Commitment Collection, page 27
part #1 of Commitment Series
Our host pretends she hasn’t heard and finds Kyle Beaumont on her list.
“Lovely. You’re in the Whispering Corner. Please, do follow me.”
Elliott
I’ve been here on private functions with sponsors once before and the memory of the tastes that exploded in my mouth have been begging me to return. I can't tell you how pleased I am to be coming back properly with Kyle. Last time was different as we had the exclusive run of the entire restaurant so I didn't enjoy the full benefit of what I know this place has to offer.
Today I've booked us into the 'Whispering Corner' which is a private dining space on the second floor of this unique restaurant that cooks with ingredients inspired by and taken from the botanical gardens outside.
Our table overlooks the mass of amazing vegetation and it's like we’re looking out from the window of an air conditioned tropical treehouse rather than an old colonial house come restaurant.
Plus, being totally separate from the rest of the diners, we don't have to worry about anyone listening in as we celebrate Kyle's shackles to Madeline being relinquished.
“How lovely,” Kyle says, as our waiter for the evening pulls out his chair and introduces himself.
We sit for a few seconds staring at the view before Kyle opens his menu. “What to have? I’m starving.”
“That’s the only downside with this place; there’s no a la carte option,” I explain. “It’s a set meal only, but the food is amazing.”
“Oh?” He peruses his menu and studies the details anyway. “I don’t know what any of this is Elliott.”
“Me neither.” I grin, I love not truly knowing what the meal is going to be and being surprised by a detonation of unexpected flavors popping against my palette.
Even though we’re in such a beautiful place, I can’t enjoy the optional wine pairing as we’re so close to the race. It’s only because this food is so light that I’m risking eating something other than my strict diet. It’s not every day the man you’d like to someday marry ends up free from his ex, and I want us to remember this as a landmark in our shared life together. The waiter arrives with my large bottle of water.
I only detect trouble when the first small plate of food is delivered with aplomb. I pretend I’ve not noticed, but Kyle’s face is not impressed.
The waiter explains, “We have oysters with a Japanese chili seasoning.” He then continues with some other bits that are difficult to ascertain due to his soft voice and strong accent, but I do catch caviar.
Kyle nods, but that enthusiasm that comes with being genuinely excited but something is missing. He’s flat. Rather than ask what’s going on, I try to overcompensate. “Wow, doesn’t this look amazing?” I go on to tell him about the food that I had the last time I came. “It was only nibbles on serving platters then though. And I couldn’t savor it as I was taking bites between making polite conversation with rich sponsors who needed their egos massaged. I’ve been desperate to come back since, but it’s never been the right occasion.”
Kyle has his fork in hand, and he’s pushing the delicacy around his small white plate without picking anything up and tasting. I watch him but don't make a comment. When he does venture to place the food into his mouth, he over chews. The oyster must double in size as it tends to when you're eating a plateful of food you hate merely to be polite. I watch as he tries to swallow several times but fails and his toilsome chewing continues.
I don’t know why, maybe because I realize I’ve screwed up and I so want this to be a perfect evening, but I still don’t acknowledge that this type of over contrived menu is not his thing.
When he graciously receives his next platter his fork takes up the same motion of shoving his food around his plate rather than delivering it to his mouth. And when the next arrives. And the next.
We finally finish and the night has been torture. I’m sure it has been for him, but for me too. He’s left half of the food on the side, spreading it out to look as though he’s eaten more than he did. I'm willing to bet my poor love is still starving. I love him all the more for trying so hard to do what he thinks will make me happy.
It’s only when the waiter comes to collect our final round of dirty crockery that he asks, “How was that, sir, did you enjoy it?”
And then he speaks up. “It was beautifully prepared, but it was not really my taste. I would have been happier with a steak and chips.” He delivers the bad news to the waiter with such sweetness within his warm smile.
“Oh, really sir, I’m so sorry you didn’t enjoy it. You should have asked, we could have prepared something special for you.”
Now he says!
“Oh, well, we’ll put that down to experience then shall we?” I hold his hand.
He gives me his first genuine grin since the start of the evening. “Yup!”
“You still hungry?” I ask.
“Yup, but the thought was lovely. Thank you.” He squeezes my hand and I melt.
Kyle
Poor El tried so hard to give me a special evening and it just didn’t work out. However, it was still a night to remember. One for him to remember that my taste isn’t as elegant as his.
On the way back to the hotel, he’s been messing on his phone before asking the driver to pull over and wait. His security detail also pulls over behind us and, Dan, the larger of the two, opens the door for Elliott who hops out.
“Give me a few minutes.” He jogs inside an American pizza joint, materializing seconds later with a deep dish pepperoni he must have been ordering when he was on his phone.
“I couldn’t have you starving now could I?” He hands me the box and leans over the back seat to kiss my cheek.
The cardboard is hot underneath and I can barely contain the saliva which forms in my mouth at the thought of the stringy cheese.
“Thank you. I lean in and rest my head on his shoulder. That is one of the nicest things anyone has ever done for me.” And it is. It’s a tender moment created out of nothing but love.
* * *
When we get back to the hotel, I’ve all but finished my pizza except a few stray crusts rattling round the otherwise empty box. I dump it in a trash can in the lobby as the elevator doors close on our way up to the penthouse.
“This makes a beautiful change to the trailer. It’s nice having to wait in luxury for it to arrive,” I say.
“Yeah, it really is like being on holiday. You have no idea how much of a treat this is for me, too. I love having you around, Kyle. You make everything better.”
The room is trying too hard to be elegant and ends up being tacky. It’s beautiful and luxurious, and all those things that you aspire to have when you can’t afford them. The interior is designed to remind you that this isn't your home, that you're away and you should embrace the luxury of having time away from the run of the mill. Everything glitters against the deepest mahogany.
And that's when the full length mirror catches my eye. Its gilt frame sparkles in the dark room. Hung against the wall at the head of the bed, it gives you a double sided view of the grand queen-size bed.
I'm not passing this opportunity up and without further ado, manhandle Elliott so he's standing before it.
He’s taken aback and stumbles as I maneuver him. “What are you doing?”
“Turn around.” My voice has taken on the husky tone of someone who has sex in mind.
And then he understands. “Someone is feeling frisky.”
“I sure am. This way I get to see you from the front and the back at the same time.” I sidle up behind him and nestle my mouth into the crook of his neck. He tips his head, eyes still fixed on the mirror, following my hands as they loosen his belt and leave his shorts to drop to the floor.
As usual, he is devoid of any underwear and I’ve never been more thankful as his solid length stands proud, hard and ready for me after just my slightest physical contact. I run my impatient hands up the underside of his shirt, watching my touch affect his expression. His mouth slackens allowing his full lips to part slightly as his head rests back on my shoulder.
Our breathing matches, a simultaneous in and out. Our reflection rises and falls in the mirror, one unified body.
Slipping his shirt over his head, my hands wrap around his torso again, running gently over his flesh. His nerves tingle under my touch and I hear and see his sharp intake of breath in the silent room. My shaking fingers leave a trail of raised bumps on his skin as they pass over every inch of his nakedness.
His ripped ab muscles contract as I tease him. His thick cock kicks out, begging for me to grip him. I trail the back of one nail over its length, from the head, wrapping two fingers round his base and kneading a gentle pulse before releasing him again. I allow the tip of my index finger to enjoy the silkiness of his precum, circling around before placing that same finger in my mouth. We both watch, transfixed, as I taste his excitement.
My cock stiffens, probing against his back and he reaches his hands behind, massaging my hardness through my clothes.
Elliott
This man knows how to treat a guy. As we stand in that mirror watching pleasure manifest in each of our faces, my hand cups his crotch and we both view my own length jab forward in response to touching his excitement.
There’s nowhere to hide, no secrets. Each involuntary tick is noted by the other. Sensitivities are heightened, the thrill of slow movements extended to the max as every detail counts.
I stand to the side, my back still to him to watch as he undresses. The sound of the fabric crumpling on the floor, the look on his face as he struggles to kick his shoes free and the way his thigh flexes with the movement.
I stroke my throbbing cock in my hot palm, a slow motion expression of my hunger for this man. My two fingers meet above my bulging head, closing my foreskin tight over my hidden delights before releasing and pulling it low again.
He’s finally naked and back joining me with a tube in his hand from which he squeezes out a silky liquid into his palm. He rubs them together as though washing and the simple anticipation has me almost coming right there and then such is the tension which beats between our two bodies.
Holding my hands out, he crushes another pool between my palms and I watch as I copy his move, our eyes then locking in the reflection.
I reach back and clasp my palm against him as he gyrates against my dark crevice. His hands have returned to my front, grabbing the base of my dick between them and sliding them along my throbbing length. It's like being inside him, while his hot flesh jabs against my rear sending sparks from my groin to my palpitating heart before flooding my brain until I can't think straight. My head snaps back against his shoulder, pressing down, allowing him the space to work behind me as my hips buck into his grasp.
The moment is overpowering. I lean against him harder, my skull pressing deeper into his shoulder, my hips thrusting faster into his hands.
His face changes, but this time his expression doesn't match mine which is overflowing with lust.
Kyle’s eyes scrunch, but it’s his mouth which captures me as it contorts at an angle across his face, a small, gap penetrating the middle of his lips.
“Are you OK?” I stand bolt upright and as soon as I do, the pain on his face clears, but his hand shoots down to rub his hip. He hops on the other foot.
“Sure, carry on.” He reaches for me. “Come here.”
“You were in pain. What’s going on?”
“Oh, it’s nothing. Don’t worry about it.”
“I do worry about it, Kyle. Why are you hurting?”
He pauses, kneading his hip again. “Just leave it, El.”
“I will not. What is wrong with you?” My voice is starting to raise. I’m getting antsy.
“My hip just clicked out; it’s nothing to worry about, it does it sometimes after the accident.” His eyes dip to the floor and I know this is more of an issue than he’s allowed me to see.
“What’s going on?” I ask again.
“It’s just been a bit cranky after the accident that’s all. It’s fine. I work through it and it clears.”
Now I have two hats on. The concerned boyfriend hat which cares that the love of my life is in pain, and also still guilty because it was me who caused that pain originally and now from making out in the mirror.
My second hat though is more serious, and it's time sensitive considering he’s going to be a critical member of my race team in a few days. Every second counts in that situation and I can’t have someone on my side who isn’t one hundred percent fit. And he knows it which is probably why he's hidden this from me.
A ball of frustration lands in the pit of my stomach and it churns. Around and around, splashing waves of hurt mixed with confusion and a little anger at being deceived.
His eyes focus on his discarded shoes as he slumps down on to the edge of the mattress. “It’s not a big deal, Elliott. It comes and goes.”
“But what if it comes in the middle of a pit stop? Will your performance be restricted?”
“It won’t.”
I know how much he wants this job and I can’t be the one responsible for him losing it. I hit him with the car. I was the one who smashed him up and caused this in the first place. Now, do I have to be the one to end his career before it’s really started? My decision is made.
I must love this guy because I give him the benefit of the doubt. I’ll keep my mouth shut.
Kyle
It’s race day and the shooting pains from the other night have barely subsided since. Until then, I'd been doing well. The pain had been nearly non-existent, only resurfacing at longer and longer intervals. I'm not sure what happened though. Perhaps it was the weight of Elliott pressing down while we made out at an odd angle, but something well and truly clicked out of alignment and I've been quietly worrying about it since.
Of course the pressure is on. The championship title is still not won and Elliott is starting from third on a track on which it's notoriously difficult to pass.
If he can’t get into the lead before the first bend, then we’ll need to adapt our strategy during the race to undercut the other team, organizing our pit stops to save time and bring Elliott back out on the track ahead of the competition. The pressure on the pit crew is well and truly on. This is not the day for my hip to let us both down.
I pray the lights go out. I really pray for him to take the start he wants. He perhaps wants it too much because he's slow, being overtaken on two sides as his back wheels spin. He veers wide, pushing another car wide and loses one more place as he struggles for control.
“This is not going well,” Ryan mutters to no one.
We continue to watch the monitors.
Laps continue to be dealt down, but still Elliott doesn’t make up a place. If the race finishes as the cars are stacked now, he’ll lose his lead on the championship.
The strategists are on the board, discussing timings. “You need to make up two seconds,” Chase delivers into his headset.
Whoa, two seconds. Shaving mere hundreds of seconds off times to win is a big ask, but Elliott places his lead boot to the floor and his beast takes off closing the gap between him and the car in front.
“What about the tires, are they OK with me running so close?” I hear.
“Yep, the stats look fine. Do they feel OK to you?”
“Yeah, how much now?”
One lap is down and he’s already made up half a second. “Keep going like that and you’ll be in with a shot,” Chase confirms.
After four laps, Elliott’s tires will be melting as he’s right up the backside of his first rival.
“Box, box,” Chase instructs Elliott to leave the track and head into the pit lane where he slows.
Grabbing my tire, I’ve no time to worry about my hip now. My adrenaline is pumping so hard I won’t feel a thing until later, anyway. I bend down on the mark and Elliott pulls up dead on his spot.
I focus, seeing nothing but the space where my tire needs to hang and aiming for exactly the right spot. I hit it perfectly and the wheel nuts go on.
Elliott takes off in 2.3 seconds.
His scarlet car shoots off and we watch the monitors to see whether our plan worked.
He’s level with the car he’s trying to overtake as he also levels with the track, but the speed limit means when he joins again, he slots back into the position he was in before his stop.
“Shit!” I shout.
“Don’t worry about it,” I hear Chase responding. “His tires are old. Take him when you can; yours are fresh. You’ll get him.”
Elliott
This race is a fucking disaster. I should have known not to let Kyle on the team. He had to be the weak link, and just when pit stops matter the most. I could kick myself, or scream, or both.
As it is, I can’t do any of those things because it’s the last lap and I’m still in fourth place, losing my lead on the title.
As I approach the final bend, and my last-minute hope at redeeming this evening's disaster, I take a risk, dummying an overtake. As the car in front moves over to cover the space he thought I was going to use, I switch the engine settings and zip out to the opposite side of him, hammering down on the pedal and pushing my nose ahead.
I’m still running at full speed into the bend.
I leave it... Leave it... Leave it...
Now!
Brake!
I slam my foot down just as I’m about to turn. My car slows, allowing the nose of the car on my outside to push ahead. But, I have the shorter racing line now if I can just hold on.
My back end skids out pushing my front off the track as my brain ricochets in my helmet. Shit! If I’m too far over the line marking the track boundary, I’ll be disqualified. I check my mirrors.
Looks like I made it. My rubber is still on a fraction of the track.
