by Anna Martin
“You don’t care that I’m bisexual?”
“No? Why would I?”
James shrugged. “Some people would.”
“Some people suck.”
James was laughing as he allowed Dylan to move them onto the bed. He felt so content lying underneath Dylan’s comforting weight. If it weren’t for their hips slowly grinding their erections together, it would have been almost peaceful.
“Do you want to fuck me?” Dylan asked as he moved his lips over James’s neck.
“I was hoping you might fuck me.”
Dylan pulled back enough to look James in the eye. He was frowning. “I thought you didn’t want that.”
“I don’t. Well, sort of.” James knew he was blushing. “The other night I, uh, I tried to use my fingers. But it didn’t work. It just felt weird. I thought you could….”
“You want me to help you figure it out?”
“Yeah.”
“I can do that,” Dylan murmured. “It can be hard to find the right angle on your own.”
“My wrist started to cramp.”
Dylan laughed and brought James’s hand to his mouth to kiss at the delicate pulse.
“Take your shorts off.”
James hastened to comply, scrabbling as he kicked his boxers and socks to the floor. Then he grabbed his cock and stroked it, because it was instinct, and because Dylan was looking at him like that.
Dylan managed to strip out of his jeans slightly more elegantly, then leaned over James to grab lube from his nightstand. He gave James a great view of his ass as he did, and James took the opportunity to give it a nice squeeze.
Dylan was laughing as he settled on his side next to James, propped up on one elbow.
“Keep doing that,” he said, nodding to James’s hand on his cock, and leaned in for a kiss.
For a while, that was it—slow kisses and the familiar feel of James’s hand on his cock, somehow feeling more because Dylan’s fingers were gently stroking over his hips and ribs. After a while, James barely noticed when Dylan slipped a hand between his legs, caressing his inner thighs and balls.
He definitely noticed, but didn’t care, when Dylan lifted James’s leg and draped it over his own thigh. Suddenly exposed, James tensed up.
“It’s okay,” Dylan murmured. “Just let it feel good.”
With soothing, intimate kisses, James did. His fingers found their way into Dylan’s hair as Dylan started carefully stroking over James’s hole with his fingers, teasing the tiny nerves into a state of twitching arousal.
“You want to keep going?” Dylan asked.
“Yeah.”
“Okay. If you want to stop at any point, just tell me.”
James nodded. He kept his eyes tightly closed, confident that he could trust Dylan with this. After a while he really did start to relax, with his hand on his cock and Dylan’s kisses making his mind and spine melt into a state of utter bliss.
“I’m gonna use some lube, okay?”
“Uh-huh.” James wasn’t sure he was capable of making much more coherent noise than that.
It definitely changed things, feeling warm, wet, slick against his hole. Dylan didn’t go rushing in with his fingers either. He coaxed James gently to a point where he was desperate for more.
“Please,” he said, his back arching off the bed.
“Sure?”
“Yeah.”
Dylan slowly curled one finger, inching it inside. James wasn’t sure how he felt about it at first, but then Dylan kissed him again, distracting him, and he decided to just roll with it. He’d gone further than this on his own, and it definitely hadn’t felt this good.
Everything Dylan was doing seemed to stoke James into a higher state of desire. He abandoned his cock, not wanting to come too soon, and let his fingers trail over his body instead, pinching at his nipples and tugging at his balls.
“Another finger?”
“I… uh….”
“I don’t have to,” Dylan said, reassuring.
“You can try.”
It wasn’t the weird, uncomfortable stretch James was expecting. Instead his body slowly gave in to Dylan’s coaxing intrusion. Dylan lowered his head and started gently licking and biting at James’s nipples, distracting him, James realized, from the twisting sort of feeling inside.
“Oh fuck,” he groaned.
All of a sudden Dylan curled his fingers again, and James almost lurched off the bed.
“Easy,” Dylan said, a grin in his voice as he nudged James back down.
“Holy… what the….”
“I’ve got you.”
On an intellectual level, James knew this was his prostate and that Dylan was introducing him to this part of his body in a very, very nice way. James thought he should definitely spend some more time getting to know it.
Dylan’s fingers were a strange sort of pressure, flickering against that sweet spot and teasing James into moaning, squirming desperation. All his normal brain function shut down as he turned his focus almost entirely to the good things that were happening to his body.
“I want…,” he said, not knowing how to end that sentence.
“You look so fucking hot,” Dylan growled. “You like this, huh?”
“Yeah.”
James wasn’t sure what else there was to it. He definitely did like it, and he definitely wanted more.
Dylan found some kind of teasing rhythm, petting at James’s prostate while gently thrusting his fingers in and out of his hole, at the same time giving James’s nipples the kind of attention they definitely deserved.
James couldn’t keep his hand off his cock anymore and slapped his hand around on the bed until he found the bottle of lube. With cool wetness slicking the way, he pumped at his cock, jerking it with far less finesse than Dylan was managing.
“I’m gonna come,” he gasped.
Dylan didn’t reply, just pushed his fingers in one last time and pulsed his fingertips against James’s prostate as his orgasm flew through him.
James made a noise he barely recognized as coming from his own body, as his toes curled and pleasure licked through his body. Dylan didn’t let off the pressure either and James almost sobbed as his orgasm throbbed again, coaxed on by Dylan’s clever fingers.
By the time he was done, James was almost whimpering, no longer confident which way was up. Dylan brushed a kiss over his jaw, making James startle, then lunged for Dylan’s lips.
“Breathe,” Dylan said, and James did as he was told as Dylan carefully pulled his fingers free.
“You need to—”
James couldn’t finish that sentence. Instead he wrapped his fingers around Dylan’s cock, weirdly pleased when Dylan covered James’s hand with his own. Moments later Dylan was coming too, covering James’s hip and belly with more thick come.
“Oh my God.”
Dylan pressed his forehead to James’s shoulder and laughed breathlessly.
“That was okay?” he asked.
“Very, very okay.”
Dylan kissed James’s arm, the closest patch of skin to his mouth.
“We need a shower.”
“Yeah.”
“Wanna share?” Dylan asked.
James had a momentary vision of hot water sluicing down Dylan’s body.
“Oh hell yeah.”
Dylan laughed and nudged James out of bed. “Come on,” he said. “I know you. If you don’t wash up now, you’ll just use my sheets as a come rag.”
“That was one time.”
“You’re ridiculous,” Dylan grouched, though his voice was full of affection.
Even though both his hands were covered in gross bodily fluids, James grabbed Dylan’s hand and held on tight.
JAMES KNEW it was going to be bad.
He’d woken in Dylan’s arms after an incredibly good nap, and then they’d showered together and ordered takeout. Which they’d eaten in bed. If Dylan’s dad had come home, James hadn’t seen or heard him, and he’d sort of just f
allen asleep in Dylan’s bed in the early hours of the morning, with a movie still playing in the background. For eighteen glorious hours he’d pretended everything and everyone outside of him and Dylan didn’t exist.
“James.”
Now he had to face the music. James had seen his dad angry before, furious, even, but this seemed like a whole other level.
“Hi,” he said and toed off his sneakers.
“Where were you last night?”
“I stayed with Dylan.”
His dad nodded slowly. “You left your phone here. I was worried.”
“You knew I left with him,” James pointed out. That was reasonable to point out… right?
“James, you are so, so grounded. You’re on lockdown grounded.”
“What? That’s not fair—”
“You spent the night away from home, without your phone and without telling me where you were going. You don’t get your truck. You don’t get your phone. You do not get to leave this house unless I say so. I’m going to drive you to school in the morning and home at night and in between times, you will stay in this house. Do you understand me?”
“I’m eighteen.”
“I don’t care. You live here, you’re still in school, and you pulled one hell of a stunt last night. That is totally unacceptable, and I am not having it. Do you understand, James?”
His dad’s face was stern, and the vein in his neck was pulsing as he jabbed a finger in James’s direction. Normally James was fairly placid; he backed away from most fights in an attempt to avoid confrontation. On the other hand, he was stubborn as hell.
“You can’t stop me from seeing Dylan.”
“He’s twenty-one, James. You’re eighteen. You have to work on your grades and get into college, not spend these next few months throwing away your future over some guy.” He folded his arms over his chest. “It’s not happening.”
“It’s already happening,” James argued. “We’re together. I love him.”
“You love him, huh? So you know him well enough to love him?”
“That’s right.” James folded his hands over his chest.
“You know about—”
“I know,” James yelled. “He told me everything. He’s a good person, Dad. You don’t get to make judgments about him when you don’t even know him.”
“No, I don’t.” His dad stopped and visibly breathed slowly. “James, you’re being punished for lying to me, for sneaking around and not telling me what was going on, and for staying out last night. Not for dating someone.”
James opened his mouth.
“Let me ask you something,” his dad said, before James had a chance to speak. “Why didn’t you tell me how old Dylan was when you told me you were dating a guy?”
James snapped his mouth closed. And sulked.
“Are you going to answer me?”
“Because I knew you’d freak out,” James muttered.
“Right.”
“I’m going—”
“Before you say ‘I want to go live with Mom,’ save it. I’ve already spoken with her, and we’ve agreed, the two of us together as your parents, that you are too close to the end of your high school education to change schools now, and she’s not moving back to Forest Heights. That option is not available to you.”
The churning rage in James’s stomach boiled over, tears pricking his eyes and his hands curling into fists. “I fucking hate you. I hope your new fuck buddy is worth it.”
Before his dad could respond, he turned on his heel, stormed up to his room, and slammed the door closed because he could.
Chapter Eighteen
STEVE HAD sent an SOS text to Carl as soon as he left Mark’s house. Then he’d driven to a liquor store to buy several bottles of wine. When he was done there, Carl had texted back to say he and Brian were at home.
Brian is making spaghetti. Welcome to join us.
On my way.
On the journey over, Steve drove past his own house, satisfied when he saw Dylan’s car parked in the drive. He’d called Dylan a few times, but each time his call had been directed straight to voicemail. That was a pretty damn clear message that Dylan didn’t want to speak to him, and right now, Steve didn’t feel emotionally prepared to speak to Dylan either.
Instead he ignored the twisty feeling in his stomach and headed for Carl’s house.
He’d done this a few times over the years—using Carl as an emotional crutch when things went to hell. In fairness, though, since Steve had adopted Dylan, things had changed. He’d matured, God damn it, or so he’d thought.
Carl was waiting on the front porch when Steve pulled up, quietly rocking himself in one of the old-fashioned rocking chairs. Everything in Carl’s house was beautiful, carefully chosen and perfectly themed. Carl could fight stereotypes as much as he liked, but he was a damn good interior decorator. That was why Steve had let him at his house when he first bought it.
Steve gathered up his wine in his arms before heading over.
“Oh dear God,” Carl drawled. “That’s a lot of alcohol for a Sunday afternoon.”
“Trust me, it’s not enough.”
“You better come in.”
Inside, the house was open and airy, decorated in pale, cool colors with exposed wooden floorboards. He could smell the warm heat of the Italian sauce and counted his blessings that Carl and Brian were the sort of guys who didn’t mind an unexpected guest on a Sunday.
“Hey,” Brian called, sticking his head out of the kitchen. “You’re just in time. Hungry?”
He wasn’t, not really, but he didn’t want to offend. “Sure.”
“You can go see the puppies if you like.”
Steve looked disparagingly at Carl.
“Of course Steve wants to see the puppies,” Carl said with a very pointed smile. It gave Steve absolutely no choice but to go see the fucking puppies.
On any other day, Steve would have delighted in sitting in the huge conservatory with Bella and her puppies. A black-and-white English cocker spaniel, Bella was one of the prettiest dogs Steve had ever seen, with the sweetest temperament. Her bed was in a shady corner of the conservatory with her litter curled up in front of her.
“They’re six days old,” Carl said. “She’s doing so well, though.”
“How many of them are you keeping?” Steve asked, only partly teasing as he approached Bella, his palm flat for her to sniff before he petted her.
“None,” Carl said. Then he rolled his eyes with a huff. “Maybe one. We’ve already had a dozen calls asking about them, so I don’t think we’ll have any issues getting them sold.”
“They’re gorgeous,” Steve admitted. “Bella’s okay?”
“She’s a champ. Especially since it was her first litter.”
Steve nodded and rolled to his feet. Carl frowned at him.
“Are you okay?”
“Not really,” he admitted.
Carl reached out and rubbed at Steve’s upper arm, his face twisted in concern. “Come on, let me pour you a glass of wine.”
Steve had bought three bottles, a cabernet sauvignon that would go well with the spaghetti, plus two bottles of pinot grigio for dessert. Carl stuck the white wine in the fridge and deftly uncorked the red.
“Are you drinking, darling?” Carl asked.
“Just a small one. Sit down, Steve. You’re making the place look untidy.”
Steve laughed and did as he was told, taking a seat at the kitchen table, which was already set for three. He was definitely interrupting a cozy weekend lunch for two, but Brian and Carl clearly didn’t mind. They were good friends. Steve made a vow to himself to be a better friend to them.
Carl set a glass of wine down at the same time Brian brought over a huge plate of spaghetti, perfectly spiraled and flecked with bright green parsley.
“This looks delicious,” Steve admitted as Carl returned with his own wine and a basket of bread.
“Dig in. You can tell us what ails you after you’ve eaten,
” Brian said.
“My husband is a big fan of food as therapy,” Carl joked, then leaned over and kissed him on the cheek. Brian accepted it with a pleased little smile.
Steve let himself join the contented silence as they ate, murmuring his thanks to Brian and complimenting the food. It really was good, even if sitting with his friends eating pasta felt like the most surreal thing in the world right now.
When he was done, Steve leaned back and cradled his glass of wine to his chest. He’d managed to finish almost the whole bowl, which was one hell of an achievement. Brian had inherited his grandmother’s penchant for huge portion sizes along with her red sauce recipe.
“You still want to talk?” Brian asked, and Steve loved him in that moment. He’d been given an out, if he needed one. Brian was just happy to have fed him.
“If you don’t mind me coming here and emoting all over your dining table.”
Carl snorted. “Go for it. It’s been a while since you had a teenage-girl breakdown.”
Steve paused for a moment, wondering if this really was him just acting like a spoiled kid. But no. It was so fucked-up.
“So, I’ve been dating this guy, on and off,” he said, stretching his neck from side to side. “We were getting serious, but he has teenagers too, so we were keeping it on the down low, you know?”
“Sure,” Brian said, rising to collect the bottle of wine from the counter and putting it on the table between them all.
“A few days ago, he said he was planning to have a cookout with his kids and did I want to come over and meet them properly. I’d sort of met his daughter, really briefly, but she was supposed to be bringing her boyfriend and his son was going to bring his partner too.”
“Sounds nice,” Carl said.
“Right. But when I got to his house, Dylan was already there. It turns out Dylan is dating James. Who is Mark’s son.”
“And you’re dating Mark,” Brian said, his jaw dropping slightly.
“Mark… not Mark from St. Patrick’s Day?” Carl asked.
“Yeah.”
“You’re dating him, and Dylan’s dating his son?” Brian added.
“Holy shit,” Carl said with a confused sort of laugh.