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Then he paused, pulling himself up to steal my lips as a thick stream of his seed coated the rimmed walls of my asshole. I could feel his cock pulsating inside me, throbbing as he emptied himself into me. It was glorious, fucking hot, filthy and wrong on so many levels, but there was no way in hell I could deny the way I felt in this moment. He fucked me, but the deed was wrapped in lovemaking. It had been so long since I experienced this kind of connection, and I was afraid to let it slip away again.
He broke our kiss, his eyes heavy. “Go on, turn around and let me see my work.”
I did as told, and turned around, my ass on full display with his come seeping out of me like a broken faucet. He pulled me closer, and inserted his thumb, the sensation forcing my muscles to tighten around it. He knew what he was doing, finding that perfect spot that set my nerves on fire. He reached around, grabbed my cock, and pumped me. The wet sound of my flesh in his hand against the quiet room was a song I loved hearing.
“Come for me.”
As soon as the words left his lips, I felt the familiar tightening in my balls, the orgasm building, threatening to burst. He pumped harder, his grip unforgiving. My body stilled, my lips parted, and a grim line of pleasure contorted my face as I released. My limbs went numb as he took me into his embrace, pressing my body against his until our naked skin was fused together. He pinned me down and ravaged my lips with a fierce kiss, stealing every breath from my lungs before breaking away to stare down at me with the softest gaze I’d ever seen.
I looked away, but he didn’t let my gaze go far, using his thumb to bring it back to where it rightfully belonged. On him.
“Look at you.” His voice was so tender that it almost cracked.
So much could have been said in the seconds that passed, but I took the easy way out, too fucking afraid of my own emotions. “I’m cold.”
Weston rolled his eyes, a playful smirk on his face. “Go steal my sweats like you always do.” He rolled over and reached for the remote beside him.
I untangled my legs from the sheets and stepped onto the cold hardwood floor. I padded into the bathroom and turned on the shower, hating myself for washing away his touch. It was painful, but necessary to keep myself from falling apart completely.
“Bring me a towel when you’re done, punk,” Weston yelled from the bedroom.
As I turned the knob to shut off the steaming water, goose bumps prickled across my skin. I dried off and soaked a face towel in warm water.
“Here,” I said and tossed it to him as I made may to his closet.
Realizing that I’d gone through the clean stacks of sweats he sat out for me, I searched his draw, opening and closing them silently, although the background noise from the TV drowned out my movements. As my fingers moved through the soft fabrics, they landed on something hard. I should have ignored it, but that wasn’t in my nature. I grabbed hold of the leather bound album and pulled it out. The letter A in cursive was carved into the front, and I opened it.
I paged through, blank page after blank page, wondering why he would keep a blank photo album in the back of a drawer, and then I froze. My dad, in polaroid photos, doing what he loved best. Riding, drinking and having a good time. Multiple pictures of him, Cole and Kent, looking insufferable in suits and black ties, my grandfather towering over them. I continued to page through, wondering why Weston wasn’t in the album until I got to the last page, and saw a photo of them. My dad with his hand out, trying to block the camera, and Weston, with that same tender smile on his lips. I didn’t know what I was supposed to feel in this moment. Pain, regret, remorse. I set the album down, staring at it as I snatched a pair of joggers from the drawer and slid them up my legs.
Then I grabbed the album and walked out of the closet, not caring that I would be caught red-handed for snooping through his shit. It took him a few seconds to face me, and when he did, all the color drained from his face. Neither one of us spoke, and it felt like a bag of rocks was clogging my throat, but I forced words on my tongue.
“Was it you that night? On your knees?” The words turned to ash when they left my lips.
“Yes,” Weston said, the word like a punch to my gut.
The memory of the last time I saw my dad before he died, which had been pushed down so far to the depth of my soul, shocked me when I could recall it. It happened so fast, my anger already brewing on the surface because he seemed to never be around, always too busy for me, when before, he’d had all the time in the world. Then one night, as I padded the halls of my grandparents’ estate, I heard it—labored breaths, moans—and I followed the sounds to find my dad pressed against a wall, pants down with his cock exposed. I didn’t even have time to process who was on their knees in front of him before our eyes met and I fled, disgust and anger churning in my gut. I ran to the garage and slid into the first car I saw. He chased after me, trying his hardest to pick up speed. But deer and a motorcycle going seventy miles per hour in the dead of night didn’t mix well.
“Is that why you blamed me after he died? Because you were in love with him?”
Weston sat up, muting the TV, although it was already on low. “Mm-hmm, and I fucking regret it every day. You didn’t deserve that.”
I nodded, trying to control the wave of emotions that wanted to break the dam I built to keep them at bay. My anger was my shield, and it was breaking. There wasn’t much left in me to keep it together, not now. My mouth watered, and I swallowed, placing the album on the edge of the nightstand.
Weston extended his hand. “You want to talk about it?”
“Nope,” I shot back as I climbed into the bed.
I refused to meet his gaze, instead retreating into a fetal position and burying my head in the pillow. He turned off the TV, plunging us into darkness. There was no need for him to say anything else; his embrace and gentle kiss on my forehead said it all. I knew I needed to talk about everything that happened with my dad, his death, and their relationship, but not tonight.
Chapter19
Weston
“Are you getting dressed yet?” My voice bounced from the depths of my closet.
“No,” Darius shot back, his tone thick with sarcasm.
A week. A goddamn week of nothing but skin on skin, and the heavy silence that wrapped around us like a shroud after every whispered curse and gasp. Our bodies had healed, bruises fading under tender touches and careful ministrations, but it was never just about the wounds we could see.
