Tasting the Forbidden - A Mayhem Erotica Anthology (15 page)

Melanie.

Riding with Carlton and Phoebe to the hotel. Don’t be late.

Spencer drops the phone as if it were on fire. Even her text messages are cold and bitchy. Leaving his phone where it lands, he turns to go back to the bathroom to finish dressing for dinner. He stares at himself in the mirror as he ties his black, satin bowtie, assessing himself with a critical eye. Above average height, sun-streaked blond hair without a hint of gray to be found, even though he turned forty almost a year ago. Bright blue eyes with only the faintest of wrinkles, mostly from smiling, not age, thank you very much. A slightly crooked nose, somehow broken only once from an elbow during the 5-A state high school basketball championship Spencer’s senior year of high school. Wide mouth with perfectly proportioned lips; a mouth made to suck cock according to George. Broad shoulders, flat stomach that, thanks to good genes, doesn’t take much more than a few hours in the gym a week to maintain, slim hips and long, muscular legs.

All things considered, not too bad if he does say so himself. Melanie might turn up her surgically straight nose at him, but he doesn’t mind, not in the least. Especially since he has George.

Thinking of his black-haired, dirty-talking lover makes Spencer’s stomach flip. He knows tonight is important—hell, every fundraiser is—and he knows he needs to be ready to be ‘on’ but he can’t help but think about after. The after, when George will be naked, and Spencer is buried inside of him, his balls slapping George’s ass. When George is moaning his name, asking for more, begging Spencer not to stop. When Spencer can feel George's muscles ripple and flex beneath his hands as he holds George in place while he fucks him until they're both empty, panting, and sated . . . for the time being at any rate.

Spencer's vision blurs, his head swims as a powerful jab of lust and need races through his body. He slaps his hands on the counter, barely managing to keep himself upright.

“Jesus fucking Christ,” he mutters and takes a few deep breaths.

He’s anxious for some reason. It’s not like he hasn’t spent more than half his life in front of people, but tonight feels different. Between basketball all the way through his undergrad at Stanford, being constantly put on the spot in law school during a lecture, pleading cases in front of a judge, and of course being constantly scrutinized by the public as he’s worked his way up through the political ranks, Spencer is more than used to being the center of attention. Tonight though, he’d give his left nut to stay at home, or more preferably, hidden away at George’s condo. Just the two of them, completely alone, with no Melanie, no worrying about poll numbers or constituents, no hiding, nothing but them, a bottle of wine, and a bed . . . or perhaps the shower, or if they were feeling extremely adventurous, maybe the dining room table. George would look spectacular naked and laid out across the table with his ass in the air ready and willing for Spencer to use as he wished.

Spencer groans just from the thought, and it takes a herculean effort to get his body under control.

“Tonight, God damn it,” Spencer promises himself.

It’s been more than two weeks since he and George have had sex, the supremely hot phone call a few hours ago notwithstanding. While it was satisfying at the time, it doesn’t come close to the way it feels to have George under him.

Resolved that somehow he’ll find a way to be alone with George during the night, Spencer finishes getting dressed. He straightens his tie, makes sure his pants are zipped, grabs his jacket and cell phone, and takes the elevator to the parking garage where he meets the car and driver arranged to be at his disposal for the evening.

The ride to the Ritz is quiet. It’s not quite twilight, but the sun has begun to set, streaking the sky with slivers of purple and gray. Lights twinkle in the office buildings that line the streets as the car winds its way between. The worst of the traffic has passed. Buildings blur as the car smoothly travels toward the hotel and Spencer spends the rare alone time thinking about his future. Washington. In his gut, he knows it’s where he belongs. Miles away from Texas, his family—Melanie—he’d be able to be the Spencer he imagines himself to be. Out, free to be with George, able to express his opinions on the things that truly matter instead of living this half-life that he’s spent more than twenty years carefully cultivating.

It’s exhausting. He’s tired, so fucking tired of hiding who he really is from everyone. Well, not everyone, he amends silently, because he’s bared it all, stripped himself down to the bare bones for George. It’s as scary as it is exhilarating. Almost forty-one years old, and he’s just now finally found the one person he’s ready and willing to give himself to. If the past six years as Melanie’s husband have taught him anything, it’s that he’s done trying to conform to please everyone but himself. Even without George in his life, he’s accepted that the end of this campaign was going to mean the end of the Spencer Cade his family and friends have always known. Living his life so deep in the closet he’d need a map to find his way out is no longer acceptable. Thank God George saw right through him and wouldn’t take no for an answer. Now that he knows what his life could be like, loved and happy and free from lies, Spencer won’t accept anything less. Lying has long lost its luster, and it’s left him bitter and alone. At least he was until George stormed into his life and turned his whole world upside down.

His phone vibrates with an incoming text message as the car slows to turn into the hotel parking lot. This time it is from George.

Ice Princess here and on the warpath. Don’t let her chew on your ass too much, I have plans for that particular body part later.

Spencer chuckles, deletes the message, and tucks the phone away. He’s not particularly worried about Melanie, or anyone else for that matter, finding the messages on his phone, but it’s always better to be safe than sorry. Melanie’s too self-involved to pay attention, and as far as his political adversaries are concerned, Spencer is enough of an outlaw, enough of an independent, to be overlooked by most as a threat. Down another five points in the polls, it’s not surprising and honestly, Spencer would prefer to keep it that way. He knows that the campaign is about to turn cut-throat, but he’d like to delay that as long as possible. He’s willing to do whatever it takes to win, but not at the expense of looking over his shoulder every minute of the day. He and George will have to be more careful than ever, though; a fact that turns his stomach even if it turns him on at the same time. There’s no denying that sneaking around is kind of hot.

Before he has too much time to dwell, the car comes to a stop, and a sharply dressed valet has the door open, greeting him with a professional, “Good evening, Mr. Cade. The Ritz is honored to have you here tonight,” when he slides out and steps into the warm Texas air.

Spencer nods and smoothes his tux jacket with his hand as he walks inside. Another member of the staff holds the door opens and greets him in the same, well-practiced voice.

“You’re in the ballroom to the left, sir,” the man says and waves his hand in that direction.

“Thank you,” Spencer replies and takes a deep breath. Making sure a smile is on his face, he walks toward the ballroom. It’s showtime.

It doesn’t take but a moment for Spencer to find his family. They do make an impressive group he admits with a pleasant tip of his head to a supporter as he passes by. The room is full of Dallas elite, along with others from all over the state. Diamonds shimmer in ears and drip from necks. The men wear custom made tuxedos and the women don dresses bought in New York City or on Rodeo Drive. Money practically oozes from pockets and purses, and there’s not one person in attendance that doesn’t think that dropping a little over two grand for a plate of chicken or beef is the equivalent of buying dinner off the dollar menu at McDonald’s.

His family is no exception.

His father, Bradford, and his mother, Annabeth, stand in a group with Melanie, Carlton, and Phoebe. All blond-haired, blue-eyed pictures of true Texans. The men tall and broad-shouldered, the women prim and proper with no hair out of place. An air of privilege emanates from them as witnessed by the rest of the room that can’t seem to stop looking in their direction. Spencer’s mother gives him a small smile as he approaches, no warm welcome because that would be entirely too ‘new money’ for her taste.

“Spencer, darling,” she drawls in a perfectly southern tone of voice. She lifts her cheek for an air kiss because Lord knows, there can be no smudging of her carefully applied makeup. Spencer obliges then turns to shake hands with his father. “I was just asking Melanie where you were. Honestly,” Annabeth titters and lays her hand daintily on Spencer's arm, “I don’t understand why you couldn’t arrive together. You don’t want to give people the wrong impression, do you?”

Spencer, long used to the way his mother operates, ignores the subtle barb and turns toward his father. “Hello, Dad.” They shake hands once more and do some sort of man hug, a quick pat on the back, Bradford making sure it’s not long enough for anyone to notice.

Bradford Cade is an imposing man, and he’s never shied away from using his name or his power to his advantage. In business, his marriage, and his family, he’s used to getting his way and he never takes no for an answer. Spencer has spent most of his life trying to not ever ask his father a direct question. If he doesn’t ask, there can’t be a no in response.

“Nice turn out, Son. Too bad you’re still behind in the polls, but at least tonight should bring in some decent money. Let’s hope that campaign manager of yours is worth his reputation. He’s got his work cut out for him, that’s for sure.”

Spencer grits his teeth and turns away, and tries not to allow the snide comments about George Melanie and Carlton whisper get to him. The room is crowded, the din of so many people almost claustrophobic. The ballroom is beautifully decorated, the tables set with the finest china and sterling silver. Crystal glasses filled with water reflect the candlelight from each centerpiece. Everyone is there to hear him speak, to show their support, but standing with his wife and family, Spencer has never felt more alone. At least until the crowd parts and he meets George’s eyes across the room.

Immediately, Spencer’s body relaxes, though one particular body part definitely pays attention as George saunters toward him. He watches, amused as George gets waylaid numerous times along the way, though he never once stops looking at Spencer. Luckily for them both, the lights are dim, and the champagne has been flowing freely for the past hour so that no one will recognize the naked hunger in both their eyes.

“Evening, Spencer. Cade family. Don’t you all look mighty fine tonight. Melanie, you’re looking especially lovely,” George says with a chuckle as he stands beside Spencer.

“Walsh,” Bradford replies coolly. “Impressive showing. Let’s hope it translates into Spencer moving up in the polls.”

George waves his hand in the air, dismissing the pointed criticism. “There is still four months until the election, Bradford. That’s a lifetime. Spencer is well positioned, trust me.”

“Yeah, well, I guess we’ll see,” Carlton snidely remarks.

George allows the statement to pass, waits just long enough for everyone to become uncomfortable, then clears his throat. “If y’all don’t mind, I’m going to steal Spencer away for a few minutes and go over a change in his speech. Enjoy your evening.”

He grabs Spencer’s elbow, curling his fingers around Spencer’s arm, and leads him to the farthest corner of the ballroom. It’s not exactly private, but it’ll have to do.

“Nice socks,” Spencer whispers intimately in George's ear and almost makes him trip. George shivers and turns his head just enough to glare at a particularly smug Spencer. The man knows what that tone of voice does to him when they’re alone; in the middle of a crowded room it’s positively lethal.

Asshole.

“I wore them just to piss of Jocelyn. She was giving me grief about my attire for the evening. Can you believe that? I think I’m going to have to fire her.”

They both know he’s full of shit; George couldn’t ask for a better assistant. George ignores every attempt someone makes to stop Spencer. He needs a few minutes, even if they’re not entirely alone, with Spencer before the night gets underway.

He scans ahead of him and leads them toward a corner tucked away behind a grand piano. Positioning Spencer in front of him, George turns his back to the room and gives Spencer his undivided attention. His eyes rake over every inch of his lover’s body, starting at his feet and slowly working his way up, up, until they are searing gray eyes to burning blue.

“Fuck, you look so hot in a tux.” George sighs.

He has to bury his hands in his pockets because the urge to slam Spencer against the wall and rub against him like a dog in heat is so strong he can hardly see straight.

“I want to kiss you, right now, more than I’ve ever wanted to kiss anyone,” Spencer answers back in a voice so full of yearning George’s skin breaks out into goose bumps.

Neither man says a word for long moments, they simply revel being in each other’s presence. To anyone who happens to glance in their direction, they look like they’re deep in discussion about something important, not undressing each other with their eyes, and imagining being naked before the night is through. George does imagine though, in explicit detail.

Straining muscles, hard cocks, the bite of Spencer’s fingers on his hips, the burn in his ass as Spencer enters him, slowly, filling him until he can’t breathe . . . oh yeah, George imagines it all.