Cock and Balls (Handcuffs and Lace) by Mia Watts by Mia Watts Page A

clamped around Monty’s words. They didn’t make any sense and yet they did. This wasn’t about getting off, it was about getting even. It was about taking control back and throwing it in their faces. It was—it wasn’t any of that. It was Monty pulling it all out of him, every last bit of himself until there was nothing left to expose.
    Tears spilled down Hank’s cheeks. He hurt inside and out. His cock chaffed and yet he reveled in it, thrust his hips as he shouted obscenities that no longer linked to anything but hatred and anger for everyone and everything.
    “Fuck ‘em all, Hank. Fuck ‘em.”
    Hank beat on Monty’s chest and suddenly he saw sparks of light behind his lids. Cum shot from him in long ropes until finally Hank sagged against the tree, breathing hard and completely spent.
    Monty whispered something. Hank’s ears still rang, and he couldn’t understand the soft words. Lips met his, brushing, caressing, testing Hank’s. Breathlessly, and too tired to keep fighting what felt like an onslaught beyond his control, he let them.
    They brushed over his cheek, his jaw. They whispered the word beautiful against his earlobe, and he hung on those three syllables like they were salvation. He didn’t remember reaching for Monty, but he clutched the other man’s shoulders.
    Monty’s strength held him up, gave him a barrier to the rest of the world, comfort and peace. How was that possible? Why was he doing this? Why was Hank letting him? He stopped wondering and let his head sag forward, taking the comfort Monty offered for as long as he offered it.
    Finally the senseless whispers stopped, and Monty held him. He stroked the back of Hank’s hair. “I’ve got you,” he murmured. “It’s just us, and I’ve got you.”
    And that’s when Hank started crying in earnest. He sobbed the way he hadn’t let himself when his mother died six months ago, and the way he’d never been allowed to as a small child in the spotlight of his father’s success. He thought he’d been emptied, but there was still this and Monty took it all, holding, rocking, letting another grown man fall apart in his arms without judgment. Hank knew he’d regret it later, but for the moment, he took everything Monty offered. It was a lifeline.

 
    Chapter Eight
     
     
    Hank’s grief rocked Monty to the core, left him shaken and at a loss. He’d brought Hank to the cabin to get to the bottom of his behavior while getting him off the grid and out of the public eye. He’d done it as his duty and to make sure the son of the President of the United States didn’t alter the course of an election because of a grudge he held against his father.
    He’d had no idea how much pain lurked beneath the surface of the other man.
    He’d suspected. He’d witnessed years of relationship problems between father and son. He’d even seen the fallout of Mrs. McClaren’s death, but from the perspective of how President McClaren had struggled to hold it all together and his residual guilt. He’d even been a silent bystander in the doorway of the hospital room when Mrs. McClaren had sent him off to handle his sworn duties—refusing to let him show weakness in her final days.
    And he’d been there through the catastrophe when White House spin doctors had taken his absence and lied that the president had been unaware of the imminent death of his wife while he was away overseas. The president had known and had been pushed to his duty by the dying wish of his wife and his inability to watch her go.
    Monty knew that side. Hank’s side was different. The president hadn’t seen any of it. He’d only seen the Hank go from a strong, carefree young man to a national disaster. All the pieces fit, and God help him, he understood the visceral collapse. Losing his own father, their closeness, Monty remembered the pain. Though he’d known the loss was great for Hank, he hadn’t once, in all that time of service, put himself in Hank’s shoes long enough to