by Mia Watts
Table of Contents
Title Page
Cock and Balls Copyright © 2013 Mia Watts
Dedication
Chapter One
Chapter Two
Chapter Three
Chapter Four
Chapter Five
Chapter Six
Chapter Seven
Chapter Eight
Chapter Nine
Chapter Ten
Chapter Eleven
About the Author
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Cock and Balls
A Handcuffs and Lace Story
By Mia Watts
Resplendence Publishing, LLC
http://www.resplendencepublishing.com
Cock and Balls
Copyright © 2013 Mia Watts
Edited by Darlena Cunha and Juli Simonson
Cover Art by Kendra Egert
Published by Resplendence Publishing, LLC
2665 N Atlantic Avenue, #349
Daytona Beach, FL 32118
Electronic format ISBN: 978-1-60735-636-3
Warning: All rights reserved. The unauthorized reproduction or distribution of this copyrighted work is illegal. Criminal copyright infringement, including infringement without monetary gain, is investigated by the FBI and is punishable by up to 5 years in federal prison and a fine of $250,000.
Electronic Release: February 2013
This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places and occurrences are a product of the author’s imagination. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, places or occurrences, is purely coincidental.
To Cheryl Dragon who keeps me going with badgering, encouragement, bullying and who is the sister I never had. Your personal support to me and my daughters means more than you will ever know—mostly because I suck at sappiness, but also because there aren’t words to describe how much you’ve come to mean to us. Thank you for all of it.
Chapter One
“You’re a damn fool, Hank.” President McClaren paced the span of his presidential desk in front of his son’s seat in the Oval Office.
Hank’s fingers curled over the ends of the armrests, hearing the butter-soft leather creak as his grip flexed. He forced himself to relax, to keep in place the well-practiced expression of aloof disinterest. He even managed to convincingly fake a stifled, bored yawn.
As hoped, President McClaren stopped in front of Hank and fairly vibrated with irritation. “Does nothing I say get through to you?”
“Sorry, Dad. It was a long night,” Hank breathed, sinking in his seat and folding his arms loosely across his chest.
“You can’t keep behaving like this. What would your mother say?”
Anger tightened every muscle in Hank’s body, and he shot to his feet. “What do you care what mom would’ve said? It’s not like you paid any attention to either of us until she had the great fortune of dying. Because we can’t forget that this is an election year, and a sympathy vote is a huge advantage, can we?”
His head snapped to the right as his father slapped him. Hank’s jaw throbbed, and his cheek burned. Hell, his neck hurt from the jolt. He forced a smile despite all that and stared his father down. “Go ahead, Dad. Hit me. Disown me.”
He watched the spasm in President McClaren’s temple. They both knew he couldn’t do either and continue to ride a conservative family values platform or milk the sympathy of his constituents. Not without consulting the spin doctors. Their opinion mattered more to him than actually acting like a father.
Hank glanced at the tall, lean Secret Service agent his dad preferred. “See that, Monty? He can’t.”
Agent Garrett Montegue didn’t blink. He wouldn’t, of course, as President McClaren’s prime bodyguard, he’d only move on orders from either the Chief of Security, a threat to the president, or presidential orders direct from the presidential talking ass that had contributed to Hank’s DNA.
More than once, Hank had fantasized about his father issuing presidential orders for the agent to fuck his son. Even now, when that wasn’t his primary focus, the sharp-eyed gaze from the agent had Hank’s pulse racing.
“One more chance, Hank. One more.”
“What happens then?” Hank challenged returning his attention to his father.
President McClaren moved around his desk. He straightened his shoulders as a cool look entered his gray eyes. “You’ll be dealt with.”
Disappointment sang through Hank’s veins. Not, I’ll deal with you. Not, we’ll sit down and figure this thing out together. Just, you’ll be dealt with. Which basically meant his dad would leave the dealing up to his staff and play the part of the wounded president to the masses. God, was he actually giving the president ammunition for another sympathy poll? Wouldn’t that suck?
Hank turned to leave, a frown pulling his lips downward.
“Agent Montegue, I’m changing your detail. You’ll be tailing my son until further notice.”
Hank looked between the two men he knew equally well. Monty gave a curt nod, his eyes trained on Hank. A shiver ran through Hank’s body as every lustful thought he had for the agent took a pass through his mind. Agent Montegue on his detail? That would either be awesome or pure torture.
“You’re forfeiting your number one?” Hank asked casually, pretending that the James Bond-esque service man studying him had no effect.
“If he starts to act up, I expect you to intercept,” President McClaren told the agent, completely bypassing any answer to his son.
Just to be a shit, Hank strolled over to the man he’d seen at his dad’s side for the past three and a half years. He flattened the agent’s already perfect suit lapels. He tugged the bottom of the jacket as though there was a wrinkle to straighten. Any excuse to touch him, really.
“You’re a little conspicuous, Monty. Too slick. We’ll have to fix that so you fit into the party scene a little better,” Hank mused. “We’ll have to mess you up a little.”
He almost smiled when he heard his father growl his frustration across the room.
“So, Monty, I guess this means you have to do what I say now, huh?”
Midnight blue eyes leveled on him. They were hard, assessing, and not at all amused.
“Agent Montegue still answers to me. You’ll find no conspirator in your pranks there,” President McClaren corrected.
Hank found it difficult to hold Montegue’s gaze, but he figured it was like alpha dogs staring each other down. The first to look away lost dominance. Hank wasn’t going to buckle. At least, he hadn’t intended to, but the longer he challenged the agent the more difficult it became to ignore the crazy spinning sensation in his gut.
Monty had strong shoulders suited in black. A tie cinched his corded neck. The cleanly shaved surface of Agent Montegue’s jaw, the slight woodsy smell of him, all ganged up on Hank’s good intentions with the same force as the steady blue gaze. Could he kiss the agent and play it off as a prank?
Hank dropped his gaze first, using it as a pretense to face his father with disgust. “Everything has to be your way, doesn’t it? I don’t fit into your presidential plan, so you’re going to bend me to your will anyway.”
“That’s the idea,” President McClaren agreed.
“Fuck you, Mr. President. And when you find my dad, tell him to go fuck himself too.”
An iron hand gripped Hank’s shoulder and steered him toward a hidden door.
“C’mon, Monty, that wasn’t a threat. If I’d been threatening him, I’d have said I was sending someone to fuck him violently. I didn’t say that,” Hank reasoned. “I told him to go fuck himself. Technically,
it was a suggestion. At worst, it was a self-imposed threat he never has to follow up on.”
Monty didn’t answer. He wouldn’t. He wasn’t programmed to answer. Seemed like the entire White House was filled with assholes and drones. Even if some of them were sexier than they had any right to be.
* * * *
Montegue put Hank in the car and motioned for the driver to pull out of the driveway. He lifted his cuff to his lips. “The cock has left the coop,” he murmured.
Hank rolled his eyes and snorted.
Montegue got confirmation of the change of orders in his earpiece along with the shift exchange that would take place at four in the morning. He wasn’t surprised. The Chief of Security probably assumed all clubbing would end when the bars closed, and the presidential offspring would be heading home for a long sleep. As the president’s personal choice for his son, and previously the president’s number one, he’d be expected to handle the waking hours of this particular handful.
He folded his hands on his lap, studying the man across from him. Unlike previous families, this one had struggled even before entering their new roles. He’d seen it in them the moment he’d been assigned as the number two. Working his way up, proving himself along the way, he’d gotten a first-hand look at the family dynamic, and it wasn’t a sound one.
Henry McClaren, junior. Hank, had managed to put a damper on to his dislike for his father out of respect for his mother until she’d died several months ago. After that, he’d quit trying.
Across from him, Hank’s belligerent lip-press slowly relaxed the farther from the White House they drove. It was an interesting observation. Hank’s father obviously had more influence on Hank than he realized. His father’s opinion mattered, or Hank wouldn’t have been so tense at the White House and so relieved to go.
Twenty minutes later, they were pulling into the underground parking lot for the secure condo where Hank lived. That was another interesting thing. Questions crowded Montegue’s mind about why Hank stayed. He hated his dad. Hated the constant surveillance and only recently started putting on a show for the tabloids. At twenty-two, he could move away and be under less scrutiny. Why did he stick around if the constant battle with the senior McClaren pissed him off so much?
Montegue had his theories, and despite the temporary demotion of leaving the president’s side, he was curious to see what spending time with the surly son revealed. There was love there. Hidden. Deeply hidden, but there, and that meant hope for the two men. Hank hadn’t given up yet, and the revelation brought a small smile to Montegue’s lips. The kid wasn’t as hard as he let on.
“You’re staring,” Hank said as the car pulled up beside the interior parking elevators.
There was a lot to stare at. Like his dad, Hank’s sandy blond hair and pale gray eyes were set off by stunning all-American good-looks. Hank would hate to be reminded that he shared a perfect politician’s smile and the constituent-pleasing long dimples in either cheek, with his father. He had his mother’s long, lean build and his father’s squared shoulders. Unlike the president, Hank Junior didn’t have the worn look of a man constantly under pressure, nor the developing gut of chef-prepared food.
No, Hank exuded the sophistication of a private school graduate and sex appeal of a bad boy with an angel’s face.
Montegue climbed out of the vehicle first, glanced around the silent garage then motioned for Hank to join him. He announced their arrival into his sleeve mic.
They waited for the elevator in silence. It dinged on arrival, and both men stepped inside. A code whispered through Montegue’s earpiece, and he punched in the penthouse access before Hank could touch the control panel.
“Really? You already have that, too?”
The doors parted to the white marble foyer with double-etched glass and wood doors that opened into the wide living room beyond. Montegue caught Hank’s upper arm, drew his weapon and carefully searched the room.
“Oh, for fuck’s sake, Monty. You guys watch this place almost as well as the paparazzi do. No one gets in or out without someone hearing about it.” He stumbled behind, probably finding Montegue’s grip stronger than he’d expected. He’d have bruises on his upper arm later. Montegue felt mildly apologetic for that.
Only after the entire condo was searched did Montegue let him go, and when he did, he propelled him forcefully to the white leather couch.
Montegue stood over him. “Ground rules.”
“Dear God, he talks,” Hank announced with elaborated shock.
“Where you go, I go,” Montegue began.
“Where I go, you follow. My people shall become your people. Isn’t there something like that in the Bible? Ruth? Are you my Ruth, Monty?”
Montegue waited for him to stop talking. “You don’t leave the protection of the Secret Service.”
Hank smirked. “Try and keep up. The last guy couldn’t hack it.”
Again Montegue waited, stemming his impatience in favor of control. “If you step out of line, I will haul you back.”
Hank’s eyes narrowed, and he stood his full six foot two height. He took a step toward Montegue. “I haven’t even begun to pull out all the stops.”
“That would be ill-advised. Sir.”
“He thought I was flagrantly partying before? He hasn’t seen anything yet. The truth would destroy his re-election. He should be grateful I’m waiting until it’s over.”
They were the same height, but that’s where their similarities ended. Hank’s pretty-boy, Martha’s Vineyard privileged-rich looks had nothing in common with Montegue’s olive complexion and black hair. Where Hank was lean and sleek, Montegue’s suit-covered, powerhouse physique would dominate any physical competition.
“Think outside yourself and your father, Mr. McClaren. Are you prepared to disrespect the Presidency of the United States of America?”
Hank frowned. “The funny thing is that you think they’re two different issues. I have a father who pulls the presidency card on me constantly. He’s not one or the other. He’s both, and I still don’t like him.”
This close, Montegue could see other, finer, differences between the son and the father. Though the features were the same individually, the combination of eyes, lips, hair was more attractive on Hank. There was no confusing the family genetics, but Hank kept him looking. Kept Monty interested down to the flare of Hank’s pupils the longer they stared each other down. He liked what he saw a little too much, he decided.
“He’s still in there,” Montegue said after a moment.
Something in Hank’s soft gray eyes faltered, and he turned his face away. Hank left him standing as he made his way to the bedroom.
Chapter Two
Montegue woke from a dead sleep to the blaring ring of his service phone. He found the offending item and brought it to his ear.
“Montegue,” he answered, his voice sounding like rolled gravel.
“I can’t find him.”
Montegue sat up, his mind racing between the number of people that could be lost.
“The cock. It left the barn!” The agent on the other end announced with no small measure of panic.
Montegue was up and scrambling for clothes before he’d hung up. Ten minutes later, he was screeching into the parking structure. He pressed the elevator buttons repeatedly as though it would speed up the lift. When he got into the condo, he saw his relief holding a phone, a look of frustration on his face.
“Where did he get by you?” Montegue barked.
“He’s back. I never saw him leave, and now, he’s back.”
Montegue fumed. He shoved Agent Espinoza to the side and stormed through the condo. He pounded on the master suite then threw open the bedroom door. Hank lay on his back, chest bare, arms folded behind his head. Lower someone crouched beneath the sheets.
“I told you to ignore the knocking,” Hank instructed the unseen guest. He pushed his hand on top of the sheeted head.
It bumped in the unmistakable movement of someone suc
king off the presidential son.
Hank rolled his head to the side as though nothing was happening. He stared Montegue straight in the eyes. “Oh, yeah,” he encouraged. “That’s it. Take it, baby. Take it deep.”
Montegue’s nostrils flared as every rage-filled particle of him went into motion. He crossed the room and ripped the sheet from the bed, prepared to send a naked, terrified girl back to her home. What he saw instead, stunned him into momentary stupidity.
A man in full Goth garb and makeup tirelessly worked Hank’s dick. The black-lined eyes glared up at Montegue around his mouthful of thick, pale cock. Montegue spine tingled with lust.
“Enjoy the show, Monty. I’ll be finished soon,” Hank told him calmly.
Montegue turned on his heel. “The minute he’s done, he’s gone.”
“That was the plan, anyway, genius.”
Montegue shut the bedroom door. He settled his seething gaze on Espinoza. “Get out. Have Hayes send up a replacement after you file your report.”
“He slipped away,” Espinoza argued.
“The president’s son doesn’t slip away from the Secret Service. He doesn’t return without us knowing. He doesn’t bring back a stranger for sex under our noses, and he sure as hell doesn’t make us look like idiots. Get out.”
The bedroom doors opened, and the Goth exited, wiping his mouth on his wrist. “He didn’t even fucking come, man.”
Montegue propelled the man toward Espinoza. “And take this piece of shit with you.”
The front elevator opened and closed as Montegue tried to steady his breathing. Behind, he heard the long moans of a man getting off.
“Monty, come in here and finish me off, will ya?” Hank shouted to him.
Montegue’s spine crawled, resisting the urge to turn and watch through the door the Goth had left open.
“I’m thinking about you sucking me off. Goddamn, it’s hot. You—” He grunted and hissed pleasurably. “On your knees. Asking for permission to taste me. Can you see it, Monty?”
