how to garden, or whatever monks do.
I’ve spent all day out of chastity, and it’s been torture, making me remember why I caged myself in the first place. I’ve lost track of how many times I’ve sprung an erection—like my dick is making up for lost time. The one I have now has been painfully persistent since the train pulled into the station. I’m dying to get into my room.
The check-in process goes smoothly, and Luke sees me to my floor. Once I thank him, and am safely alone behind a closed door, I text Silas.
Me
Room 827. I don’t have any supplies.
Silas
I packed light, but I did pack.
Me
Do you want me to send a car to the station?
Silas
I already have one coming.
When he doesn’t say anything else, I get into the shower with my erection still raging. It takes me almost no time to come in a knee-buckling rush. Once my mind clears, I realize I haven’t told the front desk I’m expecting someone.
I almost pick up the phone to do it, but then I realize how stupid that would be. I don’t know how we’re going to do this without being caught on camera or photographed outright.
Shit.
He’s gonna have to get his own room.
I text him this.
He responds with, Yeah, I figured. Stop worrying .
Surely no one working at this hotel will connect our names after all this time. And besides, coincidences happen.
My father had Silas followed for about four months after the video came out until I told him to back off. He seemed embarrassed about it in general, readily agreeing to stop tracking him. Not only was I behaving myself, but it felt good to stand up to him when I had nothing left to lose. It makes me wonder if I have it in me to do it again—when I may have something to gain.
Stop worrying .
I can’t seem to. Trains derail. Cars crash. Cards get declined. Any number of things can happen to prevent me from seeing him tonight, but none of those things come to pass. Silas comes knocking exactly on schedule.
And God…he looks perfect. His hair, his dark, sexy eyes, his… smile .
It’s small, but it’s there as I pull him through the door by the shirt and slam it behind him. I kiss him hard before asking, “Did anyone see you?”
“Just the kid at the desk.”
I slam my mouth against his again, and he flips me around, pressing my back to the door, slowing and deepening the kiss.
His cock is already hard, and mine is rising fast. “Damn, Senator. You were serious about getting off in Philly, weren’t you?” he asks as his hand slips into my sweatpants to grip my growing erection.
“I haven’t stopped thinking about you,” I say as he kisses my neck and strokes me with the perfect amount of pressure.
“Fuck,” he groans. “Same.”
“How is this happening?”
“You wanna talk, or do you wanna fuck?”
Both?
“I don’t know. I need you. So bad.”
His short laugh is dark, but he kisses me again, letting go of my cock and using both hands to hold my head in place. He slides his hard dick along the length of mine and rolls his hips against me as he continues to make out with me against the door. It’s such an unbelievably good kiss. Maybe the best we’ve ever shared. I hold him by the chest, rubbing my thumbs over his nipple piercings. My cock is already leaking for him.
“Just tell me if it’s the last time,” I say.
“That’s up to you, Senator.”
“ Mmph ,” I groan with a particularly good grind from him. What he said isn’t fair. When has anything ever been up to me?
“How long until you leave?” I ask.
“Tonight?”
“For Florida?”
“A couple of weeks. Maybe.”
I grasp for any hope. “Maybe you’re not going?”
“Maybe two or three weeks.”
“Oh.”
“You need to stop thinking,” he says. “How do we manage that?”
“You should probably gag me.”
His brows lift. “On your knees, then.”
I drop gratefully to the floor, getting to work on his jeans to pull out his cock. The second he’s inside my mouth, he whispers, “Fuck, you’re so wet for me.”
I grab my own dick in a chokehold, warning it not to explode, but if he says one more thing like that, I’m not sure anything could stop me from coming on the spot.
I let him use my mouth like he had in his shower weeks ago. He’s got a hand braced on the door and one on the back of my head. He’s gentler today, but he’s thrusting just as deep. His girth in my throat makes breathing impossible. The breaths I do get have to be timed perfectly.
“You give the best fucking head, Graham.”
He used to tell me that all the time, and I always figured it was to mitigate the fact that he regularly had sex with other men during our relationship. Like he wanted to remind me I was special to him, better in some way.
But I don’t think he’s fucking anyone else anymore. Maybe he means it? I think I know what he enjoys—what makes him catch his breath, what makes him groan, what pushes him to the brink—but mostly I’m worshiping him.
“Fuck, I’m already close. Don’t come. Don’t swallow.”
Jesus. How the hell am I going to manage that ? But I refuse to disappoint him. I open my throat, wrap my tongue around and around his length, and tighten my lips on his shaft. He pants, nails digging into my scalp and draws his cock out of my esophagus to unload on my tongue. His taste fills my mouth in a delicious burst of thick heat as his dick throbs out several jets of cum.
I’m able to breathe through my nose again, and I manage not to swallow, but my balls are tight with a release I’m barely holding off.
“I wanna watch you jerk yourself with my cum.”
Wasn’t expecting that .
“Whip it out and spit,” he says, still mostly breathless.
I like this. Jesus, I really like this. I’m honestly surprised when I look up at him not to see his phone camera trained on me.
Only his eyes. This is just for him.
I do exactly as I’m told, turned on to the point of madness when I watch my drool and his cum drip down my cock.
“ Fuck ,” he breathes as I spread it over my length.
He watches my hand as it speeds through the motions of getting myself off. “I want to be inside you,” I say, mostly babbling. “Wanna fuck you.”
He nods, but doesn’t move, still staring with unwavering attention. It’s a milder humiliation than some of what he’s put me through, but my cheeks are still hot, and the shame is half the turn on. The other half is his eyes on me. Only me. “I’m close,” I warn him, not sure if he wants me to come or not .
He stuffs two fingers into my mouth. I suck them hard, and my orgasm takes hold. I shoot all over the legs of his jeans, the floor—everywhere as I grunt and groan around his sexy gag.
“Damn, puppy…that was a lot. Figured you’d jerk off before I showed up.”
Somehow I manage to say I did before I lean back on the door, not giving a shit about the rug burning my knees.
“Having fun out of the cage?” he asks.
I nod mindlessly. I don’t know where to even begin cleaning up, so I just stare up at him and try to find where all my breath went.
“I plan to spend the night, so we should probably hit the mini bar and pace ourselves.”
He holds out a hand to help me up, and I take it, something a lot like happiness seizing my chest. He kisses me when I’m on my feet, licking his way through my mouth while I shiver as he chases his own taste with a series of erotic moans. I hang onto his bare hips and try to keep from melting into the floor.
“You are so—fucking— hot ,” he says as he finally pulls away. His gaze on me is direct, like he’s daring me to contradict him.
“Thank you for being here.”
“Told you. You’re hard to resist.”
“You texted me.”
“Exactly.” He turns away, taking a moment to scan the room. Locating the mini bar, he walks over to it while stuffing his dick back into his jeans.
I follow suit and trail along behind him, wrapped up in his scent and his general presence. Devoted to it. I love that he’s here. That he plans to stay the night. I love the idea of pacing ourselves and staying up until dawn, soaking the sheets with sweat and cum.
“Thank you,” I say, meaning for everything—for the kisses, for being here, for wanting to stay .
“Don’t thank me. Thank my cognitive dissonance. It’s really doing a number on me these days.”
I should have kept my mouth shut. That’s the last thing I needed to hear. “Sorry,” I mumble, giving up on trying to say the right thing.
“Don’t worry about it,” he responds, opening the small fridge. “Mixed drink or random shots?”