“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.”
“Thankyou, 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.
Ihope. 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 actuallyenjoyleaping 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.
