Tasting the Forbidden - A Mayhem Erotica Anthology (14 page)

He glances at the door, contemplates for about three seconds before he gets up, shuts and locks it. Phone calls with George have a tendency to get rather . . . hot.

“You alone?” George asks, and that tone right there, the one where George’s voice drops, changing from his usual smooth to husky and rough, gets Spencer’s heart racing and his dick rising in an instant.

“I am. Door’s locked, too.”

George chuckles, the sound shooting straight up Spencer’s spine like a rocket. There is no one who thrills Spencer like George does. No one. “Better watch it, Spence, Carol might think you’re doing dirty things behind locked doors.”

“Well,” Spencer drawls and grabs his cock as he leans back in his chair, legs spread, “if you’re offering to talk dirty to me, I’m certainly not gonna turn you down.”

Just the thought of hearing George whisper filthy words to him has his palms sweating and his tongue sliding across his bottom lip.

“Mmmmm . . . now there’s a tempting offer if I’ve ever heard one. That sounds like so much more fun than the reason I called.”

Spencer groans. “Shit.” He runs a hand through his hair and sits up, wincing just a bit as his semi-erect cock presses against the zipper of his dress pants. “What is it now?” Spencer can feel a headache coming on, his temples begin to throb and his shoulders bunch, knots already forming, as he waits for George to speak.

Wasting no time, because that’s how George is, he dives right in. “New poll results came out today. You’re down another five points.”

“Fuck,” Spencer mutters harshly.

“Hey now,” George soothes and Spencer closes his eyes and lets the sound of his lover’s voice wash over him. “We still have four months until election day. Have a little faith, babe.”

“George, you know how much I want this—
need
this.” Spencer’s voice breaks at the end, and he takes a deep breath. “I have to win.” Ranked a distant third in the polls, winning seems like a pipe dream.

“You will,” George answers immediately, his voice as fierce as Spencer has ever heard it. “I promise, Spencer, you will win and you will make it to Washington. I fucking promise.”

The ferocity of George’s words make the hair on Spencer’s arms stand on end, and it’s more than a little hot to hear his sweater-vested, bow-tied lover sound as if he’d fight the devil himself on his behalf. The urge,
the need
, to ask, to fucking beg, George to come to Washington with him as his boyfriend, his partner is so damn overwhelming, but Spencer chokes back the words. The two don’t speak of the future in those terms, no matter how strongly both believe they belong together. And they do believe. Each time they’re together, every moment stolen, each kiss, each touch, only serves to make them believe more, but it’s too soon, there’s too much to lose, and there are too many obstacles standing in their way to start making plans.

Desperately needing to change the subject before he says something he really shouldn’t, Spencer asks, “You are coming to the fundraiser tonight, aren’t you?”

George snorts. “Of course. I assume the Ice Princess will be there?”

Now it’s Spencer’s turn to snort. “Do you honestly think Melanie would miss a chance to buy a new dress and hobnob with the rich and powerful?”

It should, maybe, make Spencer feel at least a little guilty to talk about his wife in such a way, but it doesn’t.

“Hey man, I was just checking. I assumed she’d be there. I’m guessing your lovely parents will be in attendance as well?”

“You’re batting a thousand, Walsh.”

“Shit, Cade. I’m going for a grand slam now. Carlton and Phoebe?”

Spencer laughs and nods even though George can’t see him. “You knocked it out of the park, G.”

There is certainly no love lost between George and Spencer’s uptight, surly brother.

“Can’t say I’m looking forward to spending my evening in the company of the rest of the Cade clan, but seeing you in a tux more than makes up for any suffering I may endure.”

“You just like to look at my ass,” Spencer lowers his voice and shifts in his chair, his cock once again aching between his legs.

George hums and then in a raspy voice laced with desire says, “Spencer, have you
seen
your ass?”

“Well, no, I can’t say I make it a habit to stare at my backside in the mirror, but I am glad you seem rather fond of it.”

“Oh, baby,” George’s voice floats through the phone and Spencer’s entire body fills with electricity and heat. “I’m more than a little fond of it. Of course, I much prefer your cock . . . especially when it’s pounding my ass into the mattress, or the desk, or my favorite, the shower wall.”

“Jesus Christ, George,” Spencer groans. With his free hand, he presses his palm against his straining erection and spreads his legs, slouching down in his chair.

“Mmmm, you’re hard, aren’t you? Imagining your cock inside of me, my legs bent almost in half, leaving me open for you. Can you see it? Feel it? Feel the way my ass clenches around your cock as it drives into me, filling me?”

George’s words mingle with the images flashing behind Spencer’s closed eyelids. Spencer remembers in vivid detail the last time they were together, a few hours stolen after an appearance in Austin. Fucking George in the stairwell of the hotel was one of the hottest, sexiest things Spencer had ever done—as well as the stupidest and most dangerous. Running for public office, with over a hundred people roaming about after his speech during drinks and hors d'oeuvres, getting caught would have been the end of him as a Senate hopeful not to mention the field day Melanie would have had with the information. Spencer hadn’t cared. All he’d wanted was to be buried inside of George, fucking him hard and fast, hearing George moan his name; in that moment, nothing else mattered at all.

They’re more careful now, but the passion and the fire grow stronger every day. Spencer knows that the threat of exposure is mounting as his feelings for George consume him, but he won’t give up George or what they have.

“Go on, Spencer, take that cock out and stroke it for me. You know you want to. Let me hear you jack yourself. Make yourself come.” George’s words are said slowly, deliberately, and by the time he’s done, Spencer’s pants are unzipped and he’s sliding his hand up and down his rock hard shaft.

Spencer groans as his thumb swipes through the bead of liquid at the tip. He throws his head back, stretches his legs, and forgets about everything but George.

His breath gets harsher, quicker as he continues to stroke, listening to George's rough voice. “Yeah, that’s it. God, I bet you look so hot right now. Pants undone, your cock hard and red and slick, your shirt pushed up showing off that flat stomach. You know that’s one of my favorite parts of your body. I love licking the skin over your six-pack, dragging my tongue between all those tight muscles. It always tastes so good.”

“Shit,” Spencer pants as his hand flies up and down his length. “Close, keep talking to me . . . I’m . . . almost there.”

George breathes deeply, and Spencer can picture his lover’s face, his nostrils flared, gray eyes almost black with want and need, the way he looks when Spencer is fucking him. Desperate and begging, and covered in sweat. George’s voice rumbles, “You look so fucking hot when you’re about to come, babe. Your muscles tense and when you throw your head back, Jesus, it’s the sexiest thing ever.”

“Christ . . . oh yes,” Spencer rasps as his fingers curl and squeeze. He lifts his ass off the chair, every muscle in his body tight. He’s so close to coming. “George, baby, please,” he begs.

“Fucking Christ.” George hisses. “If I were there, I’d be on my knees and that cock would be down my throat. I’d suck you so good, swallow every drop you gave me.”

And that’s it, the image of George kneeling before him, with his lips wrapped around Spencer’s cock as he comes is all Spencer needs to let go. He grunts then explodes, his breath choppy as he pulses in his hand, warm liquid oozing between his fingers.

Spencer can’t speak for a few moments while he catches his breath, but when he finally gets it under control, his voice is still rough with want. “I’m so going to fuck you tonight, Walsh. I don’t care where we have to go or how fast we have to be, but my cock is going to be buried so deep inside your ass you’ll be able to taste me.”

Spencer hears George moan his name just before Spencer hangs up his phone, not even saying good-bye.

It’s okay though; he knows George will understand.

-

-

-

GEORGE tosses his phone on his desk, mouth dry, heart slamming in his chest, and his dick so hard it hurts. He smiles, deeply satisfied and turned on as much as he’s ever been at the thought of Spencer losing it and coming all over himself. The picture in his mind is so dirty and hot that for about five seconds, he considers escaping to the bathroom so he can lock the door and jack off. It wouldn’t be the first time he’s done such a thing since taking over Spencer’s campaign, and with the way he and Spencer can get sometimes, it assuredly won’t be the last.

“Jesus,” George breathes out a little shakily, as the last vestiges of his almost-orgasm fade away.

He savors one last fleeting thought of Spencer looking thoroughly debauched with his pants open, cock still semi-hard, come on his stomach, and eyes glazed and files it away. After all, he does have tonight to look forward to.

It doesn’t take long until he’s back in bulldog-mode. There is so much to get done before the fundraiser and about a hundred fires, large and small, he has to put out—just in the immediate future. He double-checks the menu with the chef at the hotel. At two thousand dollars a plate, there isn’t any room for mistakes. Rubbery chicken, over-cooked prime rib, or wilted green beans would be most unwelcome, and George gets the chef to ensure, promising in blood if necessary, that the food will be up to its five-star reputation. After that, George breathes a little easier until there’s a mix-up with the seating chart. He grits his teeth and wonders not for the first time where in the hell they found some of the volunteers. Really, just picturing some of the table assignments makes him want to pull his hair out. He fixes the seating chart, switching around the necessary people, and crosses his fingers. All the attendees might have the same party affiliation as Spencer, but rarely does that translate to everyone having the same agenda.

The Star-Telegram calls in the middle of an argument George is having with his personal assistant, Jocelyn.

“George, you can’t possibly wear those socks with your tux tonight.” Jocelyn sighs, exasperated and very reminiscent of George’s third grade teacher, Mrs. Bradley.

To this day, George swears she retired because of him. If he’s not careful, he’ll be minus a PA before the night is through.

George holds up a pair of black, gray, and white argyle socks and tilts his head as he looks at her. “What? Why? They have black in them, they match.”

Teasing Jocelyn never gets old. Everyone knows that dressing well is certainly not anything George needs to worry about. Ever. On his worst day, the man looks like he just stepped off the front cover of GQ. The bow ties and socks, the glasses—they might not work on everyone, but on George they totally do. No question about it.

Rolling her eyes she snarks, “Seriously?” She shakes her head and hands him the talking points for the call with the newspaper. There will be a write-up about the fundraiser in the Sunday edition and it’s just one more chance to outline Spencer’s platform. Arguing with George about his attire for the evening is a lost cause, so she grits her teeth and keeps her mouth shut. There is no denying that George is a master at what he does, but the man could definitely learn the art of subtlety.

George smirks at his highly strung and quite uptight assistant as he takes the folder from her outstretched hand. Jocelyn is the epitome of “in it to win it.” At only twenty-six, she’s still got stars in her eyes and believes in Mom, apple pie, and the American way. George has been around long enough to lose some of that optimism. Politics is dirty; Jocelyn just hasn’t seen that side. Yet. She will though; it’s impossible to be this close to the way things work and not become at least a little jaded.

“I feel like Chinese for lunch. God only knows when I’ll get to eat tonight. Kung Pao beef, fried rice, and two egg rolls,” George tells her as he sits behind his desk. “Check the list of staff we’re going to have on hand tonight, I want to make sure we’re fully covered.” He shuffles papers and stretches, getting ready to spend at least forty-five painful minutes on the telephone with the reporter.

“Got it,” Jocelyn answers briskly, moving toward the door.

As George reaches for the phone, he calls to her, “Don’t forget the soy sauce.” He watches her nod and waits until she closes the door behind her before starting the interview.

It’s going to be a long phone call, and more than likely an even longer day, but knowing he’ll get to see Spencer tonight makes it all worthwhile. Now if they can sneak in a quickie in a supply closet or the bathroom, well, then, the day would wind up being just about fucking perfect. Chinese food and sex with Spencer; George can’t think of anything he’d like better.

-

-

-

AS SPENCER walks out of his over-sized, bordering on extravagant, office bathroom his phone vibrates. His pulse quickens, his dick gives a little twitch, expecting it’s George sending a hopefully very dirty text message. Smiling, he turns his phone over only to have his stomach plummet like a boulder off a cliff.