I follow him, with his chief of staff and press secretary hovering close by, all of us surrounded by Secret Service as Elliot works the room.
This is where Elliot shines even though I know that this is one of the most draining parts of what he does. He’s friendly, genuine, and because we’re only moving a few feet at a time, his limp really isn’t noticeable tonight.
I honestly don’t give a shit about the goal of tonight’s dinner. The topic is nearly always irrelevant, to me. My only concern is Elliot’s safety and well-being. I survey the room, my head swiveling as we move, studying every person who walks up to speak with him or take selfies or pictures with him. Everyone probably assumes I am Secret Service, which is fine. I don’t care who they think I am.
Secret Service manages the crowd, only letting one or two people approach Elliot at a time. I hover just behind him, to his right, where I can always see the other people’s left hands. There’s about a hundred people in the room tonight. It’s a fundraiser, and all the attendees have gone through a physical screening before being allowed this close to Elliot.
Doesn’t matter. I wouldn’t care if every other person in here was naked, I’d still stay alert.
His presidential campaign is going to give me a fricking ulcer, I just know it. Of course I was worried about Shae during her two campaigns, but I’ve never slept with her. She’s not…mine.
There’s a far deeper personal connection for me with Elliot than with Shae. As part of a presidential campaign, Elliot has to make hundreds of appearances, work rope lines, shake thousands of hands.
All it takes is missing one person, overlooking one clue, allowing one split-second opening.
While part of me is silently dying inside because I know I’ll never be making these rounds as his husband, there’s another part of me proud as hell of him.
Maybe he is where he is right now because I connected him to the right people at the right time, but he deserves to be here.
He deserves to go even farther.
And he’s mine, for now.
There’s no way to explain how that makes me feel. To know that just a little while ago I held him in my arms, and then I knelt in front of him and helped him put Duck on…
And now everyone in this room tonight, who paid to be here, that is, is dying to spend a few minutes talking to Elliot.
Talking to my pet.
My pet is the center of attention.
While it isn’t noticeable to anyone else, Elliot occasionally reaches back and brushes his hand against me.
Another of our silent codes, a way for him to anchor himself to me while he’s feeling overwhelmed.
My psychologist can watch him and notice little cues here and there and spot his stress, the PTSD, the anxiety.
But over the years, Elliot’s done such a fantastic job of training himself, combined with relying on tricks we have as Master and pet, that he can usually compensate long enough to make it through one of these events.
His anxiety and PTSD are things that he doesn’t talk about with others. Not even with a trained mental health professional, other than me. I wish he would but that’s not my call to make, and it’s how he’s decided to handle it. I think he could be a great spokesman for it. He’s far from the first veteran to come home dealing with it.
His fear is that if those issues are widely known, combined with his leg, that it might make him look like a weak candidate. And he trusts no one other than me, Shae, Kev, and Chris.
Unfortunately, he’s not wrong. Which is why we engage in the charades about his leg, or about his medical equipment that he might need.
Once he’s elected POTUS, I have a feeling that will go a long way toward finally helping him process and deal with stress in a healthier way.
I hope.
Otherwise, it might finish destroying him. Until that time?
There’s me, and what I can do for him.
Which I’ll gladly do.
Because I love him.
* * * *
It’s nearly ten local time when Elliot’s finished at the dinner, Secret Service escorts us upstairs to the suite, and we lock ourselves inside after a final discussion with Elliot’s staff. With a detail standing guard in the hallway outside, now I can relax, and so can Elliot.
I hold out my hand to Elliot and lead him into the larger bedroom that’s “his,” where I sit him on the end of the bed. “Wait here.”
I retrieve my bags from the other bedroom and on my way back I put on the TV in the living room to help provide us with extra cover.
Once we’re locked inside his bedroom, and I’ve turned on the TV in this room, too, I stand in front of him, holding him and giving him a moment to simply breathe. He drapes his arms around me, his face pressed against me.
My poor pet.
I worry about him all the time but especially in times like these. When he returns from one of these trips without me, he’s always emotionally gutted and barely exhausted, barely sleeping. It compounds my guilt that I’m not able to do more for him. Doesn’t matter he has chosen to not let me—I still feel the weight of that responsibility.
Could I manipulate him into not running for president?
Sure, but that’s not fair to him.
His decision to run—or not—has to be his alone to own.
There’s a certain clarity of perspective to be gained by not being the one publicly inside the storm the way he is but I’m committed to staying by his side unless or until he asks me to leave.
No matter how much I’m hurting right now.
I know it’ll get easier. I also fully realize I’m self-medicating by focusing on Elliot instead of myself.
Hey, I’ve always been a multi-tasker.
Our very first weekend together comes to mind and I remember the terrified man breathlessly submitting to me, finally able to explore his darkest desires. We can’t stay up too late tonight because we will have a long-ass day tomorrow. I didn’t bring any implements with me, because, helllooo, security checks. I have my belt, and my hands, and my teeth.
I also don’t want to burn him out tonight.
Tipping his head up and back so I can kiss him earns me a soft, low moan. His arms tighten around my waist as he clings to me.
No, tonight needs to be about reconnecting, even though, yes, it’s been too damn long since we’ve had a good, hard scene.
Still kissing him, I ease out of his embrace and discard my blazer before I help him out of his. We’re still kissing as I unbutton his shirt and he works on mine, until we’re both nipping and sucking at each other as we strip to the waist.
I shove him back, hard, and he tries to rise from the bed but I jump on him. From the flash of eager, desperate need I see in his eyes, I know this was the right call.
He takes a swing at me and I flip him over, pinning him with his left arm wrenched up behind him in an armlock, almost to the point of injury.
“No, you don’t, pet. Not tonight.” I keep my weight on him while I kick off my shoes. He still struggles, so I know I guessed right.
He’ll keep fighting until he safewords.
Excellent.
I surprise him by jumping back and releasing him, standing again and giving him time to flip himself over while I unfasten my belt and slacks. He’s already working on his as I shove mine and my briefs down and off, leaving them where they fall. I also don’t help him with his shoes, or his slacks. This is an old routine for us, sizing each other up. He had unarmed combat training in the military but not nearly as much as I did in the Secret Service.
I’m also in better shape than he is.
While he’s an inch shorter than me, he’s a little broader than I am and has a few pounds on me, so it evens us out. Plus, he knows he can come after me a lot harder than I will him. Mostly because it’d be difficult to explain how the VP accidentally got a shiner wrestling with his body man.
Rather not go there. Not even to make the perfectly plausible excuse that he slipped and f
ell in the shower, because that makes him look weak.
I don’t even help him with Duck. He keeps one eye on me as he hurries and slides out of it, stripping off his socks, liner, and inner sock and leaving them where they fall.
I launch myself at him, knocking him back on the bed, and then it’s on.
Jordan once told me it looked like we were trying to kill each other. Until he was used to seeing us play like this, it horrified him. Jordan’s strong and tough in his own ways but either of us could easily subdue him in an otherwise fair fight. I taught Jordan a few basic moves but primal, feral play like this isn’t really his thing.
Didn’t help that, if I pinned him, he liked it, and it always took the fight right out of him.
Not Elliot.
We both bite and claw and pinch in a mating ritual that isn’t about dominance as much as it is burning off the emotional byproducts of our time apart and what we’ve each had to deal with alone.
I can’t speak for what it is specifically for him. For me, it’s pain and grief and anger.
Fifteen minutes later, we’re both starting to tire. We’ve worked up a sweat and are literally covered with marks when he falters and I finally use an aikido pin to subdue him. What I usually do is end up pinning him, and whether or not I release him so we can continue depends on whether or not he keeps struggling or safewords.
He struggles. I’m about to deepen the hold when he speaks, his voice sounding choked. “Master.”
I immediately release him and sit up on my knees. He’s on his stomach and from the way his body shakes, I know he’s crying.
Gathering him into my arms, I hold him, rock him, let him cry it out with my arms and legs wrapped around him and cradling him now. I don’t try to make him talk and I don’t break the silence.
He needs this.
He needs permission to be weak, to vent, to purge.
I keep my body wrapped around his and hold him until he’s cried out nearly fifteen minutes later.
Then I kiss him and reach between us to find his cock. He hardens in my hand and it only takes me a couple of minutes to stroke one out of him.
He’s short of breath again but this time it’s from the orgasm I just gave him.
My cock’s hard now but I can wait.
I need to make sure he’s taken care of.
He finally sits up and his adorable chuckle makes me smile. “Damn.” He examines one particularly hard bite mark on his left bicep that nearly broke the skin. “You got me good.”
I prop myself up on one arm. “Isn’t that what you wanted?” I reach out and touch it, not-so-secretly proud he’s wearing marks I gave him.
He leans in and kisses me. “Yes, Master.”
“Shower.” I drag myself out of bed and retrieve his walker for him, which the detail left in here with his bags. I also grab his folding shower chair and position it in there. Five minutes later, he’s on his knees in the shower and I’m driving my cock down his throat, making him take it.
Not at all like the first weekend we spent together, when I was careful and made sure not to force him to do anything.
I know he can deep-throat me, even if it’s been a while. I also know what he really wants now is me fully staking my ownership of him.
That’s why I dig my fingers into the back of his head as I fuck his mouth. “This what you need, pet? You miss the taste of me and need me to breed that goddamned gorgeous mouth of yours, now that I reminded you who’s in charge?”
He moans, his hands clutching the back of my thighs as I ram into him. His eyes are open and trained on me and this time his tears are from what I’m doing to him, not from pent-up emotions.
His cock is hard again, which I expected.
“You want a second one, better get it while you can.”
He grabs his cock with his right hand and frantically starts jerking off.
Fisting his hair even tighter, I sink in all the way to the balls, loving the feel of his throat swallowing around me. There’s nothing tender in the vicious way I fuck his throat. Somehow, I manage to hold back until I know he’s coming and then I unload, making him swallow every drop.
Only then do I pull out and hold him pressed against me, my hands now massaging his head as he closes his eyes.
“Thank you, Master.”
“Thank you, pet.” I think we’re both close to falling asleep because we’re up well past our bedtimes, and jet lag is a thing, man. I help him onto the shower bench and we clean up. Then back to the bedroom, where I strip the duvet cover off the bed and help him under the sheets. I shut off the TVs, set alarms on my phone and his, take care of cleaning Duck and washing out Elliot’s socks, hang up his clothes and mine from our suitcases, and then, finally, make it to bed.
He’s almost asleep but still awake enough to snuggle tightly against me.
I think tonight we’re both going to sleep like the dead.
I hope. Because we both damn sure need it.
Chapter Seventeen
Then
I had no clue what would happen in my life, the twists and turns Fate would take, where dumb luck would carry me. Would I still have made the same decisions if I had forewarning?
That’s impossible to say.
When I joined the Secret Service, I suspected my life might be in jeopardy at times. Possibly even lead to my death, if I were to ever take a bullet for POTUS, or some other protectee.
I recognized from the start that training would be grueling, brutal, and possibly permanently injure me. Because only the best of the best protects the president.
Right?
Never thought that risk to my life—and my too-close brush with death—would come from falling out of the goddamned sky, when I never intended to do that.
Especially since I wasn’t even wearing a fricking parachute at the time.
Fortunately, during our training, jumping out of an airplane was not one of the requirements, or I would’ve been absolutely fucked. Never would have made it as a Secret Service agent.
Rappelling down a building, or down the side of a mountain?
Okay, I was cool with that. That was even fun. I grew up rock-climbing and hiking, exploring parks and mountains not far from our home.
I’m not afraid of heights but I never understood how some of the guys I served with in the Secret Service, the ones with military experience, could actually enjoy leaping out of a perfectly good motherfucking airplane.
Crazy bastards.
Unfortunately, now I know how the eggs in those high-school science projects felt, when we dropped them off buildings to test if the containers we made would protect them.
Spoiler alert: not very well.
On the day I nearly die, I’m the special agent in charge of the advance team. It’s my third lead assignment and I’m eager to kick ass. I’m running logistics for an upcoming campaign rally for GOP presidential contender US Senator Andrew Fullmer. Right now, we’re nearly three years out from the election but because of death threats against the guy, and because he’s a sitting US senator, he gets Secret Service protection.
I secretly hate the sonofabitch, but my personal politics cannot get in the way of me doing my job to the best of my abilities. I’m going to be thirty-three in a couple of months. Currently, I’m working my ass off to advance through the ranks of the PPD at the expense of not having a personal life. I live in a tiny efficiency apartment to save me money. Like I’d have time to take care of a larger place with my schedule.
I love working The Shift but opportunities like this will help my career if I execute them flawlessly. Once this operation concludes, I’ll be back at my favorite post in the White House.
Ask me about that later, though, if someone like Fullmer makes it into the Oval Office. The guy’s a philandering sack of shit. We can’t even tell the public that he’s stuck his dick in more women than most of us can count, because we’re sworn to secrecy as part of our job.
I wish I was kidding. I have worked at least
five different details where he was fucking a different woman each time—and none of them were his wife.
Who absolutely cannot be allowed to know what he’s doing. I mean, I can’t imagine she doesn’t know he’s cheating on her but she apparently has her own life, career, and hobbies, which keep her busy, including spending time with their grandchildren.
I’d seriously have to question if I could really take a bullet for someone like him, if called for. I will never violate the oath I took when I was sworn in as a Secret Service special agent, but…
A guy’s gotta have some standards.
I’m already receiving lucrative offers from the private sector. Guys who were on the tail-end of their career when I first started, and who have since moved on, who are putting my name into various hats as a candidate who’d be a good choice to woo away from the USSS.
It’s nice to know I’ll have options when I need to leave.
I’d rather it not be right now, though. I’ve got goals. I want to be running the PPD by the time I’m ready to retire. Then I can take some cushy corporate security job for a much higher salary.
So far, there’s still plenty of good left in what I’m doing to keep me dragging myself out of bed every morning and putting on a suit, or whatever I’ll need to wear for the day’s activities.
At least Fullmer isn’t a jogger. If he is elected, the hardest part of our job will be keeping his wife from killing him or his mistresses.
It’s not even that big of a secret. Lots of people on the Hill know about Fullmer’s cheating, and it’s even the subject of frequent jokes. But everyone has their own skeletons, so they all sort of protect each other. It’s ridiculous.
Maybe it pisses me off more than a little that the cheating old bastard is getting more tail than I am.
Such is the life I lead.
I don’t dare bitch about this—what I can bitch about—to my family, either. They’ll cluck their tongues and sadly shake their heads at me and tell me that maybe I could move back home and return to school. That it’s not a failure to admit you need a career change.
Indiscretion (Inequitable Trilogy Book 1) Page 15