“Finance minister will present quarterly reports. Budget proposals. You will need to approve?—”
“Boring.” His hand moved under his waistband. I could see the shift of his wrist. The slow movement. “Give me the parts that actually matter.”
I kept my eyes on the wall. “All of it matters.”
“Does it? Or is it just three hours of old men lecturing me aboutfiscal responsibility while pretending they care about anything other than maintaining their own power?” His wrist moved in slow circles now. “You're the one who seems uncomfortable. What's wrong, Viktor? Something bothering you?”
“You know exactly what you are doing.”
“Do I?” Innocent. Playful. “Tell me. What am I doing?”
“Asserting control.”
“Smart man.” He pushed the waistband down. Just an inch. Just enough to show a line of bronze skin. Trail of dark hair disappearing beneath fabric. “And is it working?”
Yes. God, yes. My cock was half-hard in my pants. My hands were clenched so tight behind my back my knuckles ached. Every instinct I had was screaming to either leave or cross that distance and show him exactly what happened when he pushed too far.
“No,” I lied.
“Liar.” He pushed his pants lower. Not all the way. Just enough to expose the base of his cock. Thick. Hard. Straining against the fabric still covering most of him. “I can see it in the way you're standing. The way your jaw is clenched. The way you're trying so hard not to look.”
“We are supposed to discuss meeting.”
“We are discussing it. I'm just doing other things at the same time.” He wrapped his hand around what was visible. Squeezed. Made himself gasp softly. “Multitasking. Very efficient.”
“This is not appropriate.”
“You keep saying that. Like appropriate means anything between us.” His thumb swept over the exposed head. Gathering the wetness there. “We're past appropriate, Viktor. We crossed that line when you came all over yourself while grinding on me like an animal in heat.”
“That was?—”
“What you wanted. What you needed.” He stroked slowly. Deliberate. “Tell me about the budget proposals. While you watch.”
I stared at the wall. “Finance minister wants to cut social services by eight percent. Reallocate to defense.”
“And what do you think I should do?” His hand moved faster.Cock sliding against his palm. Still mostly covered by fabric but the movement unmistakable. “Approve it?”
“Not my decision.”
“But if it were. What would you do?” Stroke. Breath catching. “Would you cut services? Leave children without support because old men think bombs are more important than food?”
“I would tell them to go to hell.”
“Good answer.” He arched slightly. Hips lifting into his hand. “What else?”
“Transportation budget needs approval. New rail lines. Infrastructure.”
“Boring.” Stroke. Squeeze. “What else?”
“Tax reform proposal. Will affect working class?—”
“Viktor.” My name came out breathy. Strained. “Look at me.”
“No.”
“Look at me or I'll strip completely. Let you see everything you're trying so hard not to think about.”
The threat was effective. I dropped my gaze. Found his eyes. Saw the challenge there. The heat. The absolute certainty that he was winning this game.
