Page 49 of Darling
You know I can’t
Z:
Give me one good reason why not?
I have a hundred, a thousand. It’s madness. I’m a politician. I’m in the public eye. I’m almost two decades years older than him. It’s so ridiculous I can’t even wrap my head around the consequences of being caught doing something so bloody depraved.
But then, I picture it again.
Asher groaning from pleasure. Asher being stretched open. Asher being fucked well.
The burn of arousal it sends through me is incendiary. I’m breathless and rock hard, and I can’t think of anything I’d rather witness. Since I can’t fuck him myself, perhaps it’s only fair that I get to watch him be fucked instead. Pleasured the way I wish I could pleasure him, the way he deserves.
Clearly I’ve lost my bloody mind. It’s insane, I know it is. Something in my brain has come loose since the heart attack, and I’m not sure I want to put it back. I might also learn something. Maybe it is even prudent as an old dog to learn some new tricks. I’m shaking my head in disbelief as I text him back. I don’t recognise myself, my rehabilitation so absolute that it feels quite as though I’m having an out-of-body experience.
Me:
All right.
Sixteen
Asher
Ipacked a small overnight bag, watered the plants, locked up, and banged on Doreen’s door to let her know I was out of town for the weekend and that I’d be back Sunday. She has Amata’s number, who has a key to my place in case of emergencies. This was after a leak in the kitchen had sprung when I’d been out in LA for a week and completely destroyed the apartment downstairs.
After this, I drove to Christian’s. I’d expected him to give me a meeting place, but he’d just sent the address and said he’d be ready by ten. It’s one surprise after another with him; first, he agreed to come to a shoot with me, to watch, then he invited me to his house. I’m trying not to read anything into this distinct shift in his behaviour, but it’s hard. I pull up to the property, which is fucking gated because of course it is, he’s a diplomat for the UK government. I’m not sure whether to ring the thing, which would then lead whoever answers it to start asking questions he might not want me to answer, so I call his cell instead.
“You’re running late?” he answers.
“Uh, no. I’m never late. I’m outside your palace; it has a gate.”
“Ah, yes. It does indeed. You have to press the little button onit, someone will answer it and unlock it.”
“I know how gates work, I just wasn’t sure if you’d want me to.”
He sighs, then says a little firmly, “Press it, Asher.”
“Um. Yes, daddy.” I hear him chuckle before the line cuts.
I have to unbuckle and lean out of the car to do it, but it opens a second later, swinging inward to reveal a short gravel driveway, which circles up to the huge fucking building that resembles a small palace. I pull up by the pillared entrance, turn off the engine, and wait. There are no other cars parked here, and I feel like some sniper might be about to take me out, so I slouch down in the driver’s seat. It’s a few minutes later when my phone buzzes.
Are you coming in?
The entrance is a set of wide stone steps up to an enormous door, intricate floral work around the frame, and set inside a double-height arched entryway. It’s a rich, polished mahogany that gleams in the early-morning sun and must be about twelve feet tall. A brushed-gold knocker shaped like a lion’s head sits at eye level. I feel very small standing here, insignificant, like a trespasser. What the fuck is Thomas Lisowski doing here exactly? I’m about to knock when the door is pulled open and Christian, looking relaxed and hot in a pair of gold-rimmed glasses, beams at me.
“Is the king home?” I ask.
He laughs. “It’s quite ridiculous, isn’t it? It comes with the job. Impossible to feel at home in a museum.” He pulls open the door and gestures for me to come in. The inside is even more insane. Marble floors, triple-height ceilings, two great winding staircases on either side of the foyer, and chandeliers that Idoubt would look out of place in the Palace of Versailles.
“It’s insane. How come I’m even allowed inside without going through security?”
“There is security everywhere.” He looks up and around, but when I follow his eyes, I don’t see any cameras. “But the house staff have the weekend off for the holiday. My housekeeper, Grace, insisted on making us some lunch for the road. Why don’t you come through. We’ll get going shortly.”
I follow him through the house towards the back. “Has your son gone back to the UK?”
“He’s gone to visit a friend in South Carolina this weekend. He’s on a tennis programme in Virginia.”
“Is that why you’re allowed to have friends over, then?” He gives me an amused look over his shoulder. “I never thought I’d get to see the inside of your house, like ever.”