Cock and Balls (Handcuffs and Lace) by Mia Watts (7 page)

He wasn’t. But Hank had reasons, damn it. And despite what Monty believed, they weren’t about attention. At least not the way he meant.

“Tell me, or I’ll stop,” Monty said.

He wanted that, right? He wanted Monty to stop touching him in ways that made Hank want to forget everything but throwing himself at the other man and beg to be fucked, held, understood? His eyes flared wide as the thought hit him. God, no. No, no, no, no, no! He did
not
need Monty to understand him. He did
not
need this callous-handed goon of his father’s to hold him, want him.

Did he?

Tears squeezed from the corners of Hank’s eyes as he tried to block out the thoughts.

“I don’t need to explain myself to you or anyone else,” he snapped through the haze of tears.

Monty leaned in, kissed him softly. “Tell me what you’re really after.”

Monty’s pace remained steady. Hank was gasping now. Release was so close, so fucking close. Monty’s lips brushed his cheek, his ear.

Hank swore.

“There’s no one here but us,” Monty whispered. “No one here to know what you say to me. No one but me. Tell me why you fight so hard, Hank.”

Hank gritted his teeth. He wanted to say it, to confess all of it. He just didn’t think he could stand the judgment or hear the words come out of his mouth without crying. He didn’t want to cry. Not here. Not with Monty. Not for his father. Not for anything.

“No,” Hank ground out.

Monty’s hand stopped moving on Hank’s cock, and Hank thought he might lose his mind.

“Why’d you stop?” Hank rasped in a near panic.

“You said no. Are you asking me not to stop touching you?” Monty clarified.

“Yes. Don’t stop touching me. Please.”

Monty smiled. “Do you like what I’m doing?”

“Of course not. My dick gets leaky for shits and giggles,” Hank snarled.

Monty tsked. “Be nice.”

Hank gave a muffled shout of frustration that had Monty chuckling again. “What do you want from me?” Hank snarled.

“The truth.” Monty’s hand closed around Hank’s cock again as he waited.

“I want you to touch me.” He fought himself to finish the statement. “I like it. I like your hands on me.”

Monty resumed stroking.

When Monty didn’t patronize him, he risked another confession. “I want you. I’ve always thought you were hot, but when you got assigned to me—” So close! Just a few more strokes.

“When I got assigned to you?” Monty reminded him.

“I wanted you. Crazy want. Different having you in close quarters.”

Monty flicked his tongue along the side of Hank’s neck. “How bad did you want me, Hank?”

“Pretty blue eyes over me. Makes me hard thinking of you over me.”

“You’re already hard,” Monty pointed out. “Look at me.”

Monty pulled back enough that Hank could see those eyes he’d mentioned. Hank stared into them, even when his vision glazed over slightly. His ass tingled. His balls ached. Monty thumbed Hank’s slit, tapped it, focused his efforts on the bundle of nerves on the underside of Hank’s cockhead. Hank gasped, trying to pull in air, but his lungs acted like they didn’t work properly.

“Give it to me, Junior. Paint my chest. Show me how much you want me. Prove it to me.”

Those hot, dark words rumbled over Hank’s skin like thunder across the desert floor, promising, promising. Hank’s lips were parted, unable to make more than basic sounds as pleasure overrode him. Monty took advantage, kissing him deep and long. He tangled their tongues and sucked Hank’s into his mouth.

Hank shuddered as cum streaked up his cock and pumped in thick jets away from his body. He gave everything to the man who’d coaxed it from him until there was nothing left. Still Monty’s mouth battled for dominance, though Hank was far from interested in stopping him.

Finally, Monty’s sensual mouth lifted. He looked Hank in the eyes. “Now we’re getting somewhere.”

Hank pushed them both away from the counter. He lowered to his knees and looked up at Monty. “Let me?” he asked.

A strange expression filtered across the agent’s face, but he nodded as though uncertain he should. Still Hank waited for permission. He didn’t know why he needed to hear it. Maybe it was because of the way Monty had made him confess to his needs earlier.

Maybe it was because he didn’t want this to be a fight of wills. All he knew for certain was that he needed Monty to tell him it was okay. That Monty wanted him to continue. That Monty knew Hank wouldn’t take his cock without permission.

Monty held Hank’s gaze. The younger man waited for Monty’s permission. He didn’t have to say it for Monty to see it in his gray eyes. There was a need to please and insecurity trapped in those depths. He sifted his fingers through Hank’s hair. He felt a small measure of pride for the man, knowing the wait wasn’t easy and knowing too that Hank hadn’t had time to think about it yet. When he did, when the haze of lust had worn off, he’d be fighting mad.

Monty wanted to give him that space of seconds to really think about what he was offering. But like the last time Hank had been on his knees, his eyes told Monty he had no reservations. His pink lips parted, and he swished his open mouth over Monty’s engorged crown.

“Let me,” Hank repeated, the words working like a wet kiss on Monty’s flesh.

“Hank,” Monty said gruffly.

He waited for Hank’s gaze to find his and found the composition of hungry gray eyes and open wet mouth at this angle to be the most erotic thing he’d seen to date. His cock wept. A pearl of liquid slid to the center of Hank’s bottom lip and still Hank waited even though he fairly vibrated to taste Monty.

“Take me deep,” he directed Hank softly.

Hank’s mouth closed on Monty’s flesh. He hissed at the sensation of hot and wet encasing his dick. Hank did as he was told, taking Monty deep into his mouth, adjusting and then accepting more as Monty felt himself slide into the younger man’s throat.

“God, yes. So good,” he praised Hank.

Monty slipped his other hand into Hank’s hair too, loving the silken texture of the short strands between his fingers and against his palm. Hank’s hands caressed the backs of Monty’s thighs higher and higher until they rhythmically squeezed his ass cheeks on each draw. Hank looked up at him, and Monty couldn’t tear his eyes away from the beautiful man sucking his cock.

“Like that,” Monty encouraged.

Hank hummed with pleasure. Monty’s eyes nearly rolled to the back of his skull as the vibrations plucked along the tiny nerves driving him toward orgasm. He leaned into Hank, rocking his hips slightly and trying to keep himself in check so as not to hurt Hank, but Hank didn’t seem to mind. If anything he pushed himself to take more, adjust faster, swallow deeper. Hank was a wet sucking dream that sent chills down his spine.

“Suck it,” Monty told him. He twisted his fingers in Hank’s hair, pulling it just enough to sting which seemed to get Hank hot.

Hank had dropped a hand to his lap, and every demand Monty made of him, every element of sharpness seemed to quicken the rapid jerks he gave himself. Monty would remember that. How could he forget? It was fucking hot to see the younger man so responsive to commands.

A cool sweat broke out across his shoulders, and moisture dampened the base of the dip in his lower spine. Hank’s fingers clutched him. And Monty lost himself in the flex of those relentless fingers, the gentle slap of his balls on Hank’s chin, the consuming draw on his cock and the soft hungry noises coming from the man hell-bent on giving Monty the best orgasm of his life.

“I’m coming.” Monty gripped Hank’s head tightly, not letting the other man pull off, though Hank made no effort to do so. But the show of strength, the perception of demand was what he knew appealed to Hank, and so he held fast. “You’re going to swallow every last drop.”

Hank’s fist wrapped the root of Monty’s cock as he turned his attention to an oral assault on Monty’s cockhead. His tongue dipped into the seeping slit, traced the heavy vein running the length of the shaft and flicked that indefinable pleasure spot under the rim of the flared crown.

Monty hissed. His balls tingled, and cum shot up his length, into the hidden depths of Hank’s throat. “Suck it,” Monty demanded between grunts.

Monty saw stars explode in his vision. His knees nearly buckled, but Hank held him up, cleaned him off then sat back on his heels.

“I knew I’d get you sooner or later,” Hank said.

Monty’s nostrils flared. He hauled Hank to his feet. “Did you now?”

“It was a matter of time. I knew I had you the minute you walked in on me at the Goth”

He studied the younger man for a moment, testing the weight of his words, then smiled. The kid hadn’t a clue. Not at all. The eyes he looked into were filled with bravado as he tried to save-face however he could. Made sense considering the dominant personality he’d been displaying had just had his sexual ass handed to him in a series of commands.

“Nice try.” Monty let him go. He walked outside as though nothing that had happened between them mattered. Let the snarky little bastard chew on
that
for a while.

Hank followed. Somewhere between the hair pulling and having cum shoot across his tongue, he’d known he was in trouble. Monty seemed to take everything Hank dished out in stride and throw it back at him. He also seemed to read him a little too well. No one got under Hank’s skin. No one. It wouldn’t start now that’s for damn-sure.

As he reached the porch, he saw Monty strolling down the dock. Mid-morning sunlight hit his golden skin and lit him up. His short black hair glistened, and Hank found himself hoping that the man would turn, allow him to admire the rest of him with the backdrop of the ocean behind him.

“God, he’s gorgeous,” Hank muttered under his breath. “He fucking knows it too. Or else he doesn’t give a damn.”

Either way, the no-nonsense fearlessness Monty wore like a second skin drew a desperate groan from Hank’s lips. Already, his flagging cock filled. Even this soon was uncharacteristic of Hank, but he just couldn’t seem to get enough of the agent. It drove Hank half-crazy that the agent didn’t seem to feel the same way about him.

Hank wasn’t used to it. Being ignored wasn’t something that happened to him in clubs with other men—or with women. The silence of the cabin on the water and the presence of the only other human in his immediate vicinity not caring if he drank too much or wanted fuck something, left him feeling out of sorts.

He shifted, uneasy with the powerlessness of it all. The lack of structure to the days and expectations.
President Dad
wanted him to sit still and calm down? Wanted him out of sight and out of mind? Maybe, but Hank never did take instruction well. At least not until that morning.

His dick got rock-hard as he remembered taking
those
instructions. He rubbed himself absently. Dad may think he’d gotten rid of him, but he had another thing coming. A smirk curled his lips as he started to hatch a new plan. One that involved putting both his father and Monty back in their rightful places—although in completely different ways.

Chapter Seven

Monty gave him a little less than twenty four hours to cool off. Hank had been shooting him glares since Monty had walked away after the mind-numbing blowjob, intent on keeping the kid in his place. Hank was used to having command of everyone around him. The experience of not having control over Monty’s actions was exactly what he needed—to Monty’s way of thinking.

But the more hours that passed in tense silence the worse Hank’s attitude became. Then maintaining his distance became less about teaching Hank a lesson and more about keeping his hands to himself.

Monty had served the president long enough to know the dynamic between father and son. He’d seen the separation between the two men grow until it had reached a fracturing point six months ago when Mrs. McClaren died. He even thought he knew why Hank hated his father, but knowing it for himself and getting Hank to admit it were entirely different things.

Whatever was going on there, Monty was sure of one thing, he had to get Hank to break. The façade he put up—the carefree, selfish partier—came off too cheerfully forced to be more than just that. Grief possibly caused it, but there was fire beneath the grief. Anger. But the anger seemed to be directly aimed at his father, not at the loss of his mother.

Hank wasn’t a child. He needed to deal with it to move on, and the more he got to know the kid the more he wanted Hank to heal. There was passion lurking beneath the surface. The capacity for it, the desperation in his eyes mingled with hope weren’t things Monty associated with sabotage. They were cries for help, cries for understanding. But how did you understand someone who refused to communicate the problem?

The president had said as much to Monty one night after a long day of negotiations. He’d sat in his hotel suite in Paris, in front of the fireplace, swirling a glass of amber liquid. Whiskey, Monty had guessed from the pungent smell. The president had stared into it, and with Monty stationed at the entry, the president had crumbled into broken sobs at the news of his wife’s death and his son’s refusal to take his calls.

Monty wouldn’t forget that moment. Not ever. But looking at the son, he knew Hank had hurt too. He’d done his grieving just as alone as his father, and he’d come out the other side angry, bitter, destructive.

Why?

Monty picked up his paper breakfast plate. Nothing remained except crumbs from his toast and eggs. Hank stared off as he continued to chew.

“We need to go fishing before it gets too hot,” Monty said.

Hank’s gaze lifted. Almost out of defiance, he tore off another bite of his toast with flashing teeth. “It’s barely light out.”

“Finish up.”

“I’ll stay here,” Hank countered. “Without you banging around, I might actually get some sleep.”

“You’ll go with me so I can keep you safe.”

“So I don’t run away?” Hank corrected, his eyes cut at Monty.

Monty leaned on the table top, not caring that he crushed the plate in his fist as he leaned down nose to nose with Hank. “Exactly.”