Page 142 of The Sinner's Sanctuary

But from what Ollie told me, it sounds like even less of a big deal than I originally thought. If it doesn’t start to make sense soon, I’ll have to talk to Elodie, but I’m trying to be respectful of Gibson’s privacy. I’ve witnessed a few things while working on the Upper East Side for as long as I have, and I know there are occasional shake-ups in society that get everyone talking. I’ve also seen more than one man or woman lose their fortune or spouse and move out of Gramercy with a hat and sunglasses on, head ducked in shame.

I’m not into gossip. It’s not interesting to me. The less invested I get in the residents of this building, the easier it is to dismiss their careless attitudes, casual displays of wealth—and their indulgences.

Lately, though, I wish I paid more attention. I might be able to help. As it is, I get to sit by, try to think of something wittyenough to say to make Gibson crack a smile, and demonstrate that I’m available when he’s ready to wind down—even if I do make him wait an hour or two sometimes. I still have a shred of pride.

It’s nearly six on a Wednesday evening, and we’re in his home office. I’m starving because lunch was a million hours ago, and all I had was a turkey sandwich from the kitchen. I’m not even sure Gibson ate.

He’s going through a stack of paper on his desk, one sheet at a time, glancing over each one before putting it through his shredder.

I clear my throat softly, and he glances over at me, his new glower fixed in place. “Do you need me right now?” I ask. “Because I have to get some food.”

“Yes. I need you. Twenty minutes,” he says shortly, turning back to the stack without saying what he wants.

I sigh.

“I said I need you. Come here.”

Oh.

I perk up and stand, walking over to his desk to stand opposite him. He snaps his fingers at his side and points to the floor next to his chair. “Here.”

I don’t hesitate. He’s barely touched me today, and it has me questioning whether I don’t look good or he’s sick of me, but this is promising.

“Kenny’s supposed to call. That’s all I’m waiting for. Once I’m done with that, we’ll get you fed. Until then…” He unbuckles his belt, opens his fly and pulls out his semi-hard cock.

I grip him by the thighs and kneel, mouth open and ready to take him. His phone buzzes.

He swipes to answer, holding the phone to his ear. “One second, Ken.” He pushes the mute button while he holds his cock away from my mouth. “Look at me.”

I do.

“Don’t suck.”

I raise my eyebrows.

“I mean it,” he tells me. “You can hold it as deep as you want—stuff your mouth—but don’t suck it, lick it, or bite it.”

“I don’t get it,” I whisper, not that Kenny can hear me.

“It’s what I need, and you’re the one who offered.”

Did I? I guess,kind of?

“This is some real entry level shit, Christian. You’ve suffered worse for me.”

So, I’m not blowing him. I’m submitting. My calorie-deprived brain must have missed the memo. Got it.

I nod and let him insert his cock between my lips. In order not to suck him deep, I knee walk toward him and let him sink further into my mouth until I’ve got about half his length resting on my tongue.

He gives me a long, heated look and strokes my cheek. “That’s perfect, baby.” Then, with the push of a button, “Kenny, what do you have for me?”

He doesn’t take his eyes off me as he listens to the fast talker from Boston in his ear and warms his cock in my mouth. I swallow—not technically against the rules—to take more of him. It’s very hard not to lick. No sucking, no biting, fine, but the longer my mouth is wide open, the more saliva gathers, and my tongue has to move when I swallow, so…

His abdomen rises with a deep breath as his hand continues to caress my cheek. He makes some nonchalant sounds of acknowledgment for Kenny, but for me, he’s burning, his eyes telling me I’m perfect. He wants me. He misses me.

His swelling shaft stretches my limits, making my eyes water. I breathe through my nose. It’s almost unbearable—staying still—and maybe he knows how hard this is to do. Maybe this is a new way for him to make me suffer just a little. Just enough. I want more than he’s letting me have, and I know he knows it.

He has to know it. I can’t possibly look any more desperate than I feel.

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