by Mia Watts
Looking out the airplane hatch there was literally nothing obstructing his view of old tarmac and trees right up against it. A motorized staircase was driven over and locked into place.
“Does this mean you’re going to suddenly develop an accent?” Hank asked.
“I might. Been known to happen.”
Then Monty did something unexpected. He put rested his hand on Hank’s back and ushered him forward. It was such a gentle gesture, different from any of their other encounters. This felt like Monty was as tired of butting heads with him as Hank was of being ground down.
It wouldn’t last. Not with everything between them. Not with the job Monty was hired to do and the way Hank was being forced to hide out of sight of his father. It was artificial peace, but it was peace, and it felt good. He let himself be directed down the steps and led to a parked car near the only building in sight. They got in, and Monty pulled down the visor. Keys dropped into his hand.
“Really? All that security and you just have a car sitting here for you? No bomb checks or dogs to sniff it out?” Hank asked.
Monty started the car. “Most of America doesn’t know about this place. And no one knows the place we’re going to.”
“There are eyes everywhere,” Hank reminded him in his best imitation of President McClaren.
“Not where we’re going,” Monty answered cryptically.
Hank seemed to sink into the front seat. He stared out the window without so much as a snarky comment. Over the past three years, he’d seen every season of the man next to him. Silence and acceptance wasn’t one of them.
Montegue took the dirt roads that wound through the fields, headed onward toward the trees in the distance beyond the stretch of open farmland. Hank’s breathing evened and deepened. Montegue smiled, pleased to see Hank relax with him.
Montegue detoured down a side road once he reached the trees and headed for the coastline. Another half hour had him pulling up on the modest wood and tin cabin where he and his father had spent countless summers fishing. It wasn’t pretty, but the view of the Gulf was worth any inconvenience. He slanted a look at the sleeping presidential son. He was used to fine clothing, fine food and conditioned air. This may turn out to be more of a wake-up call than Hank was prepared for. Which only made Montegue smile wider. A little roughing up would do the kid some good, he decided.
It would do them both some good.
“Hank. Wake up.”
Montegue opened his car door and popped the trunk. He wasn’t worried about the kid making a run for it. The cabin sat right on a rocky shoreline at the base of several hundred acres of private forested and swampy land. Montegue and his father had created the rock shore themselves to prevent too much weathering through the storm season, and he liked the visual and structural effect of strength it gave the water’s edge. If Hank tried to find his way off the property, he’d still have virtually no shot of being picked up by a neighbor since those were few and far between.
He lifted the trunk and removed the two duffel bags he’d had the car loaded with. Being Secret Service had its perks. He wouldn’t ask how the car came to be where he’d asked for it or who had packed the duffels. None of that mattered. He’d asked for it, and the Secret Service had made it happen, because the president’s son was being looked after.
He slammed the trunk closed and saw the younger man jolt awake inside the car. Hank got out and stretched like he was on vacation. Montegue supposed that in a way he was.
“Where are we?”
“Home,” Montegue told him for the second time.
“This is where you live? Where’s the house?” Hank scanned the area and locked in on the rinky-dink one room cabin perched on stilts by the rock shoreline. “Tell me that isn’t it. Tell me we aren’t going to hole up in some rust-covered, leaky cabin that probably has more spiders and roaches in it than any structure has a right to.”
“That’s it.”
Montegue hid his smile. It did look dilapidated. It wasn’t as bad as all that. The outside was designed to be unappealing and rustic. But the walls were lined and solid inside. The roof was insulated. There were appliances and hot water. That’s where the luxury ended. It was a cabin, after all. Not the Ritz.
Montegue walked up beside him and dropped the second duffel. “This one’s yours. You’re going to want it.”
Without another word, he traveled the short distance to the stilted structure, pulled out a key and unlocked the front door. Montegue was swamped with memories as he stepped inside. All of them were good. Some of them were better than good because hard work and sweat always went well with laughter and a cold beer when you spent quality time with your dad.
He never brought anyone here, but this was a different set of circumstances. Hank needed to be out of sight and not locatable. He also needed to grow up a little and get outside his hatred. Montegue only hoped that having the kid here didn’t sour some of his own better memories of the place.
It was a risk. He glanced back at Hank, still standing on the gravel drive, dumbfounded. Maybe it was a mistake, too. Guess he’d find out soon enough.
When it was clear that Monty had no intention of forcing him to go anywhere, Hank picked up the oversized bag and trudged to the cabin. It wasn’t what he expected on the inside, but the heat and humidity didn’t let up once he got there either.
The cabin was decorated with old black and white photos, some colored ones faded to yellow, and boat paraphernalia. Above an old-fashioned cast-iron wood stove in the living area, rope had been arranged in a display of fancy knots, old bottles cloudy with age filled with tiny shells sat on stair-stepped shelves and sand dollars nestled with shark teeth in a glass dish graced the small coffee table. A bank of wooden shelves lined the short wall and at the far end a kitchenette barely took up a corner.
“Does this place have air conditioning?” Hank asked.
“Nope. Fans.”
“Great. So we’re going to sit here and melt. For how long?”
“No sitting around. There are some supplies on hand, but anything fresh has to be caught or bought,” Montegue told him with a little too much smugness, if you asked Hank.
“Like, what, road kill? Possum? Squirrel?”
Montegue shot him a funny look. “If you want. I thought maybe fish or rabbit, but hey, knock yourself out.”
Hank adjusted his bag on his shoulder. “Where do I sleep?”
Montegue pointed to a bank of floor to ceiling cupboards against the shortest wall. “Murphy beds are there.”
“Dare I ask about the bathroom?”
Montegue’s amusement annoyed Hank. Montegue opened a slim door next to him in the kitchen and gestured inside. “Standing shower, sink and toilet, sir.”
“Food?”
Montegue opened a few cupboards. They were empty but for a few mismatched plates and cups. “We’ll take the boat over to the dock store and pick some things up.” Montegue walked over to him, took the duffel and dropped it on the ground. “We’re going to have to disguise you a little first.”
“If you put me in plaid and overalls, there will be hell to pay.”
Monty grinned. God, he grinned. His firm lips moved, and his whole face transformed from sexy double-oh-seven to I’m-going-to-shoot-my-load hot. Crystalline blue eyes sparkled with humor, and a deep chuckle rumbled from the other man’s chest. The blood drained from Hank’s face. How the hell was he supposed to try to escape when a smile like that turned Hank’s knees to jelly and his cock to cement?
“Oh, God,” Hank muttered, swallowing around the words.
Monty cocked his eyebrow. “Problem?”
Hank wanted to scotch tape that trademark lift back where it belonged. “No. No problem,” he rasped.
No problem except he suddenly wanted to tackle his bodyguard to the ground for a round of rousing sexcapades that should have been the last thing on his mind.
“Good. Take those clothes off and put on something from the duffel bag. As long as we’r
e here, you need to blend in.”
“Fine, but I refuse to knock out a few teeth for believability.”
Monty snorted.
Hank went to the bank of cupboards and tugged on the first bed he came to. It pulled down smoothly, and he was surprised to see a decent mattress on it. He hoisted the bag onto it and began examining its contents. He almost laughed when he found a flannel plaid shirt inside. The rest of the clothes were cotton tees and jeans that had seen better days. They looked like they’d been pulled off the shelves of a very sad secondhand store. At least, the new bags of underwear and socks held promise, if not the scuffed up canvas shoes.
“Who’s your stylist?” Hank mocked. “He needs to be fired.”
“My brother.” Monty’s voice came from beside him, and Hank jumped.
“Jesus! Announce your presence, you ninja. You almost made me crap my pants!”
“Excellent. It’ll take the shine off your big city perfume.”
Hank turned to stare the other man down, but Monty was standing close—too close and too smiley for Hank’s comfort. He forgot the retort he’d been ready to snap. Instead, his mouth hung open, waiting for words to issue forth.
“You were saying?” Monty encouraged.
Hank grunted. “You are seriously too hot to sneak up on me like that.”
Amusement again sparkled in Monty’s eyes. Why hadn’t Hank noticed these details sooner? Oh yeah, that’s right, because Monty became a cardboard cutout of a Secret Service Agent when he clocked in.
“Being hot and quiet are mutually exclusive?” Monty asked.
Good question. Were they? Hank tried to think. He came up with nothing.
Monty’s gaze traveled over Hank’s face. “If that were true, you’d be a mute.”
Hank might have squeaked. He wasn’t sure. The strangled sound fighting through the tightness in his throat might have been perceived as one. Not much registered at the moment. Sound was definitely secondary to the blaring fact that Monty thought Hank was hot. Very hot, apparently. Hank’s cock thanked him by swelling painfully. Pre-cum moistened the tip and made him that much more sensitive.
Monty’s grin turned into a full-blown smile, and his eyes dipped to Hank’s lips. Hank was in serious jeopardy of coming, and the embarrassment of that managed to sober him up a little.
“Are you always this easy?” Monty asked quietly.
“I’m not easy!”
Monty snorted. “You don’t think so?” He moved in closer. Their chests touched, and Hank groaned despite himself. “Are you saying that if I told you to suck my cock right now, you wouldn’t start salivating?” He eased his hand to Hank’s lower back. “Or,” he whispered, bringing their faces closer together. “If I told you I’d fuck you hard all night long, you’d turn me down?”
Hank went on autopilot, tilting his hips to Monty’s and leaning in to kiss his gorgeous lips. Monty let him, but he smiled through the kiss. Suddenly, the agent stepped away from him.
“That’s what I thought. Get changed. We have to go to the dock store before it gets too dark to make the crossing.”
Hank’s body vibrated with need. How the hell could Monty walk away unaffected after saying the shit he’d just said? How they hell could he make those suggestions if he didn’t also think about them?
Oh, God. I’m screwed, Hank realized. He never let his lovers have the upper hand. He never let them know he wanted more than a quick fuck and a goodnight kiss. But in the span of one minute and a few well-delivered comments, Monty had Hank’s number. Monty not only knew Hank wanted him, he knew Hank was stupid-in-lust with him. It freaked Hank out no small measure.
Shit.
* * * *
Two hours later, Monty pulled his shirt off and picked up the oars again. A box of groceries separated them, and it was a good-damn thing too because Hank wanted nothing more than to lick every sweat-glistening muscle on display.
What looked like lean muscle under a suit turned out to be tightly packed and corded abs, sculpted ribs and pecs, and angular oblique muscles forming a tight low vee into his pant line that had Hank squirming.
He hated it. He also couldn’t tear his eyes away from the dark-haired agent who looked impossibly better mussed up and sweaty than he did in pressed uniform suits. The trade of expressionless agent on duty to relaxed man in his element only enhanced the quickly forming daydreams about getting naked with him.
Hank had always had the upper hand when it came to men. How the hell had the tables flipped on him so quickly? He resolved to make a change. He didn’t like being subject to his baser instincts or the cloudiness of thought that seemed to have him thinking with his smaller head.
Monty was a tough guy, a respectable guy, but if Hank didn’t stay on his toes and figure a way out of here, he’d be staring down the barrel of another four years with a father who couldn’t give a damn. He’d done that already. He didn’t think he should have to do it again. He certainly didn’t think that his dad should come away from the destruction of his family without a few scars.
“Your staring,” Monty noted dryly.
“You’re half naked and sitting directly in my line of sight,” Hank pointed out.
“I’m not on the menu.”
“Are you sure about that?”
The skiff glided up to the dock. Monty tossed him the tie rope, and Hank looped it around the dock support. Monty lifted the box, with his shirt draped over the top, to the dock, then steadied the boat, one foot in, one foot on wood.
Monty held a hand out to Hank. Hank hesitated a moment, then took it. He liked the hard calloused slide of the other man’s palm against his, the way his fingers wrapped like steel around his wrist and steadied him onto the dock.
“I think you want to be on the menu, Monty. I think that’s why you’re teasing me.”
Monty walked away from him with the box of goods. Hank took a minute to examine the fine ass and relaxed gait before he followed.
“Is that what you want?” Monty asked when they got inside, and he’d put the groceries on the small counter. “Me?”
“I’d take you if I had you.”
Monty dropped his hands to his hips. “I don’t get taken.”
“Is that your delicate way of saying you don’t bottom?”
“It’s my direct way of saying that when it comes to sex, I’m in control whether I’m on top or on bottom.”
Hank folded his arms across his chest. “Well now we’re getting somewhere.”
“Are we?”
“If we’re talking about sex, I’d say so,” Hank decided.
“We’re talking about sex,” Monty sealed all doubt.
Hank approached. “And if I won’t bottom or let you have control?”
“I wouldn’t give you a choice.” Monty pushed away from the counter and stopped in front of Hank. “Your problem is that you’ve had everything handed to you on a platter, so when something doesn’t go your way, you think the world is ending.”
“Your problem is that you make blanket judgments about things you have no business putting your nose into.”
Monty’s hand curled around the nape of Hank’s neck and tugged him forward. “Do I?”
Hank forgot what they were arguing about, so he decided to agree and hope he was right. “You do.”
Monty tipped his head to the side. His lips moved along Hank’s jaw. His teeth scraped the edge of Hank’s earlobe. “I think you’re easy for a ready cock.” Monty’s voice rumbled over Hank’s skin sending shivers through him.
Monty continued, “I think your dad doesn’t give you the attention you think you deserve, so you take it.” His tongue flickered into the whorls of Hank’s ear, and he heard himself gasp as Monty kept babbling. “I think the idea of fucking a Secret Service agent has your preppy ass in a tingle.”
Monty’s rough free hand grabbed Hank’s ass and squeezed as though to make his point. As though Hank wasn’t already meltier than butter on a screaming-hot pan.
“I
think,” Monty moved his hand to Hank’s shoulder and gave him a gentle push down. Hank dropped to his knees, staring up at the sex-god who demanded his attention. “That if I popped my button,” and in saying it, he did open the button to his own jeans. “You’d suck my cock into that sweet, pink mouth of yours.”
Hank reached for the man’s zipper to do exactly as he’d suggested. Monty chuckled and stepped around him instead, leaving Hank on his knees in the kitchen.
“I thought so,” Monty called back to him and left the cabin.
Chapter Six
Monty heard the delayed cursing behind him. Could nearly feel the vibrations on the air when the cabin door slammed shut, opened and slammed again as though the first one wasn’t adequate enough. He’d have laughed if he weren’t so shaken by what he’d just done. By what he’d wanted to happen when Hank looked up at him with those glowing gray eyes half-hidden behind a fringe of blond hair.
The kid’s mouth had already parted, giving Monty a clear view of the dark, moist invitation to Monty’s dick. The slight tickle of fingers on his zipper still had his cock zinging. He’d wanted it, but he hadn’t realized how much until Hank was on his knees, obeying.
Monty’s hands shook as he ran them through his hair. He nearly laughed for real, then, because he’d seen the president do that a couple times when the subject of his son came up. And here Monty was doing it too. Because doing that was infinitely wiser than strangling Hank or pinning him down while he fucked the ever-living daylights out of him.
God, he couldn’t remember the last time he’d wanted someone so badly. This had been the worst idea on the planet to follow through with it. And this was day one! How was he going to manage a week? Two weeks with the kid?
And when the fuck had he started thinking of himself as Monty?
He stormed through the tree line and kept going. He hadn’t bothered to bring out trapping instruments with him. He’d just left, needing to put as much space between himself and the temptation taking up space in the cabin. He wasn’t about to head back there to pick up his trapping gear or unlock the case with his hunting rifle in it.
