Page 18 of Saint
“Master Karl, good evening. May I join you?” I nod to the space on the left side of the booth. “I see you’ve got some troublemakers with you this evening.”
Both Tate and Roman freeze, their mouths hovering over his glistening, saliva-soaked cock. Karl puts his hands on the boys’ heads, pushing them back into place. “I never said to stop, boys.” Then he looks at me. “Master Saint, so nice to see you. Please, take a seat.”
He raises his hand from Roman’s head and waves to an attendant. I order a scotch, seeing as I’m not playing. But perhaps I can torment the two brats.
“Which one would you like?” He gestures to the men. “I’ve loosened up their throats for you. Perhaps you can explain why they have displeased you.”
I spread my knees apart and tap Tate on his shoulder. “He’ll do to start with.”
Tate shuffles around and looks up at me, it’s the only eye contact I intend to have with him. “Suck my cock, boy.”
He deftly opens the fly of my black trousers, then reaches in to remove my thickening dick. “All the way, boy.”
As his warm, wet mouth engulfs my dick, I accept my drink from the server. “It all started a week or so ago. These two naughty subs thought it funny to approach my new employee and share my private life here with him.” I flex my hips, forcing my length into Tate’s throat. He gags a little, pulling a breath in through his nose. I hold him in position, his nose in my trimmed pubes, easing back as he coughs. I hear him sniff before he wipes his hand over his mouth, then sucks me back in. “Then, sadly, when I asked him what he’d said, This one,” I tap his head and force him all the way down to the root again and pump my hips. “Lied.”
“What about this one?” Karl’s fingers tighten in Ro’s hair.
“More contrite and apologetic, but he still lied.” I’m pumping into Tate, harder and faster now. He has a firm grip around my cock, his tongue flat on the underside, while saliva slides down his chin. The tell-tale tingle in my balls has me standing up and holding his head in a tight grip, forcing my dick in and out. Then as I come, I pull free and cover his face in my spunk. His eyes are red, his nose running, and his lips are swollen. “Clean me up. Do not wipe your face.”
I lift my glass and swallow my drink in one mouthful. “Do with him as you wish, Karl.” I look at Roman, at least he has the sense to bow his head. With a nod, I walk away.
When I get back to my flat, I’m still fidgety. Yes, it was good to put Tate back in his place, but the annoyance and frustration is still bubbling under the surface. I look at the time, it’s too late to call Royal. Not that I know how to say what I’m feeling. Feelings that I can blame my dad for. Damn him and his meddling. Why does he have to watch everything we do? Why is he so bloody good at reading us. Even Noah and he just got here. And then telling him. Shit!
I want him so much, even more so now that he’s being aloof. He says he wants what I want, but he knows nothing about it. How he would need to be trained, the endurance and stamina he would need. Subbing was the hardest thing I’ve ever done.
There’s a voice at the back of my mind that’s talking about making it more, making it real, having Noah in my life, sharing it. He’s important, he could be my future, a boyfriend, a partner. He’s the one to take a risk with, that I will love.
Whilst love has never been something I’ve chased, searched for, I can believe in it. I’ve seen it with my dads. There is no doubt how much they love each other. But it’s the vulnerability that can lead to heartbreak. My mum dying wrecked my birth dad, he was a great dad when she was alive, laughing all the time, playing with me, teaching me to ride my bike, all the crap that makes a happy family. Then she died, and it all turned to shit. He became a shell as he bottled up his grief, fell in with the wrong crowd, and found a new love—alcohol and her sister, drugs. They turned him into a vicious monster who took his pain out on me.
That’s what love can do. And if it can do that my dad, what’s to say it won’t happen to me. After all, I’ve got his DNA running through my body.
The desire to hit the whisky I have in a kitchen cupboard heightens, but I ignore it. I’ve got a full diary tomorrow, I can’t have a hangover or a shaky hand. Instead, I head to the bathroom and the shower. The vision of Tate on his knees comes back, making me feel cheap. Yes, he deserved to be punished, but I shouldn’t have done that. Not when all I can think of is Noah.
When the too hot water is pounding down on me, stinging my skin, turning it red, I take in a deep breath and washthe remains of the day away. If only I could do that to my brain, because Noah is between my legs, his mouth on my cock. His eyes are full of trust as he looks up at me. There’s no gagging or face fucking. It’s different, a tender moment as my fingers comb through his hair. He sucks eagerly, but it’s sloppy, none of the well-practised deep-throating subs have perfected.
My hand travels down my wet body, grabbing my rock-hard length and stroking. Slowly, my hand imitates the image in my head, his mouth sliding up and down my dick, until I need more and take over his mouth. In a few more rapid strokes, I come, crying out his name.
Shit!
Something is up with Saint. He looks angry, and it seems to be aimed at me. “Have I done something wrong? You’ve been scowling at me all day,” I ask him when we both have a break in the late afternoon.
“Why would you think that? We’ve hardly spoken.” He growls and nudges me out of the way with his shoulder, then yanks the door of the fridge violently open and stares in it. Then he pulls out a can of pop and snaps the tab, gulping down the cold drink.
“So, who do you have a shitty on with then, because someone obviously pissed on your Weetabix this morning.”
This time I get a look that will sour milk, and I roll my eyes at him. “Fine. You can spend the rest of the day frightening your clients.”
“You’re such a fucking brat.” He slams the Coke down on the small table, making the brown liquid froth and spill over the edges and onto the table. Then my back hits the wall, and his mouth is on mine.
This is a brutal attack, nothing like the first, but I can’t stop opening my mouth, giving him permission to thrust his tongue inside. I can taste the Coke on his tongue, but there’smore—he tastes of desperation and need. As I grab his hips, he presses against me, and I can feel his thick erection against my stomach. He tugs on my hair, his fingers tight in the loose strands. It’s the hottest kiss I’ve ever had, but rationality seeps into my mind, and I push him away. If he can’t talk to me, then I’m sure as shit not letting him kiss me. Not like this, not when he’s so angry.
“Stop,” I say, the word ragged as I draw in a breath. His eyes are dark and full of something I can’t decipher. Like his kiss, they’re desperate, longing for something. But as he wipes his wet lips with the back of his hand, his scowl is back. “Is this the way it’s going to be? I’m not your whipping boy, Saint. You can’t take your anger at whatever has you pissed off out on me.”
Before he can answer, the buzzer from the front door rings out loudly in the silent room. I straighten up, turning away to answer the door. It’s Saint’s next client, and I watch as Saint turns on his easy-going persona and acts as if nothing just happened.
“What about this one?” Kip turns his laptop around to show me a picture of a flat that’s available. “It’s in a central location. You’d be able to walk to the studio, and it’s not too expensive.”
I look and Kip clicks on the photo reel; the place looks perfect. It’s small but has everything I need and has just been refurbished. “It looks great, but I bet it’s gone by now.”
