I hear the bathroom door open when he replies.
No, Sir. I’ll be okay.
Which means he’s probablynotokay. He’s probably anythingbutokay.
This dance we’re doing isn’t healthy for either of us. Ironically, it’s my hands that are tied, metaphorically, by Elliot’s closet.
I have to do something different.
Jordan is definitely different.
I stand and slip the burner into my pocket as Jordan returns. I pick up our plates to take to the kitchen.
He’s not my boy right now, so he’s an equal. I’m not an asshole.
Not about this.
“Can I help?” he asks.
“Sure. Grab the silverware and glasses, please.”
He does, and we head to the kitchen. “Oh, those are for you to borrow.” I nod my head toward the scarf, hat, and gloves. “Don’t want you to freeze to death.”
He smiles. “Thank you. I’ll buy some this week and get those back to you.” I turn, and we’re face-to-face again.
The perfect kissable height.
I stare down at him for a long moment. Fuck, my cock’s screaming I’m an idiot for not taking him into my bedroom right now.
Which maybe is the best argument of all for waiting. “I definitely want you.”
He smiles and reaches up toboopmy nose. “Then maybe I should play hard to get.”
“Never play chicken with a sadist, baby.”
I read plenty of hunger in his eyes. “Who says I’m going to blink first?”
Jesus, I can’t even with him. I’m going to have a handful when I finally get my hands on him.
I can hardly wait.
It’s after ten when I take him back to his hotel. He says I don’t have to, but when I firmly insist I’m doing it, he doesn’t refuse.
He also wears the scarf, hat, and gloves I’m loaning him. I get us a cab and manage to peel myself away from him without following him into his hotel room.
On the way home in the cab, I text Elliot.
Good night, pet. Love you. See you tomorrow.
He texts me back almost immediately.
Good night, Master. Love you. See you tomorrow.
Hopefully he’s not stressing too badly tonight. I sit back and close my eyes and think about our first weekend together.
I had so many hopes that I could love him enough to love his fear away.
That we’d be married by now, with me helping him with his campaigns. Or even if he wasn’t running for office, that we’d be living together.
