Page 169 of The Sinner's Sanctuary

No one in New York looks better in a tuxedo than Christian Hayes. The man in black tie is lethal. He’s photographed constantly, and he hates every second of it—both being in a tux and having his picture taken—unless I’m the one holding the camera.

We can’t be late to Jericho’s long-awaited wedding, but blow jobs don’t takethatlong.

“Baby,” I try to warn him, as he’s fastening his cufflinks.

He flips his hair out of his face and widens his sexy lined eyes when he sees me coming. “No.”

“Please.” I’ve got my hand on his crotch, fondling him already. “Don’t make me hold you down.”

That perks him up. His cock gives a palpable throb. “If you get a single drop of cum on these pants…”

I kiss him while I keep rubbing, working to firm him up. When he starts pressing into my palm, I drop to my knees. “Don’t fuck up my hair, and I’ll make sure you’re nice and clean.”

“You’re the fucking devil.”

“Forgive me, baby. I married my worst temptation.”

I get to him through the zipper, leaving his cummerbund in place. He grips the edge of the closet dresser where he keeps his watches, cufflinks, pocket squares, and whatever else makes him stylish and insanely photogenic in public. Since he bought his first property, he’s slowly come to embrace the finer things in life—like unsolicited blow jobs just for looking hot as fuck.

My partner in every sense of the word groans as I swallow his dick whole. “Oh, God…”

I eye his white-knuckle grip on the dresser then shoot a look up at him. He’s staring down at me, his lips wet and parted, cheeks already flushed. Bobbing my head, I genuinely try to make this quick, but he’s all vanilla spice and salty precum. Better now though than dragging him off somewhere at the wedding, right?

I try to convey my apologies with my forehead and eyes as I slow down to savor the feel of him on my tongue.

“Damnit, babe…that’s perfect. Don’t stop.”

I taste and tease him, edge him so hard he has to squeeze his balls, and then finally let him come in warm gushes on the back of my tongue. I hold him in my mouth, licking him as clean as I can until I’m sure he’s emptied everything, and his knees soften. I catch the backs of his thighs and slowly slide my mouth off him, sucking as I go, keeping my promise.

“Do you need…”

“It’ll take five seconds.” I whip out my erection as I stand, and he kneels for me. The instant my crown hits the flat of his tongue, he wraps his lips around me, and I come with a punched out groan.

I tremble as he returns the favor of making sure nothing spills. It’s not that we don’t have more clothes, it’s more that we’re now running late. We share a quick kiss before heading in separate directions to finish getting ready.

Ten minutes later, we’re walking through the lobby, hand in hand, nodding our good nights to Stone, the doorman on duty. He’s an MMA fighter, which he didn’t have to tell me when I hired him—it was obvious after one look at his ears.

I’ve always liked having muscle on the door. Drew asked me after I hired Stone if I really had no idea I was into men before Christian because I have the best looking doormen.

I told him I’d think about it.

Now that I have, the answer is I do enjoy a good looking man, but I never wanted one to touch me until Christian presented me with the world’s most irresistible package. Looks, wit, wisdom, depth, sex appeal, and eyeliner.

And the truth is, good looking men are a dime a dozen in this town. Christian is one in a million.

Jericho and Joe’s wedding is at a venue downtown near Wall Street. With some of the sexual tension gone, Christian and I talk about the hotel chain idea we’ve been tossing around and which neighborhood would best suit the flagship location since we’re driving through nearly every single one in Manhattan.

I twirl his wedding ring around his finger as we take turns shooting down each other’s ideas. It’s how we work best. Like the blow job earlier. He said no, but I talked him into it. It’s the dynamic we settled on, and I love it. If I’m not mistaken, so does he.

I straighten his tie in the elevator—not because it’s crooked, but because it’s what I do. He “fixes” my hair for the same reason. When the doors slide open on the reception area, we’re side by side, holding hands and perfectly polished.

I spot Jeremy immediately as he’s recently dyed his hair platinum blond. He waves at us, and we approach, but we’re stopped—or I am, by a hand on my chest. “What are you doing here?”

I stare at Fischer. “Same to you.”

“Jericho’s my editor.”

“No shit?”

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