The Trouble with Trevor (Off Limits Book 1)

by Cin Forrester

Living with Grady instead of my parents has made me notice all the stuff he does for me. Food appears in the pantry, stuff I like to eat, he cooks or there are leftovers in the fridge, he washes my clothes if I put them in the hamper, and there are always fresh sheets and towels in the linen closet. Plus he works all week, seven to four, at a garage. I wouldn't have minded if he hadn't asked it like that, think you could manage, like I'm some incompetent child.

  I chomp off the top of a piece of bacon and mutter, “I guess.”

  Grady's voice is calm, like he's asking me what my favorite cereal is. It's Apple Jacks, and there are two boxes on top of the fridge. “Is there a problem, Trevor?”

  Yes. No. I'm in college. So stop acting like a brat.

  “No, sir.”

  “Good boy.” His hand ruffles through my hair.

  I'm working on resenting that too, that he's treating me like a cocker spaniel, when his hand jerks back like my hair just went Medusa on him.

  He gulps down his coffee and scrapes the rest of his plate onto mine. “I've gotta run. Don't forget about Mass.”

  I had forgotten. After years of being casual Catholics, my parents suddenly stopped after Jasper died. I tried to explain that to Grady, but a phone call to my dad had backfired spectacularly when he'd come in on Grady's side, saying it would be good for me.

  “Be ready at 5:30,” Grady orders as he leaves.

  I'd had a brief fever of interest in the Church, looking for answers for all the shit that was wrong in my life, but even getting confirmed hadn't helped anything, and at the moment, all I could think of was what forty-five minutes of up and down on those granite-wood pews was going to feel like on my ass. Given how hard this chair felt, it was a toss-up between whether I’d be grimacing in pain or from trying to hide my boner.

  *

  I spend the afternoon typing my paper on phase transitions standing at the kitchen counter, but my butt aches like I sat all day when it comes into contact with the wooden pew at St. Michael's. I shift from cheek to cheek. If I have my weight solid on my tailbone, my whole ass starts to prickle and throb, and that makes my dick fill inside my tan Dockers. I don't need a rule to tell me getting a boner in church is a big no-no. I finally find a slouch that works, but when we stand to pray the Apostle’s Creed, Grady nudges me and whispers, “Sit up straight, and stop wiggling.”

  Why does he have to repeat those words from when he had me on his lap last night? I need to be back in the shower. I can't think of anything but my dick. It's too late to grab a program and hide it. I grip the pew back in front of me. Does he see? Does he know?

  I shoot him a look. He has an arch expression on his face, so I'm pretty sure he thinks only my ass is making me uncomfortable. He'd be horrified if he knew how hot and bothered I was in the middle of transubstantiation.

  When we kneel for the Eucharist, all I can think of is how much I want to kneel in front of him, pull his cock out of his gray trousers and take it into my mouth. It would be fat and shiny, like the mouthwatering ones I'd seen in porn. Screw it. If I have to be here to pray, I'm going to pray for what I want. I bow my head over my hands.

  Please let Grady see me as a man. Or please send me a guy who does, and who wants me before I die a virgin. Amen.

  I sense movement all around me and start to get up. Grady puts a hand on my forearm. “Did you go to confession?”

  People are lining up to get fed the wafer that's the body of Christ. You're only supposed to take it if you've been “reconciled by an Act of Contrition.”

  I thought I was pretty damned contrite last night. “Over your knee doesn't count?” I whisper and then panic. I can't believe I said that to him out loud. My only excuse is that my downstairs brain is in control.

  His hand squeezes my wrist, hard, but when I sneak a look at his face, I notice that lip twitch. “Behave yourself in church, brat, or you’ll get more absolution than you can handle.”

  When we get into the house, I'm still not convinced I'm not going to get a refresh to the heavy soreness in my ass, but he just starts making dinner. Either nerves or the ten-minute walk have made the button-down shirt stick to my back with sweat and now I have a killer itch. I flail and twist around, but I can't get it. When I finally find it, my blunt, bitten nails only make it worse.

  I press my back into the frame of the kitchen door, trying to dig the edge into that all-consuming itch.

  Grady sets the microwave to defrost some frozen peas, then turns and stares at me, gyrating in the corner. He laughs and limps toward me. “Turn around.”

  I obey. My stomach bubbles with the excitement that revs up almost every time he's this close.

  He scratches at my back. “I ought to blister your ass some more for blaspheming in church.” His deep, rough voice is in my ear. He's right behind me. It's so close to my fantasy in the shower.

  At least that damned itch is distracting enough to keep me decent. I gasp and squirm, trying to move my itchy skin under his scrubbing nails.

  “Don't worry. Your butt is safe. For now.”

  I want to moan at the threat and promise in his voice. And I don't want him to stop touching me.

  “Lower?” I plead.

  “Pull your shirt up.”

  I do, grabbing the hem and hiking it as high as I can get it.

  His nails find the spot, and the relief is so amazing it's almost like coming.

  “Hm. Here's the problem.” His nails pinch my skin then his hand moves away.

  Ew. Please don't let it be a gross zit.

  “You had a hair stuck to your back.”

  I lower my shirt and turn around. “Like a back hair or a head hair?”

  “Head.” There's a fine strand pinched between his fingers. “Long.”

  He ruffles his fingers through my hair, and I want to purr like a cat. He doesn't pull away this time, but does it over and over and it feels so good.

  “Think maybe it's time for a haircut.” Grady is big and muscled, but not super tall. I come up to his nose, so if I tip my head up, we can look eye to eye. “You need money for one?”

  I don't know if my parents are giving him money for feeding and housing me, but they put some into my checking account every month. “No. I have some.”

  He stops rubbing my hair.

  I swallow against the urge to lick my lips because if my prayer is about to come true, he'll kiss me. Then he'll urge me to my knees, use his hand in my hair to drag me to his crotch, and I'll finally know what a dick—what his dick—tastes like.

  He pulls me to him and kisses my forehead, then lets me go. “Go up and change. Dinner will be ready soon.”

  I turn and sprint up the stairs. In my room, I strip off my clothes and stare at myself in the mirror over my dresser.

  I stroke my dick, and in a few quick tugs it's hard enough to get a good look at. It's not porn-size, but it's decent, standing out from a thick patch of pubes. My balls are loose, velvety and fuzzed with the same hair.

  I stretch out on my bed, grab the lotion and my towel and start stroking. My typical Saturday night. Me alone with my dick in my hand. I could have stayed in Ohio for this.

  I push my ass down into the quilt, waking up that pain that floods my body with even more excitement. Sweet tingles spread until my dick pulses, orgasm gathering in my balls. I work two lotioned fingers under my balls and then jam them up my ass, rough and fast, picturing Grady there, his voice alternating soft and stern as he says “Yeah,” and “You'll take it until I decide you've had enough.”

  “Yes.” I hiss out my obedience.

  I jerk faster, twisting a little, fingers pumping in and out.

  Grady slams hard into me. “That's it, Trevor. Take my cock.”

  And that is it. I curl up and around my dick as I shoot over my belly and chest, coming and coming until I'm shaking.

  Grady's voice is really there. Outside my door. “Trevor.”

  I'm panting as I come down and swipe at my jizz with the towel. How long was he there? What d
id he hear? Fuck. What if I'd moaned his name?

  I squeeze my eyes shut, dreading what he'll say next.

  His knuckles tap the door. “Dinner's ready when you are.”

  Chapter 11

  5 minutes ago

  Grady

  TREVOR’S breathy groan makes me as hard as if I hadn’t just spent half the day fucking away temptation in some stranger’s ass and the other half begging God to spare me from it.

  I freeze with my knuckles up to his bedroom door.

  “Please.” Trevor’s voice is shot through with desperation.

  His need tugs at my balls, and I bite back a gasp. I can’t stop my hand from palming my dick. I press hard, trying to ease the consuming pressure to slam open that door and finish him in my mouth. I’ll pin his legs over his head and fuck him the way he’s begging for, fuck him until his tight ass milks me dry.

  The rush and pound of blood in my cock has me lightheaded. Not going to stop at one time. I want him over and over. I need to be the one pulling those gasps out of his throat. I need to hear what my name sounds like when he’s begging me to go harder.

  I shudder, and my dick spits against my boxers. Fuck it. I unzip. God help me. I try to remember I’m supposed to father him, not fuck him, but here I am jerking off to the sound of my godson with his dick in his hand. I’m surprised Hell doesn’t open up to take me right there.

  My strokes are rough, almost dry, but that doesn’t slow me down. I clench my teeth and breathe through my nose. I doubt he can hear me over his hungry moans, the fleshy slide of his hand, the squeaks of his bed as he bucks. I palm the head of my dick, a quick, quiet way to the edge in a CHU barrack full of other joes.

  “Oh God.” His voice drops. The urgency scratching his throat sends pleasure throbbing from my balls to the tip of my dick. “God, Grady. Please.”

  It hits like an explosion. Light and heat and waves of shock rolling through me. I’m loose with exhilaration and heavy with shame. When the last ripple jerks through me, pumping jizz into my palm, I know I might as well have stepped on an IED. Nothing can have the same shape after this.

  *

  At that night’s dinner of pork chops, applesauce and peas, I watch him shift his weight side to side. I did that. He feels my hands on him.

  You are fucked ten ways from Sunday, McKinnon. I shift my attention to my own plate where I’ve mechanically chewed through my dinner. Can’t remember how any of it tasted.

  If Trevor noticed I had to change into sweats and that he was downstairs before I was, he didn’t ask about it. He reaches forward to stab the last pork chop, then sinks back into his seat with a wince. Shit.

  “How’s your butt?”

  He blushes, lashes dropping. “Sore.”

  I can’t tell if the regret in his voice is from pain or the admission. I could ask to have a look, but that’s crossing back over a line I want to turn into a thick wall between us.

  He cuts the pork chop in half, dropping the other portion back on the dish. His eyes meet mine. “But I asked for it.”

  It’s the same voice that said, God, Grady. Please. A man’s voice, sure of what he wants. Still, I can’t make that square with the Trevor across the table, slender framed, his barely-needing-a-shave face usually projecting his sucks-to-be-me, adolescent gloom.

  The Frank I knew would be able to come to terms with his son being gay. We’d never talked about it, but guys who hated queers didn’t keep that shit to themselves. And teen boys were going to beat off, that was the way of the world. So Trevor waxing his dick with another boy’s name on his lips shouldn’t be a reason to pound the alarm. But he’d come gasping my name and, despite the testosterone-fueled pride trying to spark things up in my balls again, that made it hell and gone from being okay.

  “Yeah, you asked for it.” I push away from the table. “More than once.” I start clearing, looking for a chore to focus on. “I’ll make some chili tomorrow. We can take it for lunch next week.”

  He’s still chewing, but he brings his plate to the sink.

  “Take your time. Don’t need you choking.”

  “Are you mad at me?”

  At him? I shake my head once, sharp. “No. Not at all.”

  He sidles up closer, like a cat angling for attention. I thank God my hands are already wet with the dishwater, or I’d be scratching him behind his ears.

  “I’m still sorry about being late and everything. And not just because my butt’s sore.”

  “It’s over. Clean slate.” If only it were that easy. I can make it easy. Send him back to Frank, tell him it’s more than I bargained for. But Frank didn’t quit on me.

  No taking the easy way out for me. But I can sure as shit keep my hands off the kid. That I can control.

  He makes a heavy sigh but he nods.

  “Doesn’t mean you need to go screwing up on purpose. Tell me if you’re feeling like you need—” but that won’t help me with my resolve to keep my hands off him, “—just tell me what’s going on with you before there’s a problem.”

  “Yes, sir.”

  I turn and hold his gaze for a second before I nod. “So we’re good. Now grab a dish towel and get drying.”

  *

  Sleep’s a fucking cock tease that night, so I hit my weights. It’s already oh-dark-thirty, but I’m on my sixth rep, fourth set of biceps curls, when I hear him in the hall. The dumbbell clunks on the floorboards as I race out of my room, ready to catch him before he can swan dive down the stairs.

  But he’s not sleepwalking. He’s at the linen closet. Not a stitch on him.

  Light streams into the hall from behind me. It’s enough to see his dick full and hard against his belly. Do sleepwalkers usually have boners? He jolts and holds a washcloth to cover himself. If he hangs it over his dick, he could have a ghost hand puppet. Casper, the Friendly Dick.

  “Everything okay?”

  He glances down at the washcloth and his dick. “I, um—”

  Right. He’s seventeen. I guess it wasn’t a bad dream this time.

  His glittering eyes are back to me. I’m shirtless, in a pair of cutoff sweats I wore back in PT. They’re tight on me now. My muscles had just about wasted before I got ambulatory. His gaze drifts down, moving past my shorts and onto my leg. Why wouldn’t he be curious? Most people are.

  “I’ll show it to you tomorrow, if you want.”

  He gasps, and then his eyes jerk back to my face.

  “Uh—”

  Fuck, that was some loaded language. “My leg.”

  “Right. Okay.” He stares past me. My treadmill is folded against the wall, weights and the bench on the other side of my bed. Until Trevor showed, I’d been using his room to work out in.

  “Does it help you sleep?”

  I wish it did, wish I could tell him there was an answer to when your brain unleashed all the stuff you tried to avoid during the day. But if I pushed enough, exhaustion was a weapon.

  “Sometimes.”

  “Do you think maybe you could teach me to use the weights sometime?”

  An opportunity to do something with him that didn’t blur the lines more? I grab on to that like he’s offering a medivac dustoff. “Think you could manage to haul ass out of bed before ten tomorrow?”

  He nods.

  “Okay then.”

  *

  He’s up early, seems eager to learn, but the sixth time I correct his arm position for a triceps extension, I wonder if he’s doing it on purpose. But his brow is lowered in concentration, and even with me side eying him, there’s no sign of that instant guilt he shows when he’s busted.

  “Like that?” He finally has it, and I take my hand away.

  “Yeah.” I don’t want to miss the contact with his sweating skin as much as I do.

  He grins.

  My balance shifts. Hell, I’d swear we’re having an earthquake right in Boston, except Trevor goes right on grinning, happiness burning up to his clear bright eyes. Fuck me sideways, he’s got a dimple on hi
s cheek.

  No, no earthquake. Only my system taking one hell of a shot, because in the two and a half weeks he’s been here, I’ve never seen him crack a smile, let alone this.

  Is this just from me saying he’d gotten it? I test it.

  “Good job, Trev. Think you can give me six more?”

  The dimple deepens, and his eyes—I swear, I always thought that was bullshit best left for campfire songs—but his eyes are dancing. I want to do whatever it takes to keep him looking like that. To know I’m the one who’s making him look like that.

  He struggles on the last two extensions. I’m spotting him, but as the tremble starts in his muscles, I practically have my hand on the plastic-coated weight. No way do I want him knocking out one of the teeth that bites his lip or blackening one of those pretty blue eyes.

  “Exhale. Got it.” I grab the weight as he comes back to rest position. “Good job.”

  He sits upright on the bench, shaking his arm and still smiling.

  “Ready for the other side?”

  “Oh, shi—crap.” He slumps back, but he doesn’t pout. He gets his left arm into position.

  He gets it faster this time, guiding with his right hand like I showed him.

  “Don’t bite your lip, Trevor, keep breathing.”

  “Sorry.” He makes a gasp at the extension, and my dick takes interest. I will it to calm down. This is supposed to be safe. For both of us.

  “No apologies. Just fix it.”

  He makes a tight nod and does his breathing right on the next rep.

  When I take the weight, he stretches his other arm across his chest. “Wow. Do you think we could montage this bit like they do in the movies? Show me jogging once and sweating with weights a few times, and then I walk out of the house looking like you?”

  Like me? Hell no. Trevor could stand to build his upper arm strength, but sixteen-inch biceps would look ridiculous on his frame. I want to still be able to— Shut it down, McKinnon. “Remind me to dig out my ‘Eye of the Tiger’ CD. Maybe that’s the secret to making it work like in the movies.”

  He laughs. It’s startling enough until I join in. I haven’t heard myself laugh—I’m not talking about a sarcastic snort at some asshole at work or when I see a bad pass in a game, but really laugh—in longer than I can remember. Damn that feels good. I’m just glad I have the dumbbell in my hands so I remember not to press my thumb on his dimple.