Page 7 of Don’t Call Me Son

Mine; for the next hour, he’s all fucking mine.

I lean my head back against the couch, eyes slipping shut while the local news plays quietly on the TV across the room. Some anchor is droning on about traffic and a new construction project downtown, but it’s just background noise.

My hand stays heavy on the back of Archie’s neck, thumb slowly stroking the warm skin there as his slow, even breaths fan across my thigh.

Why the fuck doesn’t this feel wrong?

I love Sarah, I really do; she’s the best thing that’s happened to me. I’d burn the world down before I let anything hurt her. And yet here I am with her son’s head in my lap, covered in the marks I put on him a couple hours ago, and I don’t feel a shred of guilt. Just this deep, dark satisfaction.

How long can this even last? Is today a one-off? Just blowing off years of steam that had been building without me realizing it? Or is this the new normal now; sneaking around, marking him up, owning him every chance I get?

I glance down at Archie; he looks so peaceful like this, cheek smushed against my leg, completely trusting even after everything I did to him. What happens when he wakes up properly and the reality hits him? Will he flip out? Get pissed? Tell me it was a mistake and we can never do it again?

And tonight… we’ll all be sitting around together for dinner, like a normal family. I’ll want to sit next to my wife, laugh with her, hear about her long shift at the hospital. But I know I’ll also want this; Archie close enough that I can feel his heat, maybe rest a hand on his thigh, knowing he’s still marked as mine.

How the hell do you love one person this much and suddenly want to devour her son?

This urge must’ve been buried somewhere deep for a long time. Any normal stepdad would’ve dropped the laundry basket the second he realized what Archie was doing last week, apologized, and slammed the door shut. They would’ve tried to forget it, scrubbed the image from their brain. Me? I stood there and watched… watched him stroke that thick cock, watched the way his abs tensed when he came. I didn’t leave until he was finished.

So, what the fuck is wrong with me?

I look down at him again. My hand slides possessively into his hair, gripping lightly. Archie makes a soft, unconscious sound and presses closer.

Whatever this is… I already know I’m not going to stop… not unless he makes me.

Chapter Four

Archie

Fingers slide slowly through my hair. It feels good, warm and gentle; so, I hum softly and press my face closer into the firm pillow, chasing the comfort. My body is heavy, still half-lost in sleep.

A deep, low chuckle vibrates underneath me and my eyes snap open…

Those aren’t just fingers; they’re thick, strong, and way too familiar. And that’s definitely not a pillow under my cheek. It’s too firm, too muscular; a thigh… Colt’s thigh.

“Time to get up, baby.”

Baby. He doesn’t even call Mom that; oh my God.

I bolt upright so fast my head spins. “What the fuck…”

I run both hands down my face, trying to scrub the sleep and embarrassment away; my cheeks feel like they’re on fire.

I turn my head to look at Colt, he’s just sitting there watching me with that calm, knowing look.

“Shit… sorry… uh…”

I don’t wait for him to say anything; I’m already scrambling off the couch and heading for the kitchen. I grab a glass, fill it up, and down the water in almost one go, then run my hands roughly through my hair.

My track bag is by the front door. I head over, snatch it up, shove my feet into my sneakers, and walk straight out the front door without looking back. Then drop down onto the porch steps, bag between my feet, elbows on my knees. The morning air feels cool on my flushed skin.

Fuck. I don’t even remember falling asleep on him like that. One minute I was just resting my head for a second… the next I’m waking up cuddling his fucking leg like some clingy kid.

This is so embarrassing; I feel ashamed, like I’ve let myself slip. I liked it too much. The way he played with my hair, the way he called me baby… the way I just let him. This needs to stop; it has to.

I hear the front door open behind me a minute later, but I don’t turn around. The second I hear it lock behind me, I stand up quickly, sling my bag over my shoulder, and head straight for Colt’s truck without waiting. It really is a nice truck; lifted, matte black, all clean lines and subtle custom work. Exactly what you’d expect from a guy who looks like that and spends his days restoring and customizing cars at the garage.

It would be so much easier if he were ugly. Instead, he looks like Jason Momoa had a baby with a fucking lumberjack. Broad shoulders, long hair, tattoos, that stupid beard… it’s annoying as hell.