Chapter 1

Beckett

Pacing the living room of my boyfriend's apartment, I tear at my hair like that'll somehow quell these god-awful nerves. I promised myself I'd stop avoiding him so we could talk. It's been over a week since I visited and six days since I last saw Finn. I don't like talking—not about this stuff, anyhow. Feelings and whatnot. At least not with Walter. Feelings are a Walter thing. Not a me thing.

Carrying a silver tray with refreshments and little snacky foods in crystal bowls, Walter eyes me speculatively out of the corner of his eye as he rests the tray on the coffee table and slowly lowers to the couch. Perched on the edge of the cushions, hands on his knees, he watches.

A solid minute passes before Walter breaks the palpable silence. "You've met someone."

My head whips toward him, eyes rounding in horror. "What?" The word squeaks out of me.

Walter smirks as if he thinks I'm somehow funny but doesn't want to laugh. "You don't fluster like this unless it's about feelings. Feelings you don't like to talk about."

Right. I sometimes forget how well he knows me. Though, I'm not sure why it should come as a surprise since we've been together since college. Spent every holiday together, all those fun trips traveling the world, fucked millions of times right here in this apartment. This is the man who's been there for me through it all. Supported me. Loved me despite my flaws. Now, here I am, about to blow up our lives… and for what?

Finn.

Messy blond hair and a smile that just won't quit fills my head. His voice, his woodsy, fresh scent, it's there—inside me, calming my pulse. Those flushed cheeks and moans. An ass that calls to me like a siren.

"I don't know what's wrong with me," I announce more to myself than Walter and lower my hands to give my poor hair a reprieve.

Steepling his manicured hands under his smooth chin, Walter's eyes dance with mirth. "Let's try this again, darling. You met someone."

"Yes." There. I've said it.

"Hmmm…" He taps a finger to his glossed lips. "He must be pretty special."

I stop pacing and stand in the middle of the living room on top of his ornamental rug. "He is."

"Do you love him?" Walter's head cocks to the side slightly as if he's dissecting every move I make, every word I say—or don't say. Reading body language is one of his many quirky hobbies.

"I love you," I admit, heart aching at the truth of it and the guilt… so much guilt.

Walter expels a long sigh. "I didn't ask if you loved me, Beck. I already know you love me. That's silly. I'm asking if you love him."

Not sure how to respond, I fiddle with the hem of my t-shirt. "I don't know."

"You don't know, or you're afraid to admit it?" he challenges.

"Can it be both?"

Relaxing into the couch, hitching a leg over the other, Walter chuckles warmly. "No, dear, sweet, man, it can't be both. You either feel something or you don't."

Clasping both hands behind my neck, elbows out, I pace the width of the room, from the set of ornate, tufted chairs to the wall of personal, black-and-white photos—half of them writing the story of us. "I feel obsessed," I admit louder than I expect. "And I don't want to talk to you about this."

"Why?"

I blow out a breath. "Because… you're you." I gesture toward him, and how fucking horrible I feel spelling this out for a man I've loved for over a decade. This kind of patience and understanding doesn't come in most relationships. I know this. Everyone knows this. Most partners would be screaming and crying—losing their shit. Yet, there's Walter, calm and composed, smiling far too wide to be considered normal under the circumstances.

"We're best friends. That's how this started. Remember? Friends and fuck buddies. Then we just kinda worked," he explains in that same unruffled demeanor.

"I remember." We met in history class. Walter flirted shamelessly with me and anyone who'd give him the time of day. Our first night together, we fucked in a random bathroom at a frat party—him bent over the sink, me drilling him from behind. He was insatiable, even then.

"Then do you remember how many men I've fallin' in and out of love with since we've been together? How many I've lusted after? How many I've been fucked by? How many have slept in my bed?"

I brush those questions away without a single thought. "I never cared about any of that." It's none of my business. It never has been.

"Right." He nods as I pace. "You love me, including my voracious sex drive and need to be liked and loved by many. You've quite literally never asked me to change a single thing about myself."

I frown. "I know. I wouldn't do that."

"Exactly. You wouldn't. That's not you. When you decided to become a helper to those in need… what did I do?"

"Supported the choice," I respond, though it's a rhetorical question. We both know what he did. Walter encouraged me. He helped set up the private email address and assess my first clients.

"Yes, but why?" he prompts.

"Because you care about me?"

Smiling like I hung the moon and stars, Walter chuckles that sweet, warm, chocolaty sound I love so much. "No, Beck. Because you care about me. Because you accept me. Because you care about others. It's never been about the money for you. Not with those men. Our relationship has never been about what you get out of it. It's about me and what I get out of it. Just like your day job. You give the elderly the friendship they need along with everything else. You bring them hope. You accept them for who they are and help them where they're at. It's not about you."

Again, I shrug, not down with this ridiculous hero picture he's painted of me. "I always want to help," is all I say without sounding silly. It's that simple. That's what I do. I helped my grandma. I helped my parents before they decided I wasn't worth their time. I vividly remember washing dishes when I couldn't have been any older than five, by myself, standing over a stained white sink. The drying rack was olive green. The sponge was one of those cheap circle ones, orange in color. It's one of the few memories I have of living with my parents that doesn't include a smoked-filled living room, them screaming at me to pick up this or that, that wasn't even my mess, the mouse droppings in the pantry, or the holes in the walls. Come to think of it, the dishes might be my only fond memory of living there.

Walter clears his throat, pulling me from my thoughts. "Darling, but what do you do for you? Just for you?"

Once more, another up-and-down drop of the shoulders. "I don't know." I really don't.

"If we're having this conversation, Beck, I think you know."

"I…"

"What's his name?" Walter interjects before I can process a response.

"Finn."

"Finn. Oh." He claps his hands together. "That's adorable. What does he look like? I'd love to put a face to the man who's got you all like this." He gestures to my anxiety-riddled form.

Tugging my phone from my back jeans pocket, I pull up the last photo I saved of Finn—one he sent me yesterday of him sitting at his table, eating all those butter-coated carbs, smiling in front of his computer.

Walking over to the coffee table, I show it to Walter, knowing I have nothing to hide.

Scooting to the lip of the couch, Walter pushes a wisp of hair off his face and whistles, impressed. "Damn. He's beautiful."

"He is," I agree. Beyond beautiful.

"And you met him as a client?"

"I did." I pocket the phone and resume my pacing to give me something to do other than look at Walter.

"And he's single?"

"Yes."

"I guess he's not anymore, huh?" Walter chuckles.

Fuck.

"Walter." I squeeze the back of my neck hard, my abs tightening as I… just feel… everything. Awful and joyful in equal parts. Grateful in all ways—to have Walter in my life. To have met him and spent the years we have together…And for Finn… Because… He's… magical. God, that sounds pathetic and not even remotely accurate, but that's all I've got.

"Oh. Stop with that." He waves me off. "You go and do whatever it is you need to do with Finn. Love him. Fuck him. Marry him. Whatever you need. We're always going to be friends, darling. It's about damn time you do a little something for yourself. Sounds like Finn might be that something."

I expel a heavy, emotional breath as the guilt triples in size. Of course, Walter would be okay with Finn. Of course, he would handle our situation with far more dignity and grace than I deserve.

"I didn't think our conversation would go… this way." I motion between us.

"Why not?" A cute little scowl transforms Walter's face. "When have either one of us ever stifled what the other person wanted?"

"Never," I reply, without having to think about it.

"That's right, Beck. Never. I'm not about to play the jealous boyfriend card. Not when another man fucked me on this couch last night. I'm not a hypocrite, sweetheart." His lips smack together, gloss popping as if this somehow settles things.

Shaking my head in awe, I stare at the man I've loved for years. "You're amazing."

"Duh. I know." His cheeks pinken at the compliment. "I might be sad for a little while. That's to be expected. I mean, anyone with half a brain, losing you and that dick would be sad. But I'm always here. If it doesn't work out between you and Finn, the door is always open. And if it does, it's open too, for visitors and hot, new friends…. Oh… I forgot to ask… What does he do for a living? He looks familiar."

Shoving both hands into my front pockets, I shrug. "I don't know. But he shouldn't look familiar. He isn't from around here."

"You're dating a guy, and you don't know what his job is?" Walter's head shakes as he huffs a laugh.

"I never asked."

"Beckett." My name's a light-hearted scold upon kind lips.

"Hold on. I'll ask." Raising a hand to give me a minute, I retrieve my phone and fire off a text to Finn to ask what he does. Walter's right. I'm an idiot and probably should have asked this question sooner. I didn't want to pry.

Less than a minute later, there's my answer, and my mouth unhinges at the jaw.

Finn: Oh. Sure. I guess I can tell you now. I'm the author, Grover Benson.

"He's an author," I explain.

Walter rubs his hands together as if this is the juiciest gossip he's heard all week. "What kind of author?" he asks and pulls out his own phone to Google it.

"Grover Benson."

Without having to check, Walter's eyes round nothing short of a starstruck surprise. "Your new boyfriend is Grover Benson."

I shrug for the umpteenth time.

"Thee Grover Benson," he laments in awe.

Walter catapults off the couch, disappears for a second, then returns carrying an armful of colorful hardback books. He sets the stack on the coffee table and points to the name on the top cover—Grover Benson.

He flips the top book over, and sure enough, there's a photo of Finn, a.k.a. author Grover Benson. The image is older. His hair is shorter, and he has a beard. This picture must be at least a decade old.

Another text vibrates in my hand.

Finn: Please don't freak out. It's just a job.

Right. Just a job. If this stack of books and the bestseller status on them is anything to go by, my boyfriend is a damn millionaire. As if I'm coming out of a dream, everything clicks. The gorgeous cabin in the woods with a million-dollar mountain view. The floor-to-ceiling bookshelf in the living room. The barely used Land Rover parked out front. I've never met anyone who owns a Land Rover who didn't have money. The weekly delivered groceries, and him living as a recluse.

I pinch the bridge of my nose and try to breathe through the newness of this knowledge.

"He's sold millions of books, Beck. Millions. He has over a hundred books published. His fandom is massive. There's a TV series releasing next year of his books—the elf ones," Walter explains as if the stack of books wasn't evidence enough.

Fuck.

Head shaking in astonishment, Walter looks through his stack of books, picks out one, and drops it on the table beside the others. "This is the first of his new series. There's queer representation in all of them. His main male character is bisexual. Read it."

"Shouldn't I ask him first, if that's okay?" Isn't that a courtesy I should extend in case he's shy about it, like he's shy about everything else?

Not knowing Finn like I do, Walter replies, "Why wouldn't it be?"

Good question.

Before I decide one way or another, I fire off another text to Finn, hoping not to scare him.

Can I read one of your books?

FaceTime rings a moment later. Not worried Walter will care if I answer, I connect the call and smile as soon as the most gorgeous man's face fills the screen—cheeks bright red, lip chewed raw.

"Hello, handsome," I greet.

Uncomfortable, Finn looks away and rubs the nape of his neck. His hair's a disheveled mess. He's tugged half the strands out of the messy bun piled on top of his head. My hair doesn't fare much better, given the visit to Walter's.

"You rang, sweetheart," I remind him.

Finn blows out a breath. "I… I was gonna tell you." He fidgets.

"Do you think I'm mad?"

His gorgeous face screws into a mask of discomfort. "I don't know. I can't read feelings through text."

Ah. That's why he FaceTimed. "I'm not mad. I'm surprised."

"Let him read your books, Finn," Walter calls out, loud enough for him to hear.

"Who's that?"

Shit.

"Walter," I reply.

"Y-your… boyfriend," Finn stammers, nearly choking on the words.

"His ex-boyfriend," Walter answers in my stead. I flash him a look of appreciation for letting Finn hear that, even if I still haven't processed any of this.

Finn gasps an adorable "Oh."

"Yeah. I came to talk to him about us."

"About us…"

"Yes. About us. You and me," I explain. The more upfront and honest, the better.

Staring into space, a suspended silence covers the room. I let it linger to give Finn time to think, to process. Patiently, I watch a myriad of emotions flit across his face. The chew of his bottom lip. The flare of his nostrils. From the couch, Walter stares at me, waiting for Finn to speak. By some miracle, my handsome blond swallows hard, inhales, chest rising, exhales, shoulders deflate, and finally speaks. "You broke up."

"Yes. We are still friends."

Finn's head bobs on repeat as if he doesn't know what to say about the news or anything for that matter. "That's great. I'm glad."

"Me too. We can talk about all that later." In the privacy of the cabin. Without gossip-hungry ears. "Walter wants to know if I can read one of your books."

Finn shrugs. "Ummm. Sure?"

"You're positive?"

"Yes." A nod. "I can give you a copy. Or if you prefer audio, I have codes for those too."

"I have all the copies!" Walter yells.

Finn's cheeks grow brighter in embarrassment.

"He's a huge fan, apparently," I explain.

"Right. I… Okay…" Finn laughs uncomfortably. "Thanks… Thanks for reading my books, Walter."

Across the room, standing up from the couch, with his mouth wide open, eyes even wider, Walter flaps his hands at his sides and dances in place in barely contained excitement. Any second now, he's gonna squeal, and we're gonna need to cover our ears. It doesn't happen often, but when it does, Walter loses it for a moment. I've only seen it happen when his favorite shirts are on sale or one of his favorites wins RuPaul's Drag Race.

Speeding from the room, I barely make it into the bathroom and shut the door when Walter explodes. "Oh. My. Gawd!"

Back against the bathroom door, I laugh at the explosion of enthusiasm as I stare into the eyes of the most beautiful, amazing man on the screen. A lopsided, albeit awkward smirk hooks at the corner of his lush mouth as he listens to Walter with me.

"He's a fan," I note again, as if it isn't obvious.

"I hear that… I don't… Socialize with fans much. I forget people actually read my books."

"Yes. Well, you just made his year."

Nodding once, Finn changes the subject. "Was he really okay with… You know."

"That we're boyfriends?"

"We are?" His voice cracks with emotion.

"Aren't we?" I check.

"I… Sure… I…" Finn fidgets.

"Yes, sweetheart. He was far more accepting than I anticipated. Not that I should have thought otherwise. He's Walter."

"He seems lovely."

"He is," I agree.

Finn runs a hand over his head, catching stray hairs through the mess. "Can…" He clears his throat. "Can I give you a signed copy of my latest book for him when I see you next? You know… as a thank you for not making this harder than I'm sure it already is?"

Smiling at the sweet man, my insides warm at how kind both main men in my life are. "He would die. Yes. If you want to, that would be kind. I miss you."

Finn's expression softens. The tiniest grin arcs at the corner of his mouth. "I miss you, too."

"Can I come spend the weekend?"

"Yes. You can visit anytime you want. You don't have to ask."

"You're sure?"

"Yes. As long as you understand, I have to work sometimes, and I… might need you to… take care of my needs… a… lot…"

"Oh. Sweetheart. I'll take care of anything." Anytime. Always.

"My ass..."

"Misses my cock," I answer for him.

A shy nod. "He does."

"My cock misses him, too."

Panning the phone downward, Finn shows me his swollen, leaky cock, standing at attention. I lick my lips at how perfect it is. How much I wanna taste it.

I hum at the sight. "So beautiful."

"I need you, Beck."

"I need you too, sweetheart. I'll be over after work tomorrow night."

He nods shyly. "Okay."

"Go put that big, purple dildo in your ass, sweetheart, and fuck yourself ‘til you get all that yummy cum out."

"Beck."

"Go on. Go take care of that ass for me, baby," I encourage, knowing what he needs.

"Okay."

There's a shuffle on the phone and heavy breathing. I catch a flash of purple, and then a long, drawn-out, needy moan as my man lowers himself onto the dildo.

"That's it. Fuck yourself, baby."

"I need you." Finn's phone topples over. There's a rustle and a curse before he sets the phone against something sturdy and angles it toward the spicy show.

"I'm right here," I remind him as he kneels on his bathroom tile where the purple phallus is suction cupped and now impaling his exquisite ass.

Palms flat on his knees, Finn chews his bottom lip as he looks at me with hooded, blissed-out eyes. "Please."

"Ride that cock. Think of me. Take my dick. Do you feel me on your prostate?"

"Yes," he whines as he closes his eyes and fucks himself on the rubber.

"Keep going. Ride my cock. That's it. I've got you. I'm takin' care of you, baby. Fuck me harder. That's it. That's it. Fuck me."

Finn's dick slaps his abs with each brutal downward stroke, bobbing in the air, flinging precum all over the bathroom floor. Yet, he doesn't stop. Sweat clings to his forehead as his skin flushes the prettiest red down to his chest, where he struggles to breathe. "Beck," he moans.

Knowing I can't jack off in Walter's bathroom, I grip my steel over the front of my jeans as I watch him come apart. "Go on. Take it all, baby. Take my big cock in that ass." A low groan rumbles in my chest as I squeeze my cock in time with his thrusts. It throbs, wanting to be there with him, to be the real cock he's riding, letting me breed his ass.

"I want your hand." Finn grabs his balls and fondles them as he lets go.

"I'll give you my hand tomorrow, sweetheart. My whole fist."

"Yesss," he hisses.

"You want me to stretch you?" Please say yes. I wanna see you gaping for me.

"Please," Finn begs.

My nuts draw up, and I nearly come at his broken plea. Instead, I ignore my cock and focus on his swollen one. "Now come," I growl.

As perfect as always, Finn obeys and climaxes on command. His moan reverberates through the bathroom as I watch cum shoot from his fat cock, painting the bathroom tile in ribbons.

One more day, only one more day, and I'll be lounging in the cabin with him. Touching that skin. That ass. That dick. Listening to him talk all flustered and adorable. What will we do in the peace of an entirely different world from my own? I don't know nor care, as long as I'm with this panting, completely wrecked man before me.

Because that's more than enough.