I can’t come. Can’t hold an erection, but he ordered me to jerk myself off, and I stayed hard. He ordered me to touch myself until I came, and I did. I fucking did, Tristan. He’s the only person I’ve taken orders from since you.
Why do you think that is? I’m not sure what it means—the fact that Dante commanding me to masturbate for him made me come.
I’m not sure I want to know either.
Ben
CHAPTER SEVENTEEN
It was six AM and Ben hadn’t slept all night. He hadn’t slept more than an hour or so here and there since the night at Dante’s. Going back to the club wasn’t an option. Not after the way he’d let Dante take control of him. Not after the man knew he’d been having a problem with his dick.
Ben could easily go to a different club. New York was full of them but what would be the point? So, he’d sat at home. Drank. Gone to the gym. It was his life the past few days just like it was right now. When he couldn’t sleep, he’d work out.
As he lifted the bar for another rep, Ben’s arms ached, shook, but he kept going because he didn’t know how else to work off steam. How else to make himself forget.
When he couldn’t lift any more, Ben headed for the showers. He stood under the spray until the scalding hot water turned to cold, hoping it would massage his aching muscles and wake him up.
Neither worked.
After getting dressed he pulled his cell phone from the locker. It vibrated in his hand. Ben turned it over and saw five missed calls...all from his mother.
His pulse sped up. She rarely called him. Neither of his parents did unless he did something to embarrass them or his father needed to use Ben in some way or another.
But she never called five times within a short period of time.
Ben worked his way around the men dressing in the locker room, rushed outside and onto the busy street before calling.
People were everywhere, as they always were in New York. There was yelling and honking and music pounding into him from all sides.
“He did it again, Benjamin. He did it again,” she said instead of hello. He could hear the alcohol in her voice, heavier than usual. Her speech wasn’t just slow, but slurred and soft, raspy from the tears she no doubt had streaming down her face.
Ben didn’t speak. What could he say? It fucking ate him up inside to hear her hurting but his father would never change. She would never stop letting him do whatever he wanted. For years, Ben had been the same way. Hiding who he was. Trying to gain his father’s love and it hadn’t gotten him anywhere. It wouldn’t get his mother anywhere either.
“Benny?”
The name did its job, piercing Ben right through the chest. Pulling him in and tethering him to the past. It’s what Bonnie used to call him.
“I’ll be right there.”
Ben’s gut ached. Part of it was hunger, but the rest was a cocktail of anger and dread. He didn’t want to be so easily pulled back there to help his mother, to be there for her when she had never been there for him. He wasn’t as important as his father to her and he knew he never would be.
Yet how could he not go? She was his mother.
Ben hailed a cab and gave his parent’s address. He fought himself, not letting his eyes close on the drive over. He tossed too much money at the driver when they arrived at his family estate outside of the city. “I’ll walk from here. Wait for me.” Been looked at the nametag. “George. I’ll double whatever the fare is.” That would ensure he stayed.
Ben could let the driver in the gate but figured he could use a few minutes to cool down.
The walk down the driveway didn’t take nearly long enough. He used his key to unlock the door and went straight for the stairs. His mother would no doubt be in bed. She usually was when she’d drank too much to be able to speak clearly, or when his father broke her heart.
His hand shook as he knocked on the door. She slurred her way through a, “come in” before Ben let himself in. She lay in bed in nothing except her bra, breasts spilling over the top, and a pair of panties. Her hair was a mess. Her eyes were red and swollen and she had a bottle of bourbon on the bedside table.
“Could you put some clothes on?” He walked over to her dresser and grabbed the nightgown, which lay over the top of it.
“He doesn’t love me, Benny. Why doesn’t he love me?”
He could ask her the same question. Not just about his father but about her as well. Or maybe she did love him but the fact of the matter was, she loved his father more than she ever would love Ben. If she hadn’t needed him, she wouldn’t have called him over today. If he’d needed her, she wouldn’t have come unless Congressman Worthington okayed it.