Top Secret

by Sarina Bowen

  Keaton

  I stop listening about two seconds after my father starts talking. There is nothing less interesting than (the ironically named) interest rates.

  But Luke takes to this shit like a duck to water. He’s taking notes and asking follow-up questions using terms I don’t understand and never will.

  My father eats it up, too. All he ever wanted was for me to take an interest. But I really don’t understand why. The man is hardly starved for attention. He runs a business where literally hundreds of people hang on everything he says.

  He isn’t terribly interested in me, either, unless I’m talking about one of his favorite topics. Those are, roughly in order: business, football, and Alpha Delt. That’s the part that makes me feel stabby. It’s fine to be jazzed up on your own interests. But to assume that your favorite things should be important to everyone else? It’s both self-centered and ridiculous.

  The waiter sets a plate down in front of me, and my mood lifts a little. I tuck in to my plate of pancakes and bacon. Carbs, salt, and fat are utterly restorative.

  For a while, Luke is too busy taking notes to eat. But then he and my father eventually dig in, still talking about “equity upside” and “implied volatility,” whatever that is.

  I’m irrelevant to this meal, and it’s glorious.

  “Thank you so much,” Luke says when they finally run out of nerdy little details to discuss. “I am so getting an A on this paper.”

  “As well you should,” my father says, draining his mimosa. “You’ve got the analytical part down. Keaton is going to learn all about it this summer, too.”

  Fuck.

  “Excuse me one moment,” Luke says, pushing back his chair. “The men’s is…?”

  I point toward the back corner of the room, and then that fucker abandons me here with Dad. He struts away from the table, and my eyes follow him, because I feel reckless and it’s just dawning on me that I have a confidence fetish.

  “Great kid,” my dad says after Luke has disappeared into the bathroom. He gestures to the waiter for more coffee. “He’s Alpha Delt too, right?”

  “Yup,” I say with a sigh. “Actually, he’s our president elect.” I might as well come clean about that.

  Dad blinks. “No, you are.”

  “Not true.” I shake my head. “I dropped out on election day, because I don’t actually want to be president, and he does.”

  “Why?” Dad gasps.

  “Why would anyone want to be president? Good question.”

  His face reddens. “Don’t be flip, Keaton. Why did you drop out?”

  “I’m a loyal member of the frat, Dad. I love Alpha Delt. But I was only running because you wanted me to. And that wasn’t a good enough reason.”

  “But why wouldn’t you want to be in charge? That makes no sense.”

  “Because I’m not you. And that would make plenty of sense if you could ever figure out that I have interests, too. They’re every bit as valid as yours.”

  “Watch your tone,” he hisses.

  “I watch it all the time,” I whisper. “But then you don’t hear me.”

  Luke is approaching the table now, so Dad clamps his jaw shut. He won’t make a scene. It’s not his style.

  Instead, he signals for the check. “I hear congratulations are in order,” he says to Luke. “You’re the next president of Alpha Delt.”

  “Thank you, sir,” Luke says carefully. “My first order of business will be to move the finances into Quickbooks. Right now they’re using the receipts-in-a-shoebox method of accounting.”

  “Ouch.” My father chuckles. “It’s good of you to bring us out of the stone age.”

  “I’ll try.” He lifts his hand just as the waiter approaches, and so the guy passes the check to Luke.

  “Oh no,” Dad says. “It’s always my treat.”

  “It’s already taken care of,” Luke says, flipping open the wallet to add a tip to the receipt and sign the bill. “You saved my finance grade, and I’m grateful.”

  He must have slipped a credit card to the waiter when he went to the men’s room. Sneaky.

  Dad beams at this bit of trickery. He doesn’t care about the money, but I can tell that Luke has impressed him.

  Isn’t that hilarious? We’re both a little obsessed.

  Luke thanks him profusely before we go.

  Dad wishes him the best of luck. And then he slips a business card from his pocket. “Call this number on Monday. Ask my secretary to give you the email address for Chad Christy, the guy who runs our summer internship program. And when you write to Chad, you make sure to tell him that I sent you.”

  Luke blinks. “Thank you, sir. I appreciate it.”

  “My pleasure. Great meeting you. And call me tonight, Keaton. We have a conversation to finish.” He doesn’t even look me in the eye when he says this.

  Oh joy.

  We get back into my car, and I let the engine warm up. “You can’t just accept a favor without picking up the check, can you?”

  “Nope,” he says. He’s staring at the business card in his hand.

  “You might as well call about that internship, though. I’m seventy-five percent sure there’s going to be an unexpected opening in the finance department.”

  Luke looks up. “He doesn’t even know you’re applying for that thing on the boat?”

  “Nope. Didn’t want to have that fight until I got the acceptance letter.” It’s going to be so much worse than the fight we just had.

  “I can’t take the internship.”

  “Surely you don’t consider that to be charity?” I snort. “Every company has cushy internships.”

  “No, I mean I can’t swing it. It will pay a stipend, but it won’t be enough to live in New York for three months. And we’re not exactly commuting distance here. Does your dad drive over two hours for brunch every week?”

  “Not really. He takes the car ferry from Huntington on Long Island. He does it to avoid going to church.”

  I pull out of the parking lot and head back toward campus, feeling disgusted by life. Luke wants the internship but can’t afford it. I don’t want it at all and shouldn’t have to do it.

  “What will he say when you bail on your internship?” Luke asks.

  “That I’m lazy and ungrateful. That I refuse to work up to my full potential.”

  “But none of that is true.”

  “Luke Bailey!” I hoot. “I believe you just paid me a compliment. I promise not to let it go to my head.”

  “Why did you invite me today, anyway?” he asks. “He’s pissed about the presidency.”

  “We went over this. He can’t rip me a new one in front of you. Besides, I knew he could fix your problem with that paper.”

  “Yeah. I thought maybe you did it to claim sexual favors.”

  “It’s possible to do a favor just because, you know.”

  “Possible, but rare,” he says.

  “You are a piece of work. I might claim sexual favors just to put your mind at ease.”

  He gives me a hot look that I can feel even without taking my eyes off the road. “Maybe it won’t be only my mind that’s eased.”

  “Now you’re talking.” I reach a hand across the console and brush my fingers across his crotch. My increasing boldness surprises me. “When? Now?”

  “I should write this paper first.”

  I groan.

  He laughs. “You’re probably sore anyway.”

  “So?” Athletes don’t complain about pain.

  “So that’s off the table.”

  I can’t quite grasp the disappointment that fills my chest. “Forever?” I find myself asking. The look he gives me says he knows exactly what I’m thinking.

  “For today.”

  That tight feeling in my chest eases. My voice sounds too husky, and far too needy, as I say, “But…it’s going to happen again?”

  His low chuckle heats the air between us. “Yeah,” he finally drawls. “It’s going to happe
n again.”

  Turkey Sandwich Days

  April

  Keaton

  Routines are a funny thing. They sneak up on you. Like, one day you wake up and eat a turkey sandwich, and then two months go by and you’ve eaten a turkey sandwich every single day, and you think, Huh. I guess I eat daily turkey sandwiches now.

  Although in this case, turkey sandwich is a euphemism for hot sex with a dude.

  Days have turned into weeks. The snow has melted and spring is in the air. And so is my dick. Luke’s warm fingers encircle the base of my shaft. He gives a lazy stroke, and I groan softly.

  It’s nine thirty-ish in the morning, and we’re in my bed, naked and horny. The first couple of times he crashed in my room, I worried that one of our frat brothers might catch us, but eventually my anxiety tapered off. Bailey and I are the only ones up here on the third floor, my door has a lock on it, and the only guys who might barge in are Judd and Tanner, who’re both out of the house by six a.m. on weekdays for baseball practice.

  Luke’s free hand strokes the cleft of my ass. We probably don’t have time to fuck right now, but just the suggestion makes me harder. There’s no denying how much I like it. My prostate is my new best friend. And when we’re in a hurry, there’s a dozen other fun ways we get each other off. Bailey gives the best blowjobs on the planet.

  What he doesn’t give me a lot of is words. He’s a tight-lipped bastard and nearly impossible to read, so sometimes it’s a challenge being around him. For example, this morning I asked him if I could come to the club tonight to watch his set, and instead of answering he just kissed me and started rubbing my dick.

  It worked, too. That’s why I’ve forgotten to complain these last few minutes. His kiss is deep and hungry. My hands explore the muscles of his back, and his narrow waist. Only when we’re making out does he let me touch him anywhere I want.

  He sighs happily, stroking me. It’s almost enough to make me forget the question I’d asked.

  “You didn’t answer,” I mumble against his lips. “Maybe I’ll just show up tonight, either way.”

  I immediately regret saying that, because his hand leaves my cock.

  A pair of stern eyes bore into my face. “Don’t.” His sharp tone invites no argument. “My work is off-limits. I already told you that.”

  “What’s the big deal?” I protest, all the while wishing he’d touch me again. “You’re hot when you strip. I’m talking Magic Mike-level heat.”

  “I know I’m hot when I strip—it’s my job to be hot.” To my disappointment, he climbs out of bed. His massive hard-on swings up and smacks his tight abs. “I need to focus when I’m at work. You showing up would be a distraction.”

  “Fine. I won’t,” I promise. “Now will you come back here and finish what you started?” I fling the sheet off my lower body, and my erection bobs up to say hello.

  “Nah.”

  “Why not?” I demand.

  He sweeps his tongue over his bottom lip. “Because you displeased me.”

  I sputter with laughter. “Are you serious right now? I displeased you?”

  “Yeah, by bringing up the work shit. Your big mouth cost yourself my mouth.” Luke’s eyes gleam dangerously. “Bad boys get punished, Hayworth.”

  Ohhh. I see where this is going and I ain’t gonna lie—I’m fully on board. So is my dick, judging by the way it grows impossibly harder.

  Luke doesn’t miss my body’s response. But when I slide my hand down my stomach toward my groin, he stops me with a swift, “Hands at your sides.”

  “But I’m horny,” I whine.

  “Don’t care. Hands at your sides.” When I hesitate again, he mocks, “Don’t make me ask you a third time.”

  My mouth goes dry. I slowly press my palms to the mattress on either side of me.

  “Good. Now lie there and let me eye-fuck you.” He grabs hold of himself with one fist.

  Oh Christ. Is that how it’s going to be? He’s going to torture me by getting himself off and forcing me to watch? Just watch.

  He pumps his shaft, and, yup, apparently that’s precisely how it’s going to be.

  Bailey’s eyes greedily roam my naked body as he strokes himself. I want to mimic what he’s doing, but I’ve been ordered not to move. So I simply lie there, harder than a post and aching for release. When his fist moves faster, my breathing becomes labored.

  “You’re wishing you could jack yourself right now, aren’t you?” Luke taunts.

  My gaze is glued to his. “Yes,” I croak.

  “Don’t look at my face. Look at my cock. Look how hard I am.”

  I dip my gaze. Oh Jesus. He’s the sexiest thing in the world. “Iwantit,” I mumble through my arid throat.

  “What was that?” he teases.

  “I want it,” I repeat, clearer this time.

  Luke slants his head in thought. Down south, he’s jerking himself off, slowly but deliberately. “What do you want?”

  “Your cock.”

  “Nah,” he says again. “You’re going to watch me come. And you’re not going to say another word, make another sound, until I do. And then, maybe, I’ll let you come too. But only if you show me you can follow the rules.”

  His rules. The rules I’ve been following for more than two months now. Don’t get me wrong, I love it when he bosses me around in bed. It turns me on something fierce. But his my-way-or-no-way temperament extends beyond the bedroom, and for some reason I’m beginning to resent that.

  Right now, though, I only resent not being able to give myself any relief.

  “So,” Luke drawls. “Are you going to follow the rules?”

  I nod wordlessly.

  With a sultry smile, he gives himself another stroke. “Fuck,” he grinds out. “You look so hot lying there. You get me so hard, every time.”

  I bite my lip to stop a moan. If I make a sound, he’ll stop. We’ve been together enough times for me to know that Bailey doesn’t make idle threats.

  He lets out a hot gasp, and I think he’s getting close.

  And while I enjoy watching, I also want to touch him. So I beg him with eyes. Come here. I lick my lips. Taste me. Own me.

  He avoids my eyes, setting that laser gaze on my quads and then lifting it to my straining cock. But maybe the mind-meld thing I’m trying to do is working. Because he lifts his chin and shows me those dark eyes.

  And just for a second I see something there that I like a whole lot. It’s ownership, with a side of need.

  Come here, I inwardly beg. Right where I need you.

  He moves fast, spreading his body over mine, nipping my shoulder. “Jack me,” he whispers. “Quick.”

  I don’t need to be asked twice. I shove a hand between our bodies and take both of us in hand.

  “Fuck,” he whispers, before kissing me harshly.

  I fucking love it. I open for him, inviting him in. He moans into my mouth as I stroke him fast and dirty, the way he likes it.

  He makes a broken noise, and I open my eyes to watch him tip over the edge. He’s so beautiful when he comes—all flashing eyes and desperate groans. His cheeks flush darkly.

  For once, our gazes lock as he shudders and pulses in my hand. “Ah!” he gasps, losing himself in the moment. I crane my neck and kiss him again, needing to be there as he comes.

  My hand is drenched, and he bears down on me, scraping his cock against my oversensitive skin. “Now you,” he breathes. “Go.”

  I love it when he tells me to come, and my body is triggered and ready. Three or four strokes are all it takes until I’m sucking on his tongue and moaning against his mouth, spending into my hand.

  He collapses onto me with a sweaty sigh, and I hear nothing else over the heartbeat pounding in my ears.

  I grin up at the ceiling. Hi, endorphins. Thanks for stopping by.

  Luke kisses my neck slowly. I like it a whole lot. And I rub my clean hand slowly along the curve of his ass.

  This part lasts all of five seconds, though. A
nd then Luke hauls himself into a vertical position and grabs the paper towels.

  He does that every time—either gets up or rolls over. Like staying in my space would break one of his many rules.

  “I gotta hit the shower before finance,” he says now.

  “Bailey,” I call before he can leave.

  He makes a rumbling sound as he turns to face me. “Swear to God, Hayworth, if you bring up the visiting-me-at-work thing again—”

  “No, not that,” I assure him. “I was just going to invite you to Sunday brunch again.”

  He visibly swallows.

  Ha. I knew that would get his attention. And I don’t miss the indecision that crosses his expression as he mulls over the invitation. We’ve gone through this several times before: I invite Luke to brunch with my dad, Luke hesitates, and then he either rejects the offer or caves in. For five out of eight invites, it’s been the latter, resulting in him once again serving as my Dad buffer.

  Initially I was a bit dismayed that Luke and my father get along like rabbits in heat. But every time I bring Luke to brunch, he’s an incredible buffer. Hell, he’s even better than Annika when it comes to placating my father. They talk business the entire time, and I get to play Candy Crush on my phone.

  He never orders the eggs Benedict anymore, though.

  “Nah,” he says now. “I can’t make it this weekend. But thanks for the invite.”

  Frustration fills my belly as I watch him slide out of my room. I swear, this guy is so difficult. It’s like he’s determined to keep everyone at arm’s length.

  And I still have to show up at brunch, damn it.

  I lie here feeling sorry for myself for a moment. And then the perfect solution presents itself to me. I grab my phone off the bedside table and open up my favorites. I touch a number that I don’t dial very often anymore.

  “Hey, Annika!” I say when she answers. “Want to come out for brunch on Sunday? For old time’s sake?”

  I’m probably just imagining it, but I swear Luke growls a little in the next room.

  And clearly I’m a genius, because brunch with Dad is totally fine. Annika orders the eggs Benedict and makes lots of small talk. Plus it’s great to catch up with her. So I’m winning at life.