Dignity (Determination Trilogy 1), page 9
Oooh, yeah. I am so definitely gay.
I was trying not to be too obvious, but a couple of minutes of this is apparently his limit. That’s when he leans in, says something to the guys he’s with, and starts walking over, all while holding my gaze with his.
Oh, shit!
He reminds me of a predator. He’s a couple of inches taller than me, probably six-three, with short brown hair, and it’s too dark in there for me to tell what color his eyes are until he’s walked up to me.
Green. A gorgeous shade of green.
He offers me a smile. “First time here?”
I dumbly nod.
He extends a hand. “Chris.”
My brain orders my hand to engage. “Kevin.”
He glances around, then his gaze returns to me. “You here alone, or meeting someone?”
“Alone.”
His gaze narrows even as his smile widens. “So feel free to tell me to go to hell, if you want. But I get the feeling you were kind of checking me out, yeah?”
I nod. He’s got a little bit of an Old Florida kind of drawl. Not full-on Okeechobee, but he probably didn’t grow up in Tampa.
He’s fucking gorgeous, and he’s probably out of my league. He strikes me as the kind of guy who is confident and knows what he wants and has no trouble setting out in pursuit of it.
“Single?” he asks.
“Yeah.” I plunge ahead, rambling, unable to contain my stupid mouth. “I’ve never done this before. I mean, I’ve been with girls, but I’m gay. I’m sure I am, but I’ve never been with a guy, and before I graduate and start my internship in DC, I just wanted to get out and meet a guy this week and…” I run out of steam, terror taking over again.
Great. He’s probably going to think I’m an idiot.
Instead he leans in, so close I can feel his breath against my ear. “I think you’re hot, Kevin. You have dinner yet?”
I shake my head.
He holds his hand out, and it takes me a moment to realize he wants me to take it. His fingers close around mine and he leads me over to his friends, who are all watching us approach.
He introduces us, and I honestly cannot tell you their names. I’m too much into Christopher.
One of them, a skinny blond guy, looks me up and down. “Chris, you bitch, first guy you talk to? Really? I always said you were lucky.”
Chris shrugs and tips his drink, draining it before he sets the empty cup on the high top. “I’m lucky.” He smiles. “Don’t wait up.” Then he leads me toward the club exit. “Finish your drink. You can’t take it outside.”
I gulp it and toss the cup in a garbage can near the door. “W-where are we going?”
He squeezes my hand. “Do you like Italian?”
Chapter Eleven
Then
At twenty-six going on twenty-seven in a few weeks, Chris is five years older than me, and his full name is Christopher William Bruunt.
Or, Special Agent Christopher William Bruunt, if you want to get technical.
“How do I know you’re not just pulling my leg?” I ask. “Anyone can say they’re Secret Service.” Although I feel a thrill roll through me, picturing him in a suit and tie, the sunglasses.
Rwar.
He stops us, right there on the sidewalk, pulls out his wallet, and shows me an ID that identifies him as Secret Service. “My gun and badge are locked in my room safe.” He wears the sexy smile that’s drawn me in. “After dinner, we can go up there, if you’d like. Or, I can come to your room.”
I nod.
“Which did you prefer?” he asks.
I swallow hard. “Yes.”
This time when he laughs, it sounds easy, sweet. He tucks his wallet back into his pocket, takes my hand again, and we continue down the sidewalk. “We ate at this place last night,” he says. “Good food, decent prices. Tiramisu to die for.”
It’s one block over. A cool salt-tinged breeze washed in off the Atlantic as we talk and he leads the way to the small family-owned Italian restaurant that’s apparently been there for years. Because we don’t mind sitting in their bar area, we can grab a small, cozy high top with bar stools in a corner and not wait for a regular table in the dining room. I skim the menu as he orders a pitcher of beer and two waters for us.
“I know you’re at least twenty-one,” he says, “because that club cards everyone.”
I nod. “I’m twenty-one. Twenty-two in a couple of months.” We get the chit-chat out of the way. I’m still trying to come to grips with the fact that this gorgeous guy hit on me.
“So you’re Congressman Markos’ son, huh?” His eyes crinkle in amusement. “I gotta say, maybe not my best pickup line, but people think your dad’s an asshole.”
I snort. “That’s because he is an asshole. I can’t believe the idiots in that state keep electing him. You think he’s an asshole now? Try being raised by him.”
His smile widens. “So how’d you end up in Florida?”
I tell him the story, born and raised here and returned for school, but moving to DC for my internship once the semester ends. “You?”
“I grew up outside of Orlando. Been working out of the field office there. But I’m transferring to DC.” His gaze stays on me, watching my reaction to that news.
I swallow hard. “Oh.” Holy shit, that would be both the best thing ever…
Also, the most terrifying. No way in hell I could have a relationship with him in DC.
After a moment, he lets me off the hook with that playful smile I know is going to be my undoing. “Hey, let’s start with seeing how we get through tonight. DC’s a huge town, you know. If you decide I’m not for you, no harm, no foul.”
I want at least tonight with him. The more time I spend with the guy, the more I notice about him. The way he’s constantly watching me, but still glances around the room, highly aware of our surroundings. He’s dangerous, but I feel safe with him.
Stupid, I know.
Dinner is amazing. I realize what he’s doing as we’re chatting—he’s putting me at ease. We talk about movies, music, books. Everything except the obvious. Halfway through the main course, he tips his head to the side and smiles at me.
“Tell me what you want from tonight,” he prompts.
Heat fills my face, and it’s not from the beer. “I honestly don’t know. You mean besides sex?”
Chris reaches across the table with his right hand and touches the back of my left, trails his middle finger along it. When he speaks again, his gaze holds mine, and his voice drops to a low, sexy rumble. “What kind of sex are you looking for?”
I swallow hard. “I-I-I’m a… I mean, I think I’m…” I take a deep breath and let it out again. “I’m a bottom,” I whisper. “I think.”
That sexy-ass smile again. My cock, which has never fully softened since our initial meeting, once again hardens in my slacks. I probably have a freaking wet spot in my briefs. His gaze doesn’t leave me now.
“I’m definitely a Top,” he says, his finger still tracing along my flesh, a trail of scorching heat following in its wake.
No one’s ever touched me like this before. Ever. Visions of him bending me over right here jolt into my brain, and I realize I need to watch myself.
“We’ll start slow,” he assures me. “We’ll go back to your room, or mine, and talk first. We won’t do anything you don’t want to do. We’ll leave it open for further discussions. I’m here all week, you’re here all week.”
Staring into his green eyes, I see the flecks of gold and emerald emblazoned in their depths. He’s about four inches taller than my five-eleven, and his broad shoulders taper toward his hips.
The man is fucking gorgeous.
I can’t think as his finger traces feather-light lines up and down the back of my hand and fingers. It’s impossible not to wonder what that same touch would feel like all over my body.
“I have condoms and lube,” I say. “I stopped at the store.”
When he smiles, the outer edges of his eyes crinkle. Like he thinks I’m adorable.
“No pressure,” he says again. “Even if all we do is have a pleasant dinner and talk later, then it’s been an evening well-spent.”
From his earnest tone, it sounds like he means it.
“What’s it like being in the Secret Service?” I ask.
His finger hesitates on my arm before resuming its path. “Lots of training. Lots of practice. More training.” His smile fades as he moves his hand, turning it palm up on the table next to mine. “Not a fraction as sexy as in the movies, believe me. Makes it hard to have a relationship.”
I spot calluses along the outside of his index finger, a faint scar along the heel of his palm, what looks like an old burn scar just inside his right wrist. He wiggles his fingers at me, the invitation plain.
Around us, the restaurant fades away as I lay my hand on his.
“Do you like tiramisu?” he asks.
I nod.
His fingers curl around mine, and he leans in, bringing my fingers up to his lips, where he kisses them. Heat sears me and I shiver, a frisson of desire washing through me and leaving me and my screaming cock squirming on the stool I’m perched on.
I can’t help but think about what those lips will feel like tracing the contours of my body.
Those green eyes never leave me as he does it.
In my chest, my breath catches, my heart thrumming in a way I can’t remember feeling before. I’m about to burst into flames and I want him to consume me.
“We’ll get our dessert to go,” he says, tugging on my hand to coax me to lean in.
I do, unable to help myself.
He brushes a kiss over my lips, and in this moment, if I died, I’d be happy.
Complete.
For the longest time, before I realized I was gay, I thought there was something wrong with me. Because when I slept with women, it didn’t feel…special. There wasn’t a connection, for me.
It wasn’t that they weren’t nice, or beautiful, or that they were even bad in bed. I had the recipe, all the ingredients, and I followed every step exactly to prepare the dish, which tasted…okay.
Even though the women I’ve been with said I was fine.
All this time, though, there was a missing ingredient I didn’t even know I lacked.
And I’ve just found it.
* * * *
Tonight is my very first date, slate wiped clean, a new life ahead of me.
All these silly, childish things run though my head, and I don’t even care.
Throughout dinner Chris asks me questions about what I studied, why I want to be a journalist, what I hope to accomplish, what I like about politics. No judgment in his tone, no condescension, nothing but genuine curiosity. There’s not much he is permitted to talk about regarding his work, but every time I ask him questions about himself, the conversation ends up on me again.
I realize he’s doing it deliberately and find I don’t care.
I could talk to him forever, but I’m also eager to take the next step.
When the waitress returns to clear our plates, she asks if we want dessert.
I look to find Chris waiting on me, eyebrow arched, and I leap. “Can we take tiramisu to go and eat it in my room?” I ask him.
His smile widens, and his gaze doesn’t leave mine. “Two tiramisu to go, please,” he says to the waitress. Then he pulls out his wallet and retrieves a credit card. “Tonight is my treat.”
We leave the restaurant hand-in-hand, Chris carrying the bag with our desserts.
Honestly? Dad, who?
In this moment, there could be a film crew trailing us, and I wouldn’t fucking care.
Maybe we can figure out a way to have a relationship in DC. He is Secret Service, after all. Surely he’ll know how to stay off my father’s radar.
Except…
My father has friends all throughout the various strata of DC politics and society, thanks to the law firm he works for. Connections. I would never want to do anything that could backfire on Chris and hurt his career. I couldn’t live with that guilt.
Make no mistake about it, I know my father is fully capable of that kind of petty bullshit. I’ve overheard him talk about it with others.
“Let’s stop by my room first,” he says. “I don’t want to have to get up and leave early.”
“Why would you need to?”
“I don’t like leaving my gun and badge that long. Room safes aren’t impenetrable. If I hadn’t been going to the club, I would have kept it on.”
“Ah.”
We make that stop. I watch, another thrill running through me as he removes the two items from his room safe, clips the badge and gun to his belt, and then pulls his shirt down to cover them. It only takes him a moment to gather his things and pack, slinging his bag over his shoulder.
“My buddies are assholes,” he says as we take the elevator down again. “If they know I have someone in the room with me, and if they didn’t hook up, they’ll be knocking on the door all night and interrupting us.
“That’s…mean.”
He grins. “Nah, it’s what we do. I’ve done it to them. Just fucking with each other.”
“Oh.” I really don’t have friends like that. I have acquaintances, and friends, but no…buddies.
Not even my former roommates in college. We were cordial and polite to each other, but we definitely weren’t besties.
His smile fades and he catches my hand again, brings it to his lips for another kiss as he stares into my eyes. “I don’t want any interruptions tonight. Even if all we’re doing is talking, I want my attention fully on you.”
Around us, the universe has disappeared again. I don’t understand how such a simple gesture as him kissing my hand can do that to me.
“Thanks.” I hope I said that out loud.
Before he releases my hand he leans in to brush another of those sweet kisses over my lips. When he draws back, I find myself leaning, chasing, not wanting it to end.
That pulls another smile from him. One more kiss to my hand, and this time he doesn’t release it as the doors slide open on the ground floor and he leads me out.
Chapter Twelve
Now
After I lead the way to the living room, Senator Samuels sits on my couch as if she’s been there before.
Correction—as if she owns the place.
She strikes me as the kind of woman who never appears uncomfortable in public. In fact, I don’t recall ever seeing her act uncomfortable anywhere, and I’ve covered several of her debates and watched hundreds of hours of Senate hearings and floor discussions where she was either leading the way or participating very vocally. I’ve interviewed her several times. I’ve watched even more interview coverage of her.
And yet, even with that air of comfort engulfing her, she doesn’t appear pushy, or conceited, or anything like any other politician I’ve ever met. She truly is a beast of her own. Politically speaking, of course, because the senator is a lovely woman.
There are many words I would use to describe ShaeLynn Samuels—brutal, efficient, direct, canny, cagey, wily, and perhaps even ruthless—but ugly or unattractive are not among those descriptors, and I say as a man who knows without any doubt that he’s gay.
Okay, yes, I’m deep in the fricking closet, but still.
I think that particular aura surrounding her is why most people underestimate her. It was something her mother used to great efficiency, from what I’ve heard through others. Samuels is definitely not a stereotypical limp liberal noodle, no matter what those people far to the right of me would like to claim.
She’s a fighter, and sometimes a damned dirty one, from rumors I’ve heard.
Then again, so was her mother, if those rumors are to be believed. Although Florida State Senator Marlene Samuels never ran for higher office despite her popularity here in Florida and people asking her to run. The widowed mother raised her only child in her image—strong, fierce, and unyielding in the face of adversity.
“So how are you doing, Mr. Markos?” she asks.
“Coyness does not become you, Senator.” I don’t have the energy or brain cells for a battle of wits with her today. I want her to have her say and get out.
She smiles. “I don’t think anyone has ever used that word to describe me. Not without it including a lot of sarcasm.”
Meanwhile, while we’re talking, I notice Christopher heads toward my kitchen. I’m not sure what he thinks he’ll discover in there, because I haven’t gone to the grocery store since the night of my arrival in Tallahassee, and other than ice cream, chicken pot pies, and several pizzas in my freezer, the pickings are pretty damn slim. There are absolutely no snipers lying in wait to ambush the senator in there although there is some sketchy cheese in the fridge I haven’t tossed yet.
My fridge is nearly empty because I didn’t want be chased by tabloid reporters while trying to buy toothpaste and spaghetti sauce and haven’t managed the energy to make another trip in the middle of the night.
“What brings you here today?” I ask once I’m seated. “I’m sure it’s not to bask in my downfall.”
Or, maybe it is. Maybe there’s a level of pettiness to the woman I was previously unaware of, although our past interactions were always cordial and professional, or so I thought. The last time I spoke with her was that night I interviewed her in Tampa, the day after the election.
I’ve never taken an adversarial approach in my dealings with the senator. She’s far too savvy a political animal for that. She’s best dealt with directly, forthrightly, without trying to schmooze her or blindside her.
“I hear you’re looking for a job,” she says with a smile that continues to reveal nothing. “I happen to be in the market for someone with certain skills.”
“What kind of skills?” Needless to say, I have my doubts. Maybe not doubts, but definitely a lot of questions. I am curious why a Democratic senator wants to talk to me, a previously unabashedly conservative TV personality, about a job in the first place.
