Leo eventually ends our kiss and wraps his arms around me again. “I’ve missed you, pet.”
“Missed you, too, Master.” My eyes drop closed as we stand there, foreheads pressed together while I deeply inhale his scent.
“IsMyboy taking good care of our pet?”
“You know he is, Master.” It’s on the tip of my tongue to propose to him right then when Leo turns us and shoves me down onto the couch, where he crawls on top of me, stretching out along my body and slanting his lips over mine.
My mind falls quiet and focuses on Him, to the point we’re grinding on each other and might be on the verge of our clothes disappearing when I faintly hear something.
I know Leo hears it too because he freezes before lifting his lips from mine even as I try to follow and maintain the kiss.
He’s a damned good kisser.
But, back to the distraction.
“Is that Jor?” he quietly asks.
When I actually focus on the sound I realize, yeah, it does sound like Jordan.
Singing.
Before I can stop Leo he’s up and moving, streaking across the room.
Goddammit. I want to get beaten and laid. I’ll even settle for beaten andnotlaid, as long as there’s a beating in it for me. Is that too much for the leader of the free world to ask of his Master?
Except here I am, chasing my guy through the White House residence and we’re still dressed, unfortunately.
Leo halts in the doorway leading to the family kitchen. I spot his goofy smile when he glances back to see if I’m following.
Stepping close behind so I can peer around him, I see what he’s staring at.
Our sweet guy, standing at the stove, cooking.
Earbuds in.
Apparently he’s listening toHamilton, because he’s currently belting out “The Schuyler Sisters” at the top of his lungs and singing allll the parts.
And I do meanallof them.
Doesn’t mean he can sing them allwellbut I love his enthusiasm and it gives me a small pleasure to look forward to once I’m out of office. I would gladly sit there for hours watching and listening to him cook and sing.
Fucking adorable.
He’s also dancing in place as he cooks, that sweet, tight ass of his sashaying around in sweatpants and a T-shirt which both cling to his lithe body in ways that should be illegal.
Jordan confidently in his element is all-in. The kitchen is by far his natural habitat, where he feels completely at home. He loves not only the act and art of cooking, but it’s also a love language for him, passed down by his beloved Mimi. He loves cooking for us on these all-too-rare occasions the three of us are together in the residence. Because it’s his hands and energy that have fed and nourished us, not just settling for food someone else prepared, no matter how good that “outsider” food might be.
From what Leo and Jordan have both told me Jordan used to cook for Leo as often as their schedules allowed, meaning sometimes they had little more than a weekend breakfast together, if they were lucky. Those were times he and Leo both cherished and savored.
I think back to my early days with Leo, when I’d spend weekends with him and he’d cook for us while I happily sat on the kitchen floor on my cushion at his feet and wished time would freeze so I never had to leave.
I draw in a sharp breath as the prickle of tears blurs my vision.
Leo glances back at me, scowling. “What’s wrong, pet?”
I blink my eyes to clear them. “Nothing, Master,” I whisper, slipping my arms around his waist. “That’s just it. This is perfect.”
He lays his hands over mine and squeezes. “Could be like this every night, you know,” he gently reminds me without any hint of accusation or impatience shading his tone.
