Dhanajit clapped his hand over Sean’s shoulder. “Now just make sure you don’t lose him. He’s quite the man and one helluva a cook.”
“Oh, I won’t, Sir.” While Sean couldn’t read the future, there was one thing he was certain of. Now that he had Isaiah back in his life, he wasn’t about to let the man escape, even if it meant getting down on his knees and begging for forgiveness. He’d fucked up twelve years ago, but one thing that no one could accuse of Sean Whitcomb of…he learned from his mistakes.
A few moments later, he shut the door behind the Sachses and locked it. Resting his forehead against the cool surface, he tried to calm his racing heart. This was the moment of truth and hopefully the next step to reclaiming Isaiah. Pushing away from the door, he went in search of his mouth-watering chef.
“Baby? Everyone is gone and they told me to tell you again how great the meal was…”
He came to a sudden stop as he took in the dining room table. Gone was the ivory linen tablecloth, the silver candlesticks and ornate flower arrangement he’d used at Isaiah’s insistence. In their place was a plastic tablecloth, a steaming teapot from his kitchen, several silver bowls, a couple of towels, a razor and a…basting brush?
“Strip, Sean.” Isaiah appeared in the doorway of the kitchen, his suit jacket gone as well as his tie, his ivory silk shirt unbuttoned at the throat, and its cuffs rolled up to the elbow exposing his dark muscled forearms. Sean wanted to moan and did when Isaiah crossed his arms. “I want you naked like thirty seconds ago, and I’m not waiting. Either you do it or I will.”
Sean didn’t even think to protest. He obeyed. Despite several solo sessions with his fist, Sean shook with need as he first kicked off his dress shoes, then unbuckled his belt. Yanking it free of his dress pants, he let it clatter to the floor as he fumbled open the tab at his waist and jerked down his zipper. Loosened his pants pooled around his ankles, and freed the tail of his dress shirt. He was sure he was sight to see in his dress socks, tighty-whities and dark blue dress shirt as he kicked off the pants, but right now he didn’t care. Struggling with his tie, he finally managed to loosen it enough to rip it over his head, still tied. He was just about to toss to the floor with the rest of his clothing when Isaiah stopped him.
“No. Give it here.” He held out his hand.
Without contemplating what was in store if he did as requested, Sean tossed the wadded up material to his soon to be lover. He kept his eyes on Isaiah as he fumbled open the buttons on his shirt. When Isaiah arched an eyebrow at him, clearly becoming impatient with his delay, Sean tore at the shirt, uncaring that the tiny pings as the round discs hit the floor, meant he’d ripped off buttons he didn’t know how to sew back on. His desire to give control over to Isaiah was all-consuming.
As soon as he was standing in nothing but his socks and underwear, Sean paused looking to Isaiah for direction. “All of it, Councilor. I didn’t stutter.” Isaiah hadn’t moved but the prominent bulge in the front of his slacks assured Sean that his baby was just as affected by their play as he was. Hooking his thumbs in the waistband, he shoved the white material down his thighs.
“Oh, I won’t, Sir.” While Sean couldn’t read the future, there was one thing he was certain of. Now that he had Isaiah back in his life, he wasn’t about to let the man escape, even if it meant getting down on his knees and begging for forgiveness. He’d fucked up twelve years ago, but one thing that no one could accuse of Sean Whitcomb of…he learned from his mistakes.
A few moments later, he shut the door behind the Sachses and locked it. Resting his forehead against the cool surface, he tried to calm his racing heart. This was the moment of truth and hopefully the next step to reclaiming Isaiah. Pushing away from the door, he went in search of his mouth-watering chef.
“Baby? Everyone is gone and they told me to tell you again how great the meal was…”
He came to a sudden stop as he took in the dining room table. Gone was the ivory linen tablecloth, the silver candlesticks and ornate flower arrangement he’d used at Isaiah’s insistence. In their place was a plastic tablecloth, a steaming teapot from his kitchen, several silver bowls, a couple of towels, a razor and a…basting brush?
“Strip, Sean.” Isaiah appeared in the doorway of the kitchen, his suit jacket gone as well as his tie, his ivory silk shirt unbuttoned at the throat, and its cuffs rolled up to the elbow exposing his dark muscled forearms. Sean wanted to moan and did when Isaiah crossed his arms. “I want you naked like thirty seconds ago, and I’m not waiting. Either you do it or I will.”
Sean didn’t even think to protest. He obeyed. Despite several solo sessions with his fist, Sean shook with need as he first kicked off his dress shoes, then unbuckled his belt. Yanking it free of his dress pants, he let it clatter to the floor as he fumbled open the tab at his waist and jerked down his zipper. Loosened his pants pooled around his ankles, and freed the tail of his dress shirt. He was sure he was sight to see in his dress socks, tighty-whities and dark blue dress shirt as he kicked off the pants, but right now he didn’t care. Struggling with his tie, he finally managed to loosen it enough to rip it over his head, still tied. He was just about to toss to the floor with the rest of his clothing when Isaiah stopped him.
“No. Give it here.” He held out his hand.
Without contemplating what was in store if he did as requested, Sean tossed the wadded up material to his soon to be lover. He kept his eyes on Isaiah as he fumbled open the buttons on his shirt. When Isaiah arched an eyebrow at him, clearly becoming impatient with his delay, Sean tore at the shirt, uncaring that the tiny pings as the round discs hit the floor, meant he’d ripped off buttons he didn’t know how to sew back on. His desire to give control over to Isaiah was all-consuming.
As soon as he was standing in nothing but his socks and underwear, Sean paused looking to Isaiah for direction. “All of it, Councilor. I didn’t stutter.” Isaiah hadn’t moved but the prominent bulge in the front of his slacks assured Sean that his baby was just as affected by their play as he was. Hooking his thumbs in the waistband, he shoved the white material down his thighs.
©Dakota Trace All rights reserved. This is a work of fiction. All
names, characters, locations, and incidents are products of the author’s
imagination, or have been used fictionally. Any resemblance to actual
persons living or dead, locales, or events is entirely coincidental. No
portion of this work may be transmitted or reproduced in any form, or by
any means, without permission in writing from the author.
