Cock and Balls (Handcuffs and Lace) by Mia Watts

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

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.”