Page 61

I was sobbing after thirty seconds, convinced I would never make it to a full minute. But Tristan just kept telling me what a good boy I was, how well I was taking his fingers in my ass, and I melted again. I didn’t care that it hurt, didn’t care that I was weeping. I just wanted to be good for him.

“Fifteen seconds left, Daddy. You’ve got this.”

And in a final cruel motion, he rubbed his palm over the tip of my now soft cock, massaging it vigorously. I screamed, my cry loud and long before I gritted my teeth against the pain. Holy shit, Tristan was evil.

And then it all stopped.

His finger pulled out of me, his hand fell away from my cock, and his arms wrapped around my torso from behind as he planted kisses against my shoulders, from one side to the other.

“Was that okay?” he asked, his voice small and unsure.

I was gasping, trying to recover from enduring his torture, but after a moment, I stood. After turning around to look him in the eye, I raised a shaky hand to cup his cheek, tilting his head up to meet mine. “It was perfect, Angel Baby. You were perfect.”

He smiled at me, and I was surprised to find tears in his eyes.

“What’s wrong, baby?”

He sniffled. “I was worried I was really hurting you. Last night, you said you might like to try me being your Daddy, and you seemed to be getting off on the pain, so I extrapolated. I figured we could have some fun.” He eyed me. “But we should’ve talked about it first. Are you sure that was all okay?”

I kissed his forehead, both cheeks, then his lips. “It was so perfect, baby. It was exactly what I needed.”

His smile widened, and I grinned right back.

“Now.” I stepped away then knelt on the hard tiles, ignoring my protesting knees as water cascaded down my back. “I have unfinished business here.”

Then I wrapped a hand around the base of his cock and fed it into my waiting and willing mouth, not stopping until I’d taken him down my throat and sucked him dry.

Chapter twenty-one

Tristan

After Henry made me come and washed me from head to toe—fully back in Daddy mode—we toweled off, and he found his smallest pair of sweatpants and a T-shirt that was too big in the shoulders. Though he was much more muscled than I was, I wasn’t exactly a twink. I spent a couple of hours most days in the gym, a commitment I stuck to for my health and to stay in the habit, but the comments and related tips from my online fans made me think they appreciated it, too.

I followed Henry downstairs to his large kitchen. That and the adjacent eating area took up an extension off the back of his first floor and had ample light thanks to the curved windows that made up the back wall and part of the ceiling, resembling a greenhouse that looked out over his wide porch and small backyard. The landscaping was well-maintained, and I wondered if Henry had a secret green thumb.

The porch, which I now noticed was accessed by a door nestled off to one side of the windows, had a full deck set with a table, some chairs, and an umbrella, some built-in benches, bug-repellant torches, and even an outdoor heater. I leaned forward, spying a lavish built-in grilling station, and grinned.

“Your place is great.” I crossed my arms and leaned up against the counter that ran beneath the windows. Though it was only drizzling outside, I heard the whisper of tiny raindrops pattering against the glass above my head. “The backyard must be a beautiful oasis in the summer.”

Henry smiled back as he started pulling breakfast items out of his fridge, which was nestled under a staircase I only now noticed. It definitely wasn’t the one we’d come down. “Thanks. It’s a passion project of mine. Keeps me from feeling all alone in this big house.”

My heart panged at his words. I could feel the loneliness in them because I felt it myself. Hopefully, our arrangement could help stave off the feeling for us both. “Well, it’s gorgeous. Do you host many parties?”

“No, not really. I spend way too many nights at Mix It Up.” Henry closed the fridge and set a carton of eggs, a roll of goat cheese, a bag of baby spinach, a few sprigs of green onions, a carton of milk, and a bottle of my favorite brand of orange juice on the quartz counter of the moderately sized island in the middle of the room. He circled the fixture, turning his back on the stove that sat against the wall opposite the fridge. Reaching beneath the countertop, he produced a cutting board and knife and pulled out the spinach and green onions to prep them for what I assumed was an omelet.

I stepped up next to him, facing the island, shoulder to shoulder. “Can I help?”

He smiled over at me as he diced the green onions. “Sure. Would you like to clean up the spinach? I usually just remove the stems and tear the bigger pieces into a more manageable size.”

“Of course.” We worked in silence for a few moments as my mind replayed our conversation, making me think of a question. “So why do you spend so much time at Mix It Up? Don’t you have enough help to cover you? Your bar manager seemed capable.”

Henry sighed as he scrapped the diced green onions into a small glass bowl he’d pulled from a cabinet on the wall behind us. “Ben is great. Really. I . . .” He scoffed, at himself presumably, then chuckled derisively. “I suppose I’m a little unwilling to let things go. I don’t micromanage, but I like to be around in case things go sideways.”

I pursed my lips, considering it. “I get that. The bar is your baby.”

“Exactly.”

“But . . .”