Page 47

It spurs you to move your hand faster, picking up the pace.

Reluctantly, you remove the hand pawing at Sterling’s ass and use it to cover his mouth.

You make sure your fingers aren’t too firm, that you aren’t hurting him.

Against your palm, Sterling makes a muffled noise of surprise.

But then his tongue is out, and he’s licking your hand all sloppy.

You can’t help frotting against his back a little, just to relieve some of the tension in your groin.

Sterling’s hands flutter and try to get backwards and between you, grabbing at your dick.

The angle’s all wrong, not to mention the fact that you are strangely obsessed with this moment not being about you.

This weird, dirty, kind of Bizarro World moment.

“No,” you say sharply. “Hands to yourself.”

Sterling stops instantly, but he also doesn’t listen completely.

One hand comes up to grip the wrist near his face, near the hand covering his mouth.

The other joins yours on his dick. He can’t get a good share of the real estate — your hand is too big — so his fingers are just kind of riding on yours, holding the back of your hand as you work him over .

Behind your palm, he’s still moaning, his breath coming hard and fast through his nose.

If it’s possible, stifling the noises has made him make even more of them.

You’ve never heard him this uninhibited.

One of two things is going to happen, you realize: you are going to get him off from this fucking handjob, or you are going to black out from sheer over-stimulation and possibly die.

You aren’t even the one being serviced, but your vision’s gone a little starry.

You might have locked your knees. That must be it.

It ultimately doesn’t matter, because Sterling is right there.

You can tell it’s coming: he’s drooling a little bit on your hand, and his cheeks are very hot, and his cries are getting closer together.

His whole body is starting to stiffen, and he’s making little thrusting movements with his hips that drive himself harder into your hand, trapped as he is by your body and the toilet in front of him.

Then he’s coming, with a noise that you feel all the way in your throat.

You have the foresight to aim his dick once again, and cum splatters the rim of the toilet, not quite making it in.

You jerk him through it, whispering good boy, good, good boy into the mass of his hair as his body convulses.

He’s boneless after, after you clean up and flush and wash your hands.

You remind him that he has a party to finish, and there’s a dopey, utterly blissed-out look on his face as he nods.

You hope fervently that Frish doesn’t expect him to give a speech, and make a mental note to turn away any and all offers of more champagne for the evening.

Before he can ask, you help him button his pants.

You are surprised by the knot of photographers waiting at the back door of the Troxy when you two are leaving at three in the morning.

A staff member must have paid them off. They scream Sterling’s name the same way as in America, just with British accents.

Sterling must still be feeling drunk—you thought you’d managed to sober him up with food and lots of mineral water—because he pulls your head down and kisses you right in front of the paparazzi.

You smile against his mouth, and try not to imagine the headlines.

“Happy birthday, Sterling!” one of the photographers called. “Did you have a good night?”

“Yes,” he replies.

Cal seems to appear out of nowhere. You saw glimpses of him at the edge of the party all night.

He was off-duty and Sterling had insisted that he was to have fun, but you are pretty sure that Cal is allergic to fun.

He has some stern words with the press, and they keep their distance while he shepherds the two of you down Caroline Street to where your car is waiting.

“Thank you, Cal,” Sterling says .

The “car” is a goddamned vintage aubergine Rolls-Royce limousine. Even Sterling laughs when he sees it.

“The hell is this?” he asks.

“One last birthday surprise from Mr. Frishman,” Cal says dryly. “He wanted you to get home comfortably.”

“I feel like the prom queen,” Sterling utters. He disappears into the back. You are about to follow, when Cal stops you with his big arm.

“Mister Reinhart,” he begins.

You tense up. You’ve never had an interaction with the brusque bodyguard that didn’t make you fear mortally for your physical well-being. Oh, Jesus. Maybe he found out what went on in the bathroom.

“I just wanted to say,” he tells you, “that I have never seen Mister Grayson so happy. I think you two are really good together.”

You are speechless. Gobsmacked. Absolutely boggled.

“Thank you, Cal,” you manage.

He nods, and gestures for you to climb into the limo. His stoic face is the last thing you see before the door shuts.

Inside, it’s bigger than a regular car, but smaller than the limo you shared with the rest of your high school friends before dances.

There’s just the two seats, which can recline all the way with footrests, a console with drinks and snacks, and a screen that’s currently showing a traffic map of London.

It’s something between first class on a commercial airplane and a private train compartment.

The car starts to move, the driver unseen.

The London streets are eerily deserted as the city holds its breath before dawn.

Most of the storefronts are blackened, save the odd 24-hour kebab shop.

The bars still glow neon, but there are few revelers left, stragglers making their way home.

The landmarks of the West End look more solemn in the dark.

The pavement glistens, the remnants of rain that must have fallen during the party.

“Happy birthday, Ster,” you murmur in the darkness of the car. He’s holding your hand, tracing lazy patterns on your knuckles. “Was it a good one?”

He looks over at you, a lazy smile playing on his lips. “The best,” he swears. “The very best.”

You think back to Cal’s words, and you silently concur. Best night ever.

It only improves when the birthday boy flips up the console and blows you, slobbery and enthusiastic. You drop your head back and knot your fingers in his hair. The limo’s engine purrs. You realize that Sterling must have told the driver to take the long way home.