Chapter 3
Kai
HER HAND IS choking my cock, and she’s asking me questions.
I don’t hear the question. Every nerve ending in my body has abandoned its post and rerouted to the five fingers wrapped around me, and whatever she said dissolves before it reaches the part of my brain responsible for language.
She said something. Her lips moved. I saw them move, but the words are arriving late, like light from a dead star.
Damn it. This is not good.
My cock is thickening in her grip. The semi I blamed on sparring is now a full-blown problem, and the excuse I gave her is about to collapse under the weight of the obvious. Blood flow from kickboxing bullshit. Blood flow from kickboxing doesn’t do this to me.
She strokes me.
One slow pull, base to the tip, her thumb dragging along the underside, and my hand shoots to her wrist on instinct. If she keeps doing that, I’m going to finish in the middle of this interview. There isn’t a man alive who’d react differently.
She looks down at where my fingers are circling her wrist, then back up at me. Her face gives me nothing.
One second. Two.
Then a lightbulb.
Fucking hell. This is it, my opening. The in I’ve been building toward for years, the door I’ve been standing outside of, waiting for the lock to click. And it’s clicking. Right now. Her hand on my cock, her eyes on my face, and the lock is clicking.
The universe doesn’t hand out opportunities this clean. You plan. You burn years of your life down to the studs planning, and you wait, and you swallow the waiting, and then one day the target’s girlfriend wraps her fingers around you and the entire plan recalibrates in real time.
I can’t believe this. I can’t believe this is happening right now. The plan I’ve spent years sharpening gets even sharper.
Blackmail was the play. But this, it’s a cleaner weapon. Why didn’t I think of this before? No time to sit with the question now because the answer is already here, dropped not into my lap but onto my cock, and I’ll take it for the mana it is.
If I fuck this woman, Jack Rutherford doesn’t just lose her. He loses face. Every paper runs the same headline, and he opens his morning coffee to find out his girlfriend has been taking another man’s cock.
His unwanted son’s cock. I let my hand fall away from her wrist.
“If this is you making sure,” I hold her gaze, let the sentence sit there long enough to mean what I need it to mean. “Go for it.”
Her eyes change. Not the color. The temperature. She’s assessing me. I can feel it.
She strokes me again, but there’s no pretense of a test this time.
Her thumb drags across the slit, teases the precum out of me, and works it over the head in slow circles.
The fluid beads up too fast, too eager, and I watch her fingers gloss themselves.
My cock swells harder in her fist, dark and angry.
“It’s impressive,” she says, conversational.
I grunt in response. That’s all I’ve got.
“The case I’m working on is the reason Vance got the call.” Her hand moves. Up. Down. “A senator is charged with child sexual abuse. Multiple victims.”
I’m listening. I am. The words are entering my ears, and I’m processing them and filing them into the part of my brain that handles intel, but that part of my brain is at war with the part that’s tracking the pressure of her thumb against the ridge below the head, the warmth of her palm, the way her wrist rotates at the top of each stroke.
I try to hold the image of a senator in my mind, a middle-aged predator, but the picture dissolves every time she slides down.
I am not a man who loses control, but she is destroying my focus while my cock is weeping in her grip.
“He wants bail. They always want bail for men in his tax bracket.” Another stroke. Slow. “I’m pushing for no bail. He’s a flight risk and a danger.”
Her hair smells faintly of citrus. Every time she reaches the tip, I inhale and I catch it.
This clean, bright note cuts through the heavier smell in the room, the musk of my own sweat and the sharp, bitter scent of the fluid leaking steadily from me.
The wet noise of her hand on my cock, it fills my skull, while her voice pours in the other side.
The two streams clash right behind my eyes, and I can’t sort the mess.
“That’s made me unpopular with some very connected people.” She twists her wrist on the upstroke. “People who would prefer the senator make bail, disappear to a country with no extradition treaty, and take the story with him.”
I should respond. I should tell her that we have security protocols because that’s what a bodyguard would do, but my legs are concrete.
My hands are fists at my sides. I’m standing in front of this woman, completely naked, and she’s jacking me off while briefing me on a case, and my mind is a hurricane that can’t find its eye.
I understand what I can. Senator. Child abuse. No bail. Death threat. Her. Her hand.
The stroke picks up. Fucking hell, it’s getting faster, firmer.
She adds a second hand, cupping underneath, her fingertips pressing into the sensitive skin below, and the pressure builds at the base of my spine, winding tighter with each pass.
My thighs start to shake. I feel the orgasm building.
I try to push it down, but she tilts her palm over the head and squeezes, and the pressure intensifies.
My sac draws tight, aching, and she feels that too because her fingers are already brushing the tightened skin with a stroke that makes me want to groan.
I don’t groan. I hold it in. The restraint is a full-body effort that has my calves cramping.
She’s still talking, and I’m starting to sweat more and more.
“…whoever..” “the call made…” “which means they’re” “someone they’re.”
I nod. But I’m not comprehending anything.
My body wants to do things now. My hips want to push forward into her grip, to chase the friction with mindless need, but I’m locking every muscle in my core to keep them still.
My breathing is controlled. In through the nose, out through the mouth, but the intervals are getting shorter.
It’s tightening. I can feel the orgasm a few more strokes away, but I’m fighting it with all my might because I refuse to come this fast in front of her. I refuse to—
She twists again, and my pulse hammers in my ears. Her thumb presses into the slit and drags more liquid down the shaft. I grit my molars harder. I think of dead puppies, tax returns… Up and down, up and down she goes. Faster and faster and—
Ah, damn it.
I spurt a fountain between our bodies.
My abs lock, my vision goes white. The cum jets hard, stripes my stomach, my chest, drips down her knuckles.
My hands stay at my sides. My face stays neutral, I think.
But inside I’m detonating, every muscle firing at once, and she’s still holding me, still jacking me off, milking every last spasm out of me with that rhythm she never broke.
“Wow.” She glances at her hand, then at the floor and the sticky mess sprayed everywhere. “That didn’t take very long.”
I fix on a point on the wall above her head.
My chest is moving too fast, and no amount of willpower is bringing it under control.
She’s still holding me. Half-hard now, softening in her grip, but the aftershocks keep coming.
These smaller, duller pulses that wring out what’s left, dripping into her palm.
She didn’t take long either, for the record. But she’s not the one standing here naked with a stranger’s cum splattered on her hand. She’s the one who’s going to remember the bodyguard who blew in under two minutes.
Fuck. Fuck. Fuck.