True North (Compass series Book 4) Read online

  Holy motherfucking hell. I wouldn’t say that I’m about to switch teams or anything, but I can’t deny that my own pants aren’t getting tight in the crotch. It’s not Matthew per se, though he’s not a bad-looking guy. It’s that this entire scenario is hot as fuck and he thinks so too. That sounded like a phenomenal orgasm to me, whatever Rey said about it being half-assed.

  As soon as Matthew seems the least bit recovered, he crawls toward Rey and holds up his hands. “Please, sir.”

  “Go ahead and see if you can do one thing right today.”

  Matthew eagerly dives toward Rey’s lap, making quick work of the button and the zipper. I only catch the slightest glimpse of Rey’s dick before Matthew’s taking it enthusiastically into his mouth and going to work.

  Rey’s head drops back, and he sighs. “You may be completely inept otherwise, but goddamn are you an outstanding cocksucker.”

  I can hear Matthew’s squeak, choked out around the dick stuffed in his mouth. I think I might want to leave because it’s weird watching this, but I can’t look away. It’s too goddamn good. I want to watch their pleasure, I want to watch them enjoy this. See that it is, as Rey and India promised, a thing. A thing I could have. I scrub a fist over my own erection, willing it to go down, but it, like the rest of me, is too damn excited.

  When Rey finally comes, it’s with a hand gripping the back of Matthew’s head and the other clenched in a fist on the leather of the couch. He doesn’t make much noise; only a brief panting and a squeezing shut of his eyes gives away that he just blew his load.

  Matthew doesn’t stop laving him until he’s told to, but when Rey commands him, he leans back and sits on his heels. After arranging himself, Rey leans forward and takes Matthew’s face in his hands, resting his forehead against Matthew’s while he talks to him in soft words I can’t quite make out. Matthew’s hands come up to grasp Rey’s wrists, and he nods, his scarlet flush of embarrassment fading into a ruddy afterglow.

  They murmur to each other for another few minutes, Rey stroking his thumbs behind Matthew’s ears and kissing him softly, affectionately. It’s sweet, if I’m allowed to say that. After what I just watched, it seems somehow incongruous but also perfectly normal. Comfortable. Right. It’s odd and exhilarating, and I’m a little sorry when Rey pushes back from Matthew and dismisses him.

  After he’s left, Rey turns to me. “Matthew will be back in a few minutes. He’s going to shower and change his clothes. And you and I are going to have a little chat.”

  Of course we are. But it turns out to not be as awkward as I fear. Rey explains to me why he said the things he did, how he learned those things about Matthew in the first place, how to watch your partner for signs of how they’re feeling and how to check in, especially when you’re new to playing in general or with them in particular.

  I try to store it all away, but there’s so much to keep track of that I know I’ll forget some of it. I’m guessing though that Rey will remind me. Matthew comes back while we’re still dissecting the scene. He doesn’t say anything, but sits on the floor by Rey’s feet and leans his head against Rey’s lean thigh and closes his eyes. When he does, Rey strokes his hair, his neck while he continues to talk to me. Matthew looks relaxed, replete…happy. I can’t take my eyes off him.

  Apparently I missed a conversational cue because Rey clears his throat. “Slade?”

  “Sorry, I was just…” I gesture with my chin toward Matthew, who may actually be asleep where he’s nestling into Rey’s leg.

  “Watching him? That’s good. How does he look to you?”

  “Tired.”

  Matthew huffs a little laugh from the floor but doesn’t open his eyes.

  “Yes, he’s tired. This kind of play is emotionally taxing. After you leave, I’m going to have him rest for a while. What else?”

  “Peaceful. Sated.” Blissful.

  Rey gets a yes, grasshopper smirk on his face. “That’s what I’m talking about. Everyone’s happy. This is better, right? This is what you want?”

  “Yes, that’s exactly what I want.”

  “Then I’ll help you get it. But let me remind you, if you let this urge spill into your workplace or anywhere else it hasn’t been explicitly and enthusiastically agreed upon, you’re toast. You don’t have an excuse any more, however weak it was in the first place. You know better and you’ll behave accordingly.”

  Yes, I will.

  Chapter Five

  ‡

  Only a day later but what feels like a world away, I’m back in my office. I’m finding it difficult to focus, what with Rey and Matthew blowing my goddamn mind last night, but focus I must. Because it doesn’t matter how long I stare at the poster board on my wall—I can squint at it sideways or stand on my head and it would still say the same thing. I need more votes. One of my staffers made this chart and it’s actually quite useful. Color-coded, the names in green tell me I’ve got their support, the reds are hell nos, and the yellows are the ones who are going to decide whether this bill gets passed or goes to rot.

  I’ve already sicced staffers on the more likely ones, and I have no doubt that we’ll be turning some of them by the end of the week. I’ve decided to focus what attention isn’t playing back the scene from last night over and over in my mind on the senators who might best be qualified as orange: unlikely, but fuck if I’m not going to try. Because if we want to get this done, we’re going to need at least a couple of them. And my gaze keeps returning to one name in particular.

  Johnson. Fucking A. Of all the senators, I’m going to need a favor from this one. A good ol’ boy from Texas. His district is mostly rural and moneyed, and the only reason I have even a shot in hell is that he’s got a military base. That’s what this is about. A new joint program between HUD and Veterans Affairs with a housing-first agenda.

  Normally I’d say Johnson is the last person on the planet who could get behind Housing First, because conservatives don’t tend to like the attitude of putting a roof over people’s heads and then dealing with their substance abuse, unemployment, health, and myriad other problems. No, they feel like it’s “getting something for nothing,” even though it’s more cost-effective. And even as I make the argument—that the people this will help are the deserving poor, people who’ve served their country—it makes me want to vomit. Who the fuck are you to decide who’s “deserving?” But I know targeting gives us a better chance of getting this passed.

  Maybe when they see that it works, we’ll be able to convince them to expand the coverage to people who aren’t veterans. And the self-same people who are giving me a hard time on this will stand in front of cameras and microphones in their home states and talk about what fucking heroes they are, after fighting me tooth and nail for something that seems so goddamn obvious. I’d like to strangle them with the bootstraps they’re so fond of talking about.

  The only reason Johnson’s not red is that he’s got a significant military population in his district and they’ve been facing some issues with homelessness. Not to mention that he’s always been a pretty vocal advocate for vets. He’s a dyed-in-the-wool Republican, though. I’m guessing that instructions to toe the party line will override any personal preferences he has when it comes to getting veterans off the street, which is why I’m picturing him as more of a tangerine than a lemon.

  And if that wasn’t enough, he’s also buddy-buddy with my father-in-law. Correction—ex-father-in-law. Which makes it even worse.

  “Son of a holy godforsaken—”

  My staffer Becky is standing to the side of my desk and starts to cringe at my outburst. I snap my jaw shut, grinding my teeth so hard I imagine I taste enamel dust in the back of my mouth. For once, I welcome the intrusion of memories from last night—fuck, was it only last night?—Matthew’s shame-reddened cheeks and the sound of him crying out in a hard-earned and desperate climax. Jesus. I want that for myself, want to make some woman horny and frantic as hell in the same way, want to make her have the same kind of
explosive orgasm. And to get that, I have to be on my best behavior.

  “Becky, get Johnson’s office on the phone. See if I can’t get in to see him this week. Switch things on my schedule if you have to because we’ve got to have words. Make sure he knows it’s going to be me and not some wet-behind-the-ears staffer. We’re talking hardball.”

  “Yes, sir.”

  She eyes me warily, probably waiting for me to yell or spew curses, but I’m not going to. I’ll do as Rey asked because, after what I saw, I’m more certain than ever: this is what I want, and Rey Walter is the man who can give it to me. This presents me with an excellent opportunity to practice controlling my temper. And because I enjoy confounding expectations…

  “And Becky?”

  “Yes, sir?” Her body’s rigid, bracing for cruel words, and it makes guilt crawl around my insides. Becky’s one of my best. She works hard, pays attention to details, gets in early, stays late, and genuinely cares about the work we do. And she probably has no idea I think so.

  “Nice job on the chart. It’s helpful.”

  From the blush that blooms in her cheeks, you’d think she’d been awarded a fucking medal, not gotten a half-assed compliment from her raging asshole of a boss.

  “Thank you, sir.”

  She smiles at me and turns on her heel, leaving before I can change my mind. And me? I turn back to the board and try to figure out which of these oranges makes me want to take a gun to my head the least. It’s going to be a long few months fighting this fight, but if we can get this bill passed and get some people off the street? Worth it. This is what I came to do and it’s one of my favorite parts of the job.

  For however much I hate Washington, and I do on pretty much any day that ends with Y—it is possible to do some pretty great things if you’ve got the faith and power of the US government behind you. Now to wield that motherfucker like a cudgel.

  *

  I twirl the pen between my fingers like a baton. Passing it knuckle over knuckle at speed and back again is suddenly the most important thing in the world. Far more important than waiting for my phone to ring. Because it’s going to. Has to. It’s all I’ve been able to think about for the past two days.

  After my last session with Rey—which, holy fuck, I’ve been playing and replaying in my head every spare second since—he’d said he was going to give my situation some thought and he’d call me in a couple of days. My situation. I wish he wouldn’t make me feel like I have some sort of condition, like I’m a state of affairs that needs to be managed, but to be fair, that’s exactly what this is. And if he wants to help me manage this—even for a hefty price—well, then, it’s probably worth it.

  My cell vibrates on my desk, and the pen I’ve been handling so capably goes flying across the room, landing silently on the carpet. A peek at the screen reveals the only three letters I want to see: RLW.

  “Lewis.”

  “Hello, Slade. Expecting my call?”

  The restrained laughter in his voice grates on me, but there’s nothing to do about it. If I have to deal with a little hazing for his help, so be it. And it’s my own fucking fault for answering on the first ring. Idiot.

  “Yes. I’m a busy person. I don’t like to be kept waiting.”

  “Efficiency. I like it. But don’t you dare take that tone with me.”

  I thought I had perfected a menacing timbre to my voice—my staff certainly seems to think so—but Rey’s is clean and sharp, like a knife that you don’t even feel slipping into you until your guts are lying in front of you on the floor.

  “Sorry.”

  “Apology accepted. And now the reason for my call.”

  My stomach lurches as all the thoughts I’ve had over the past couple of days race through my head. Private sessions? And with who? Rey? Rey and Matthew? Some anonymous woman who’ll let me beat her and say filthy things to her? And where? So many details.

  “I’ve been thinking it over, and I think the best thing for you would be to join a club in town.” He cuts off my protest with a cluck, not even letting me get a word in. “I understand that privacy is important to you, and I will do everything in my power to keep your name safe. However, you’re new, and you need exposure to a variety of kinks to figure out what exactly you’re after. Humiliation’s definitely on the list and we’ve talked about a few other things I’ll make sure you get to experience, but I don’t want you to miss anything. Sometimes you don’t know something will appeal to you until you’ve seen it or tried it yourself. Besides, I don’t have the time or energy to be setting you up in different clubs wherever you are in the country. One-offs aren’t going to help you much at this stage. You need people to talk to. A community. Whether you like it or not.”

  I don’t like it. I don’t like the idea of anyone knowing these things about me, never mind lots of anyones. A whole goddamn club of anyones.

  “And if you don’t like it—” How does he do that? “—feel free to take your business elsewhere. But you’re not going to get a better offer…if you get another one at all.”

  He’s right. So annoyingly right. I’m lucky I have a chance, period, and I know deep in my gut I wouldn’t go looking for another one. I’d be back outside the gates, rattling the bars to be let in. The idea makes the contents of my stomach roil. I’m too close to give up. Plus, Rey seems to know what he’s talking about. India wouldn’t associate with him if he didn’t. Her stamp of approval means something to me.

  “Fine.” I should dial back the grudging tone, but he’s got to know I wouldn’t be thrilled with his verdict.

  “Suck it up, buttercup. I’m going to make sure you have a good time. Now let me tell you about this little place I know. It’s called the Black House.”

  Chapter Six

  ‡

  “You’re sure this is safe?”

  My demand doesn’t faze the man sitting in the driver’s seat—who the fuck gets a Jag for a rental car, anyway?—but I didn’t figure it would. Rey is cool personified, and if anything, I should be grateful he doesn’t roll his eyes at me. He’d be a nightmare to play poker with. No tells at all.

  “I wouldn’t have brought you here if it weren’t safe. This is probably the safest place on earth for you to play, to be honest. You’ve all got the same things to lose.”

  We’ve talked about this before, and I understand on an intellectual level, it’s true. But it makes me uneasy that my entire professional future relies on a kinky version of mutually assured destruction. Sure, it worked out in the end, but I don’t know that I want to live my life as a personal Cold War.

  “Look, Slade. I know you’re nervous, and I don’t blame you. But think about it this way. Sex scandals rock Washington all the time. Mistresses and call girls coming forward, homophobes getting caught with their dicks stuck through glory holes, secret families coming to light.”

  I can think of at least one example of each of those scenarios. Not to mention the nuclear fallout and a hellscape littered with ruined careers. This is not making me feel any better, but my heavy glare doesn’t seem to affect him at all.

  “When’s the last time you heard about a high-powered lobbyist who’s into being used as a human toilet? Or a senator whose idea of a good time on a Saturday night is using her partner as a pin-cushion? How about a high-ranking military official who likes nothing better than to be diapered and bottle-fed?”

  “I—”

  “You haven’t. And I guarantee it’s not because those people don’t exist.” Rey opens the car door and slips out, bending over so his head and torso fill the doorframe. “Or do they?”

  He winks at me before he straightens and hip-checks the door closed. I grit my teeth and run a hand through my hair, irritation and anxiety making me fidgety. Rey likes to mess with me. Which, on the one hand, pisses me off. On the other, there aren’t a whole lot of people who would dare to and a little friendly ribbing makes me feel more like a person instead of a block of stone.

  So I grudgingly open the do
or and push out of the low-slung car, hurrying a little to fall in beside the man who holds the key.

  *

  The façade of the Black House isn’t remarkable, just another brick-faced building in a neighborhood with middling traffic, but the inside of the club is nicer than I’d thought it would be, given how most kink clubs get described. Sometimes just a barely finished basement with a few St. Andrew’s crosses and a mattress in the corner. Shudder-inducing. Not this one, though. Dark green walls and black-and-white checkerboard tile make the entrance look interchangeable with any other Washington club, as does the besuited security guard flanking the door and the uniformed man who takes Rey’s name.

  The greeter’s impassive expression is encouraging, although I’d still almost rather run down the Mall with no clothes on than go in here. That would only be exposing my body, after all, and I’m in decent enough shape for a guy of forty-four. Walking through this door, though, is like putting my innermost thoughts and desires on display, admitting I’m a freak like you. It’s enough to bring vomit into my throat.

  It’s been bad enough the few times I’ve been able to have sessions with Rey over the past couple of months, either at his home or in his hotel room when we’ve happened to be in the same city for work. This, though, with its exponentially higher potential to turn into a career-ruining clusterfuck, is even worse.

  Rey’s already stepped through the door so I follow. Though I feel like a small child clinging to his mother’s skirts, I tell myself I don’t look that way. We’re just friends. Well-dressed, powerful friends, hanging out at the kink club on a Tuesday, looking for some people to smack around and humiliate. As you do.

  The décor once we’ve stepped through the looking glass is much the same, dark walls trimmed out with wood, checkerboard floors. But there’s no way in holy hell that this place could ever be mistaken for any other kind of club. Not with the sight before my eyes.