Cock and Balls (Handcuffs and Lace) by Mia Watts (9 page)

Tears stung Hank’s eyes, and he tried to blink them away.

“He fucking let her die. I held her hand in the hospital every day. I watched her smile as she pretended that everything was fine and that Dad was where he needed to be—which was bullshit, because he should’ve been with her, not at a State dinner.”

He turned to Monty, suddenly needing to see him react. Needing to see him acknowledge that the president he served was less than human. He pushed Monty’s shoulder. Monty looked at him.

“Do you know what she did when she couldn’t talk anymore? When the tubes in her throat kept her from speaking and dried out her throat? She squeezed my hand, Monty! He should’ve been there to comfort her,
us
—but he was in France not giving a shit when his wife died. When she reached out to say goodbye the only way she had left.” Hank leapt to his feet and dropped the rod. “This is for shit. All of it. You serve a guy you have to serve, but he’s not someone you should respect. He’s a selfish jackass. A hypocrite on the stand of family values.”

“He’s broken,” Monty said softly.

“He can’t be broken. He’s not human enough to break.”

Hank turned on his heel and started running. He heard a curse and the sound of Monty following him. Hank pushed through the trees blindly shoving at branches and undergrowth. It scratched at him all the same, tore at his arms and body like claws.

Monty grabbed his shoulder, slowing him. Hank pushed at his hand, but the man held firm. The slightly fishy smell of working with tackle, the scent of working with worms, the stink of the mulching woods and their own sweat perfumed the air as Monty shoved him against a kudzu-covered tree. Hank squirmed, thinking of all the bugs that could be hiding beneath the bright green leaves of the tree-choking ivy.

He wanted to punish—someone. His father for leaving them to deal with death alone. The American people for having an opinion about him that they had no business forming. Monty for making him think he could talk about it, and it would be okay. Himself for feeling like shit.

Monty was the only one he was willing to fight, so he fought. He shouted, hit, swung a fist and missed. He grunted as he tried to bodyslam Monty and failed without the momentum he needed, pinned as he was.

“Fuck you!” he shouted.

Monty’s arm braced across Hank’s chest. He leaned the weight of his body, and Hank howled in frustration that he couldn’t break free. A hand unsnapped and unzipped his jeans seconds before he realized what was happening. A hard, calloused hand reached inside and grabbed Hank’s cock.

He should have been turned off, disgusted. The fishiness and forest stink closed around him, and Hank’s nostrils flared. Crickets whined all around them, and the leaves moved with life and wind. These weren’t the smells, sounds, and sensations of pleasure. They were gross, basic, sweat-ridden, earthy. The hands on his flesh had touched nasty things and—oh, God—he needed it!

Monty’s hand stroked Hank’s cock briskly. Dry and rough, it worked the sensitive flesh of Hank’s shaft while steely eyes stared deep into his, willed him to look back.

“Fuck the world, Hank. Fuck it. Fuck them all,” Monty growled. “Give it to them. Give it to
me
. Show me just how pissed off you really are.”

Hank’s mind clamped around Monty’s words. They didn’t make any sense and yet they did. This wasn’t about getting off, it was about getting even. It was about taking control back and throwing it in their faces. It was—it wasn’t any of that. It was Monty pulling it all out of him, every last bit of himself until there was nothing left to expose.

Tears spilled down Hank’s cheeks. He hurt inside and out. His cock chaffed and yet he reveled in it, thrust his hips as he shouted obscenities that no longer linked to anything but hatred and anger for everyone and everything.

“Fuck ‘em all, Hank. Fuck ‘em.”

Hank beat on Monty’s chest and suddenly he saw sparks of light behind his lids. Cum shot from him in long ropes until finally Hank sagged against the tree, breathing hard and completely spent.

Monty whispered something. Hank’s ears still rang, and he couldn’t understand the soft words. Lips met his, brushing, caressing, testing Hank’s. Breathlessly, and too tired to keep fighting what felt like an onslaught beyond his control, he let them.

They brushed over his cheek, his jaw. They whispered the word
beautiful
against his earlobe, and he hung on those three syllables like they were salvation. He didn’t remember reaching for Monty, but he clutched the other man’s shoulders.

Monty’s strength held him up, gave him a barrier to the rest of the world, comfort and peace. How was that possible? Why was he doing this? Why was Hank letting him? He stopped wondering and let his head sag forward, taking the comfort Monty offered for as long as he offered it.

Finally the senseless whispers stopped, and Monty held him. He stroked the back of Hank’s hair. “I’ve got you,” he murmured. “It’s just us, and I’ve got you.”

And that’s when Hank started crying in earnest. He sobbed the way he hadn’t let himself when his mother died six months ago, and the way he’d never been allowed to as a small child in the spotlight of his father’s success. He thought he’d been emptied, but there was still this and Monty took it all, holding, rocking, letting another grown man fall apart in his arms without judgment. Hank knew he’d regret it later, but for the moment, he took everything Monty offered. It was a lifeline.

Chapter Eight

Hank’s grief rocked Monty to the core, left him shaken and at a loss. He’d brought Hank to the cabin to get to the bottom of his behavior while getting him off the grid and out of the public eye. He’d done it as his duty and to make sure the son of the President of the United States didn’t alter the course of an election because of a grudge he held against his father.

He’d had no idea how much pain lurked beneath the surface of the other man.

He’d suspected. He’d witnessed years of relationship problems between father and son. He’d even seen the fallout of Mrs. McClaren’s death, but from the perspective of how President McClaren had struggled to hold it all together and his residual guilt. He’d even been a silent bystander in the doorway of the hospital room when Mrs. McClaren had sent him off to handle his sworn duties—refusing to let him show weakness in her final days.

And he’d been there through the catastrophe when White House spin doctors had taken his absence and lied that the president had been unaware of the imminent death of his wife while he was away overseas. The president had known and had been pushed to his duty by the dying wish of his wife and his inability to watch her go.

Monty knew that side. Hank’s side was different. The president hadn’t seen any of it. He’d only seen the Hank go from a strong, carefree young man to a national disaster. All the pieces fit, and God help him, he understood the visceral collapse. Losing his own father, their closeness, Monty remembered the pain. Though he’d known the loss was great for Hank, he hadn’t once, in all that time of service, put himself in Hank’s shoes long enough to see that in all his posturing and antics, the one he really hurt was himself.

President McClaren had been wrong. He dealt with his grief how he’d needed to, and there was no judgment in that, but he’d let his son flounder without explanation or support.

Yeah, it shook Monty up because now all he wanted to do was protect Hank and take away his pain. He shouldn’t be feeling that way. In fact, feeling that way was dangerous, and he’d have to make a point of not feeling that way again.

Hank was silent as they took the boat to the supply store. Monty left him at the register while he collected a box of fresh foods and fish since they hadn’t caught any that morning. He also checked for messages.

When he got to the register, Hank’s smug mask had settled into place. The old shop owner, a man Monty had known his whole life, blushed and wouldn’t meet his eyes as he checked their purchases.

Monty frowned. Hank was up to something, and that never boded well. Hank didn’t keep the expression all the way back, but Monty’s mother didn’t breed idiots. The guy was up to something, and it had Monty on guard.

They reached the dock, and Hank tied off the skiff before helping remove groceries from the boat. Monty stepped onto the dock, leaned down to hoist one of the boxes of goods when a small rectangular box dropped on top of where Monty could see it.

Condoms.

He lifted the box like he hadn’t noticed or cared and took it inside. His cock filled with every step and with every step he reminded himself of all the reasons fucking the president’s son was a bad, stupid, moronic, dumb, suicidal thing to do. His cock didn’t care. His cock practically sang with eagerness.

He left Hank to carry the other box on his own. Going back out would only make Monty a sundial. So he unloaded the cold storage foods and put them away instead. Each time he took something from the box, the condoms dropped onto another item until they hit the bottom, and Hank was walking through the door, whistling.

Monty turned the box upside down, dumping the tiny container of seduction on the small space beside the sink. He stored the box and turned to silently unload the smaller second box with cereal and potatoes in it.

Hank leaned a hip against the counter and folded his arms across his chest. He sported the widest shit-eating grin Monty had seen in a while.

“Hey,” Hank said after a moment. “You
did
tell me to fuck everyone. I’m choosing to start with you.”

The sudden introduction of words in his otherwise silent space had Monty stopping in his tracks. Every nerve ending vibrated on edge.
He
hadn’t gotten off that morning. He still had a load that wanted out. His cock was more than ready to get on with the program.

Worse, he wanted Hank tied to the Murphy bed with his ass in the air. Or legs draped over Monty’s shoulders with the look of loss and ecstasy he had in the middle of coming. Or on his knees taking Monty’s cock deep until his eyes watered again. Or with his legs wrapped around Monty’s waist, begging him to go deeper until Monty shattered inside him and let go of his own restraints, let go of the self-preserving instinct that he needed to be very careful or lose his heart to Hank.

Would Hank know what to do with it when he had it? Would he laugh and pretend it had all been about the fuck, or would he fall apart like he had in the woods and let Monty in, the way he hadn’t let anyone else?

He wanted the guy under the façade so powerfully he practically shook with it. He wanted Hank. The real Hank. The one who hurt and cried and let himself be held. The other Hank could go to hell. There was a huge difference in the two personas and this time Monty had proof that the one he had known was in there somewhere, existed.
That
Hank was his. Or he would be when Hank got over himself, dealt with a few things.

“This isn’t a club, and I’m not some fresh-faced kid wanting a quick screw,” Monty informed him.

Hank moved closer. “No. This isn’t. You aren’t, and I’m positive that screwing you is an all-night adventure.”

God, the mouth on this one. He had the cockiness of a guy with a lot less to hide. Did Monty have the balls to take him up on it? He’d like to think so, but suddenly, he wasn’t so sure.

“I see a problem with your plan,” Monty said.

“What’s the problem?”

“You hate slow kisses and anything that smacks of personal investment. I’m a personal investment kind of guy.”

A shadow of an expression filtered across Hank’s face. It looked like uncertainty. “I liked today,” he hedged.

“Today wasn’t slow. Today didn’t have anything to do with me.” Monty pushed the box over and came to stand in front of the other man. “If you and I hook up, you won’t only know I’m the one fucking you, but I won’t give you the opportunity to forget it.”

Hank lifted a brow. His gaze searched Monty’s. “That sounds an awful lot like commitment.”

It did, and Monty felt a moment of panic when he realized he still meant it. “Is that what it sounds like?” he asked instead, throwing the impression back on Hank. “I told you before I wasn’t a one-night fuck. Nothing’s changed.”

“Nothing except a blowjob and a handjob in the last day and a half,” Hank challenged.

“Do they change things for you?” Monty asked rhetorically, caging him in until Hank no longer leaned a hip on the counter but had the edge at his back.

“For a guy not interested in sex, you’re acting a lot like a guy interested in sex.”

Monty grinned. “Who said I wasn’t interested in sex?”

“Oh, so this is a word game now?”

“It all depends on you.”

Hank’s breathing had changed, and his gaze had locked on Monty’s lips. “I like being in control.”

“Who said you were in control?”

“Technically? You did,” Hank reminded him.

“Did I? I don’t remember. You’re distracting me.”

Air rushed out of Hank’s lungs. “Are you as hot as I am right now?”

“Hotter, but that doesn’t change the one thing I need to know.”

“Which is?” Hank murmured.

“Fuck it. I’ll figure it out later,” Monty muttered, grabbing the box of condoms.

He spun Hank, pinned his arm behind his back and forced him to the beds. After pulling down one of the Murphy’s, he shoved Hank to the mattress and dropped the box on his belly. Monty straddled him and tore off his shirt while Hank wriggled out of his own. Hank reached for Monty’s fly. Monty kicked off his shoes, knocked Hank’s hands away and stood up to take off his pants, irritated that he hadn’t thought to do that already. It was Hank. He had Monty so mixed up inside, wanting so badly that he’d completely lost any semblance of smoothness.

Hank already had his pants to his knees, and Monty helped pull them the rest of the way off. Hank freed a packet from the string of condoms. Monty took it and dressed himself.

“I don’t have lube,” Monty rasped.

“It’s in the box you didn’t unpack.”

Monty started to get up.

Hank grabbed his wrist. “I want it raw.”