14. Smitty

The drive from Pinecrest passed in a blur of trees and the white lines on the winding road. We probably talked and maybe we listened to music too, but the brain cells that weren't concentrating on navigating us safely to Elmwood were firmly locked and loaded in my dick.

And get this…I was fuckin' scared. Petrified, even.

Bryson invited me to his home.

As I turned onto our street, I had a mini internal freak-out session. Where do I park? Should I go to my place to brush my teeth and get a fresh pair of undies or something to share for breakfast? No, that was stupid. I was being stupid.

Relax, Smitty. Just fucking relax.

I parked in my driveway, wiped my sweaty palms on my jeans, and quirked a lopsided smile at the unbelievably handsome man next to me.

He squeezed my arm and opened the passenger door. "Come on. This way."

I fidgeted on his doorstep, jangling my keys in my pocket as I glanced at my house across the street, thinking it seemed so far away. It was a different perspective and I wasn't quite sure I belonged, but damn, I wanted to.

Bryson ushered me inside his foyer, decorated with family pics mixed with artsy black-and-white nature-themed photographs. I thought about asking if he'd taken them himself…you know, for conversational purposes, but he'd moved into the adjoining living area and now stood at the foot of the sweeping staircase.

I took the hint and followed him up the stairs, down a wide hallway lined with even more family photos, and into a generous suite with a vaulted ceiling, honey-colored hardwood flooring, and a patterned rug under the king-sized bed. The drapes and the duvet were beige linen…heavy and masculine.

To be honest, it was even nicer than I'd expected, which made it slightly intimidating. My room was always a mini disaster with discarded clothes vying for space with newly washed but unfolded laundry on the dresser or on the floor.

Nothing was out of place here. The bed was made, there were no creases on the duvet, no upside-down paperbacks or scraps from hastily emptied pockets at the end of the day. There was only one photo of Jake on the white paneled walls. The rest of the art were modern oil paintings. It was all very…tasteful.

Bryson unbuttoned his shirt as he removed his shoes. His hands moved to his belt buckle and before I knew it, his fly was undone and his cock was doing its best to poke a hole through his cotton boxer briefs. My mouth fucking watered…no joke. That valley of toned abs under his open shirt and the happy trail leading south were porn-worthy. He didn't have to be bare-ass naked to turn me on. He was perfect like this.

I kicked off my shoes and crossed the room, stopping in front of him. Bryson's breath hitched as I ghosted my thumb over his left nipple, tweaking it lightly. I parted his shirt and slid my arm around his waist, splaying my hand over his back, then drifted lower to slip my fingers under the elastic of his boxer briefs.

I licked his lips and kissed his jaw while I kneaded his ass cheeks. "You're so fucking hot. Hot Dad. I've been calling you that in my head for months, you know."

Bryson chuckled. "Hot Dad? That's…weird."

"I'm weird," I admitted.

"No, you're lovely. Inside and out."

I smiled, slowly pulling his briefs and jeans. "And I suck cock like a champ."

I was on my knees in seconds flat, fisting his gorgeous dick. I stroked him a few times, opened wide, and sucked. Bryson groaned somewhere above me. He sounded tipsy with desire, but I wanted him drunk with it. I wanted him to use me, take whatever he needed from me.

We were both probably guilty of holding back to some degree…we'd agreed that was for the best. This wasn't serious. This was something we planned to walk away from at some point. Maybe not today or tomorrow, but I didn't kid myself. I knew I wasn't good enough for Bryson. I wanted to be, though. If it were possible to show him how I felt, I'd do it. I'd suck him so good, fuck him even better. It was important for him to know he was seen, admired, appreciated…adored.

I couldn't do it with words, but I could do it with my mouth and my hands and my cock. So I got to work.

I bobbed my head double time while I teased him, parting his sensitive pucker and tapping his entrance. Bryson bent his knees and lost a little of his cool. He bucked his hips, fucking my mouth like he meant it. I gagged once or twice, but he didn't stop and if my dick wasn't pulsing in my jeans with the not-so-subtle request for freedom, I might have let him come down my throat.

Next time.

I stood and crashed my lips over his, unbuckling and unzipping in a flurry of motion.

"Fuck me," he panted.

"Yes."

I pushed my jeans and briefs to my knees, hooked his left leg over my ass, and humped his cock, twisting our tongues feverishly.

"Now, Smitty. Now."

I nodded, shucking off my clothes as Bryson strode to the bed and gathered supplies from his nightstand. I pounced, grabbing the lube in between kisses then climbed over him and settled between his thighs, sliding my slick fingers into his hole while I showered my lover with kisses. I couldn't stop fucking kissing him—his neck, his jaw, his chest…

I pumped two fingers inside him, then three, scissoring and stretching. My poor cock had a heartbeat all its own, and every nerve ending in my body was on fire, begging for friction and sensation. I suited up, glided the tip over his hole…once, twice, and pushed.

We did this often enough that we had our own rhythm. I knew how to touch him, how to move, how to get deeper and hit that perfect spot, the one that made his toes curl and his eyes roll in his head. I was good at this, but I wanted to be better for him. I wanted us to be worth the secrets and the half-truths.

So I tried a little harder. I kissed his temple as I plunged over and over, hiking his left leg to his chest, rolling my hips and rocking back and forth, back and forth.

Bryson gasped and moaned, wrapping me in his arms, whispering a litany of nonsensical praise and "yes, yes, yes."

I couldn't say what pushed me over the edge. It might have been that trick he did where he tightened his ass muscles or when he raked his nails along my sides, arching his hips off the mattress. It was all too much.

"Shit, I'm gonna—I…"

He shot his load, spurting ribbons of cum between us. We both cried out at once, slamming our mouths together as if to silence the animal-like keening. We shook and grunted, sucking in air as we slowly landed on planet Earth again.

Afterwards, we lay in a mess of limbs, a sheet tangled between us, and stared at each other wearing matching Cheshire cat grins. No words necessary.

That was good. I wouldn't have known what to say. I like you. I like us. I wish…I wonder…maybe there's a way to make this work.

Nope. Not fuckin' brave enough. Not yet.