He rarely calls me “sir” and we both know why. When he does use that title for me, when it might sound awkward that he’s overly casual with me when we’re in front of others if he doesn’t, the lower-casesis obvious to us both.
He settles and takes his time repositioning his napkin in his lap. After a glance at the door leading to the hallway to the kitchen, he meets my gaze. When he speaks, it’s barely above a whisper and again in that way where his lips hardly move.
“They’ll be gone within five minutes, including two staffers up on three. We’ll leave our dishes in the kitchen sink for morning housekeeping to clear.”
I nod and eat faster. Now I wish we’d asked to be completely undisturbed tonight, to cook our own dinner, so I could be naked while he helps me.
But this is faster.
I take a deep, shuddering breath and hold it for a moment before slowly releasing it. I want Jordan, and my cock stubbornly demands attention and satisfaction.
From the way Jordan slows his pace, takes his time cutting his meat and chewing, I know he’s deliberately fucking with me now.
Correction, not fucking with me—trying toforceme into downshifting a gear or two in preparation for us disappearing behind our bedroom door for the rest of the night.
Normally, this is a sure-fire way to help settle my brain and kick-start the transition from President Woodley to boy.
Except tonight…it’s not working.
Because he smells like Leo.
I finish eating several minutes before Jordan. Thus I sit there, waiting for him to finish, not rushing him.
Rushing him for any reason when we’re alone like this and have nothing else scheduled for our time is guaranteed to slow him down even more.
He’s mastered plenty of Leo’s tricks over the years, learned even more from Kev and Chris and Casey-Marie, and has developed a customized playbook for owning a pet president.
Alone with him like this, barring urgent presidential matters, I’m not allowed to leave the table before he’s finished. I almost wish I’d thought to ask for us to eat in the living room tonight, where we could have locked the doors behind us, so I could strip and sit at his feet and he could hand-feed me.
That’s a treat nearly as rare as being able to spend time with Leo.
Finally, he takes his last bite and sits back, dabbing at his mouth again with the napkin. I sit a little straighter in my chair, hoping, praying.
He picks up his water glass in his right hand and takes a sip before smiling at me. “I think you should clear the table,boy,” he quietly says. “Make sure to rinse the dishes off and leave things stacked nice and tidy in the sink for the morning staff. Then wait for me in the bedroom.”
I’m up and out of my chair almost before I’ve processed the command. “Yes, Sir,” I say, reaching for his plate.
His left hand catches my right. I’m still in my suit jacket and shirt. He makes me turn my hand so he can reach my shirt cuff. Deftly, he unbuttons it.
His gaze is on me as he eases two fingers under my shirt cuff, finds my bracelet, and works it down my arm so it’s visible around my wrist.
“There,” he says, silk and heat flowing not only through his voice but through his gaze, too. “That’s better, isn’t it?”
I breathe, feeling lighter already, relieved to have even this much right now. “Yes, Sir. Much better.”
He squeezes my hand. “Good boy.” I detour from gathering the dishes to help scoot his chair back when he moves to stand. I once again get another faint whiff of Leo, shoving my submissive boy aside and fueling a wave of possessive hunger within me.
I start to grab his head and kiss him but he jerks me up short with his right hand, which now fists my tie.
I never even saw his hand move!
He leans in and drops his voice into that low, rumbling register that practically makes me vibrate. He’s one-hundred percent channeling Leo in this moment. “Clear. Thefucking. Dishes,boy.Now.”
I swallow hard, my brain once again short-circuited as my conditioned body responds. “Yes, Sir.”
He smiles. “Good boy.” He steps back an arm’s length before releasing my tie, likely sensing there’d been a close call on a power shift. He leaves the dining room and I suspect he’s going to his bedroom first. He’ll grab what he needs for in the morning, mess up his bed, and then join me in my bedroom.
Which,dammit, isourbedroom.
