Page 10 of The Illusion of Power (Passion and Politics #1)

“Of course I remember, Beck,” Cal says, his voice too soft in the wake of my harsh rambling. “I was the one laid up in the hospital bed.”

My eyes fall shut as the image hits me. Not of him in the hospital bed, but of his face the moment the bullet that put him there went through his vest, entering just below the front plate.

His expression had been so calm, even as he hit the ground hard, bleeding from his abdomen.

The moment he realized Cal was hit, President Warner scrambled to him, applying pressure to the wound while I shielded them both with my body and returned fire, striking the gunman—a young, inexperienced shooter who had just joined Marsh’s militia a few weeks prior—right between the eyes.

“Hey,” he murmurs, his fingers wrapping around my wrist and tugging until my eyes pop open and my feet begin to move. “I didn’t mean to take you back there,” he says when I stop in front of him, our mouths inches apart, our bodies close.

I know he’s referring to that day specifically, but the truth is, that’s not the real problem. The problem is the way any mention of it acts as a key, unlocking the part of my brain where the long list of losses I’ve endured lives. They’re written in chronological order.

At the top are my birth parents, who didn’t want me.

The middle is littered with the names of foster siblings and friends I gained and lost as a result of being constantly bounced around the system.

Near the end are the names of my adoptive parents, Edgar and Delores Beckham. The wealthy, elderly white couple who found me when I was eight years old and, despite not knowing a thing about raising a Black boy in the upper echelon of society, gave me the best of everything.

The last names are the freshest wounds, my wife and the little boy in her belly who died when she did.

It had nearly killed me to add them in, to live every day in the bleak reality of losing them.

And when Cal went down, when his blood ran red and thick under the soles of my shoes, I felt that darkness descending on me again.

I felt the loss of him and wondered why I thought I’d be able to keep him when life had taught me that goodness doesn’t stick around for long.

It’s that thought, that memory, that sends my hands to his waist, my fingers searching for the hem of his shirt and tugging up to expose the smooth burnt umber of his skin and the cut lines of his stomach.

As delicious as they are, I’m not here for his abs.

No, I’m here for the jagged flesh that marks the bullet’s entry and the line of scar tissue that tells the story of the doctors cutting him open to remove it.

Cal sucks in a sharp breath through his teeth when my fingertips trace over them, and I tear my gaze away from his stomach to look at his face, needing to know if he wants me to stop.

If tonight is one of the nights that the lie we tell in public will permeate the private truth of us.

It happens sometimes.

When the lie is too loud and the truth is too quiet. When we’ve risked being found out for the reassurance of a brush of our pinkies or a lingering look and reality sets in, reminding us that being lovers puts our partnership and careers at risk.

One second of eye contact tells me there’s no reluctance to indulge on Cal’s part.

The hiss was more surprise than anything else, probably because I’m not usually the initiator.

I let my worry, my frustration, and the constant fear of losing him bleed out of my eyes along with a silent plea for the physical expression of his affection, for a tangible reminder that he’s still here with me and not another name on my list.

“I’m right here,” he assures me, reading the look with ease.

One of his rough, warm palms comes up to cup the back of my neck, urging me forward until my lips are on his.

We both sigh into the connection, and Cal holds me firm, refusing to let even a millimeter of space between our mouths.

The kiss is bruising, and his tongue is demanding as it pushes past my lips, conquering my mouth with rough sweeps that soothe every word of worry I’ve spoken or let die on my tongue.

My hands begin to move again, fingers greedy as they traverse the familiar terrain of his torso and chest, freeing them from the clinging fabric of the black workout shirts he wears even when he’s not in the gym.

I break the kiss for a split second to pull the shirt over his head, and he growls his disapproval, smashing his lips back to mine as I toss the offending fabric over my shoulder.

We stumble over it on our way out of the kitchen.

Me, walking backwards while Cal haunts my steps, tugging on the tied strings securing my sweats to my waist. By the time we make it upstairs to his bedroom, there’s a line of clothing in our wake and two raging erections pressed between our naked forms.

Cal releases me with a wet smack and smiles wickedly. “On your knees, Beckham.”

My dick pulses at the dark promise laced in the order, and I lower myself to the ground immediately, eager to please, desperate to taste.

I reach for his dick with eager hands, and he steps back, a tsk of disapproval hitting the air.

Confused, I look up and find him staring down at me with hard eyes and his hands behind his back.

“Just your mouth. Do you understand?” he tells me, lifting one leg and placing his foot on the edge of the bed.

Fuck is he sexy like this. All the diplomacy and carefully constructed control he exhibits in his day-to-day life morphing into something new, rising to meet the unspoken demands of my desire.

“Do you understand?” he repeats, reaching down to stroke his dick with the same hand that was just cupping my neck. Entranced and irrationally jealous of his palm, I nod, which makes Cal smile. “Good. Now, put your hands behind your back and come here.”

I do exactly as he asks and shuffle forward, moving slowly so I don’t lose my balance.

When I’m close enough to see the bead of precum creeping out of his tip, I rise on my knees and flick out my tongue, catching the evidence of his arousal just as it emerges.

The creamy, salty flavor of him explodes on my tongue, and I moan, setting the sound free to meet Cal’s grunt of approval in the air around us.

A glance up at him reveals his eyes squeezed shut and his chest heaving with anticipation.

I keep my gaze on his face, wanting to see his reaction when I take his length into my mouth, grazing his shaft with my teeth.

His shifting expression is everything I hoped it would be, and I close my eyes, pride swelling in my chest when he starts to rock his hips, fucking into my mouth with soft, helpless groans that make me want to touch him.

I know better than to disobey him, though, so I keep my hands behind my back, digging my nails into my flesh as a constant reminder to leave them there.

“Fuck. That’s it,” Cal pants, breaking his stance to cup the back of my head and pull me down further, effectively choking me on his dick. “That’s right. Get me ready for you.”

My mouth waters at the thought of him inside me, so my next pull on his length is a wet slurp that makes him grip both sides of my face.

Reverent fingers stroke the lines of my jaw before applying an almost painful pressure that forces my mouth to stay open at that exact angle.

Cal is a perfect picture of rapture when I look up at him again, marveling at the juxtaposition between his tender expression and his savage movements.

He’s looking at me now, fucking my mouth like an animal while he holds me hostage with those eyes.

“I’m right here, Beck,” he says, pulling back until only the flared tip of his dick rests on my lips.

“Do you feel me?” he asks, pushing back in forcefully, hitting the back of my throat and still going further until his balls slap my chin and I gag around him, moaning my understanding because it’s not possible to verbalize it.

I do feel him.

I feel him everywhere.

In the burn of my jaw and the ache in my knees.

In the sting of my fingernails digging into my wrist because I still can’t touch him, and the heavy pulsing of my dick against my thigh.

But most of all, I feel him in my chest. In every skipped beat of my heart and swell of affection. In every I love you, explicitly spoken or discreetly expressed.

Satisfied with my understanding, Cal draws back once again, but this time he doesn’t return. Instead, he pulls me up to my feet and kisses me gently, massaging my aching jaws.

“You’re never going to lose me.”

He whispers the promise into my lips and leaves me at the foot of the bed, going to his nightstand to retrieve a bottle of lube from the drawer and returning just as I’m climbing onto the bed.

The sensitive tip of my erection grazes the sheets, leaving a trail of unspent desire for Cal to follow.

He’s at my back in seconds, pushing me down and nudging my knees apart.

My elbows sink into the plush mattress, and I sigh as the familiar sounds of him lubricating his fingers echo around me.

In moments, he’s parting my cheeks, rubbing impatient but careful fingers over and into the ring of puckered flesh we’re both desperate to have wrapped around his length.

His index finger is first, sliding in and out of me slowly, a gentle intrusion that acts as the prelude of what’s to come.

Every time we’re together like this, the process is the same.

The slow build up, moving from one finger to the subtle burn of two, and then the aching stretch of three.

Cal’s fingers are long and thick, so the combination of his index, middle, and ring fingers is a near-perfect replica of his girth.