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Pick a fight about Dean. Be territorial. Lose his mind.
Tell me how much I belong to him.
He doesn’t do any of that.
And the more I think about it, the more depressed I feel.
“Yeah,” I lie. “It drives Caleb crazy too.”
Fourteen
Caleb
It’s well after eight thirty at night when I finally pull my car into the garage. Briar is at Bible study tonight, and Abby is over at my mom’s. I sit behind the wheel for a while instead of getting out.
My life feels like one fucking mess after another.
I haven’t responded to my father since our meeting last week.
I haven’t even talked to Briar about it.
My wife is miserable, and I don’t know if she’s unhappy with me or she’s unhappy in general, and I have no idea how to fix it.
The only thing I do know for sure is that inviting Dean Sheridan to live on my property was a fucking mistake. I spend all day at work, unable to focus because I know that back at my house, he’s alone with my wife and daughter.
Yeah, he might be in the apartment, but he’s still there.
And to make matters worse, I know that Briar likes him. I trust my wife. I know that what we have is stronger than anything he might tempt her with, but the idea that he’s here grates on my nerves every minute of the day.
I finally climb out of my car with a sigh. But as I walk toward the house, I find myself pausing and looking up at his apartment instead. Since moving in, he and I haven’t been alone or spoken a word to each other. I have no clue what I would even say to him, but this feels like an opportunity to at least saysomething.
So I quietly climb the steps up to his place. There’s a window next to the door, and while the curtains are closed, there is a sliver of light shining through. Just as I pass the window, I pause when I see Dean inside.
It’s not the sight of Dean on the couch that stops me in my tracks.
It’s the sound.
Through the thin walls and glass pane, I can just make out his low moaning grunts.
There’s only an inch of space between the curtains, but it’s enough to make out exactly what Dean is doing. With his head hanging back on the blue sofa, the quick stroking motion of his arm is unmistakable.
Seconds pass by as I stand there, watching without reason. I could easily walk away or knock and make my presence known, but I don’t. I find myself watching for far too long.
With every pained-sounding cry of his, I am more and more enthralled. And I certainly can’t ignore the thickening of my own cock behind my zipper.
My lips part as I stare in awe.
As I watch the way he struggles, I feel the urge to bite my bottom lip. By the look of his violent stroking, it almost appears as if he’s abusing his own cock. And the sounds that are coming from his mouth are not sounds of pleasure. It’s almost as if he’s trying his hardest to come, but he can’t.
When I force myself to swallow, my mouth is as dry as a desert. But I can’t tear myself away. I just stand there and wait, gawking at him like some sort of pervert.
What is wrong with me?
What is wrong withhim?
Just come already. Why is he struggling so hard?
After what feels like forever, he lets out a disgruntled “Fuck!” before dropping his arm and collapsing against the couch in frustration. He lets his head fall back as he stares at the ceiling.
