Page 33 of The Key Holder

Yes.

It felt like it anyway. Like more than just a former stepson looking at his stepfather. His attention made me feel both exposed and intrigued. His flustered reaction made me want to push, to ask, to see how far I could go before he told me what he was thinking about just now.

I had to admit my attraction to Dylan was growing into something I hadn't anticipated, something far more complex than just physical lust. Sure, his lean body moved in a way that made me want to see it writhing on a bed getting absolutely wrecked, and his sudden, dazzling smile he'd flash gave me butterflies, especially if it was because of something I did or said. But it was the quiet intensity I saw in him when he was engrossed in a book that really mattered. The vulnerability in his eyes when he talked about his past, the ease I felt just being around him.

I was becoming desperate to understand him, to ask questions every time he used self-deprecating humor as a shield. And the thing I spent the most time thinking about—other than his beautiful ass—were the nuggets he’d drop about his past relationships. I had half a mind to look up some of these guys and go kick their ass…or at the very least, sign them up on one of those websites that inundates the target with telemarketers.

The urge to smooth his anxieties that were so clearly still lingering was strong. Even I could see the irony in the situation. I was no longer his stepfather and now was when genuinely paternal instincts were awakening inside me.

I wanted to protect him, but it was also something undeniably more. For the first time in my life, I wanted to know another man in a way I hadn't ever come close to before. In my free time, I found myself dissecting his words, his expressions, trying to piece together what he was really thinking, what he truly needed.

Later one afternoon, I was stretched out on the living room rug, slowly working through a series of complex stretches. My mind was half-on my muscles, half-on the muted documentary playing on the television.

“I hadn’t realized it was going to rain today,” Dylan said, walking past me to look outside and open the window. “I love the rain.”

I watched him as he stood there, his face virtually glued to the window. He seemed almost relaxed at that moment, content even. It was a stark contrast to the restless energy he almost always vibrated with.

For a little while, the only sounds were my labored breathing, the distant rumble of thunder, and the gentle patter of rain against the roof. I could feel the air growing cooler as the fresh scent of wet earth and pine drifted in.

Dylan turned towards me, his eyes darting to my chest.

I couldn’t believe he was checking out my body with such brazenness but what else could he be looking at?

With a few steps, he picked up the book he’d been reading on the coffee table and slipped out onto the porch, settling into one of the old Adirondack chairs. In another few seconds, he had turned his first page and was fully engrossed.

It wasn’t lost on me that I was basically watching Dylan’s every move.

How had it come to this?

I smiled and leaned back, lowering my head to the floor. With my stretching done, I laid there quietly, listening to the rain. In the stillness of the cabin, the sound was soothing. I closed my eyes, focused on steady breathing, and let my thoughts drift, imagining an invisible wave of relaxation wash down my body.

This is truly peace.

Another breath.

Are you wearing a jockstrap?

A jockstrap.

The words from the other week repeated themselves until all I could think about was Dylan checking me out. The image of him resting on his bed, watching me, invaded my brain until he became the only thought in it.

Was I reading too much into things because it would make my newfound feelings easier to swallow? Or was Dylan truly interested in me?

The way he’d been so unguarded just now, talking about loving the rain. Despite his reasons for being here this summer, he still radiated a sweet sort of playfulness. My rather hastily crafted reasons for resisting my attraction to him were slowly unraveling as I became more and more fascinated with all he hadn’t yet shared with me.

I moved to the couch and turned the volume back on, hoping to focus on something else. Something other than Dylan, wet, naked, and covered in soap.

Fuck.

My cock was rock hard again.

After all the sour hookups and paltry “relationships”, this summer at the cabin with Dylan was a pleasant reminder that my sex drive hadn’t disappeared.

Outside, the sky had begun to darken. I would’ve thought the sun had gone down, but a glance at my watch told me it was much too early for that. I leaned forward, trying to see Dylan through the window, but he must’ve moved.

The wind began to pick up, kicking up enough to pelt debris at the windows and to make the cabin creak as some parts shifted. The rain intensified, drumming harder against the roof, and a minute or so later, I heard the door open then slam shut.

“Shit! That was the wind!” Dylan yelled. He came into the living room, shaking his head. "It's getting blustery out there," he said, rubbing his arms. "I’m all moist.”