Page 27 of Devotion

He has to cut short his swim in order to make the last-minute meeting, and he’s different when he returns to his rooms less than an hour later.

Something is wrong.

I know it’s wrong although he says, “Fine” when I ask how the meeting went.

He doesn’t have anything else scheduled for the day, so he settles at his desk to work, and he doesn’t stop until he gets up to go to the bathroom in the middle of the afternoon. Although nothing in his routine or behavior is much different from the norm, Iknowsomething is wrong.

He’s tense. Stressed. Even more than normal. He’s silently brooding even as he reads and takes notes and studies charts and stares down at his notebook as he thinks.

I ask him twice if he’s okay and if there’s anything I can do to help, but he mumbles out vague, bad-tempered responses, so I finally stop asking.

It’s upsetting. And a little bit scary. I need to know what’s going on, but he refuses to tell me.

I hope when he’s done in the bathroom and returns to the desk that he’ll ask for his break so I can give him some attention and help him relax, but he doesn’t. He gets right back to work without even glancing over at me, and it feels like a slap in the face.

What the hell is going on?

And why won’t he tell me?

I wait another hour, pretending to read but privately stewing with nerves. Then I finally can’t stand it anymore. “Are you ready for your break?” I ask him when he glances up from his papers to stare blankly out the window.

He blinks at me like he didn’t quite hear what I asked.

“Your break? It’s past time.”

For a moment I’m afraid he’s actually going to refuse. Something like reluctance twists on his face, and it slashes through my chest like a knife.

But he finally sighs and pushes his chair back from the desk. “I guess so. Just be quick.”

Not the most flattering of requests, but I bury the hurt feelings down where they won’t get in the way and walk over to give him a very brief shoulder massage.

He doesn’t immediately relax like he’s been doing lately. His body doesn’t soften and loosen under my hands. And he doesn’t close his eyes and focus on letting go the way I’ve finally convinced him to do.

When I move around and lower myself to my knees in front of him, he’s not even looking at me. He holds my headlike normal, but he’s staring out the window with that stressed distraction I hate so much.

It takes unusually long to get him hard and then longer still to build him up toward climax. I finally have to start moaning around his cock to make him look down at me, then take him deeper to get him close.

I’m able to hold his attention enough for him to come, and it does provide him with some sort of release. But he’s not as relaxed and sated as he’s supposed to be after I tend to him. He leans back in his chair with his eyes closed, breathing heavily but with a tightness to his jaw that’s just not right.

He probably wants me to return to my spot so he can work, but I’m not going to leave him like this. I move back around to rub his shoulders and neck some more. I push into that tender spot at the base of his skull until he groans and falls forward enough for me to reach his back.

I slide my hands down and knead the tight muscles around his shoulder blades. “Please tell me what’s going on,” I murmur very softly.

He lets out a thick breath that’s almost a groan.

“Please, Gabriel,” I add in a whisper.

“He’s… he’s shortened my timeline.”

“The president has? What has he shortened it to?”

“I was supposed to have a year to finish this project. He’s cut four months off that timeline.”

I suck in a sharp breath. “What? Eight months? He expects one person working alone to put together such an immense project in only eight months?”

“Yes.”

He’s not pulling away from my hands, so I keep up my massage, deeply relieved he’s finally talking to me. “Why is he in such a rush? Is something going on that he needs it earlier?”

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