Tight
Page 44
“I love you,” he whispered.
“I love you too.”
I pulled from the past when I felt his fingers, the lean of his body forward as he pulled my face up. I yielded under the pressure, lifting my chin and looking up into his eyes. He slid his hand from my chin to my throat, his thumb gently running along the tender muscles before he continued further back, cupping the back of my neck and pulling me forward. “Keep your eyes open,” he ordered, his hand hard. “Look at me when you suck my cock.”
I obeyed, held the contact as I slid down the shaft.
I held the contact as he lifted his hips, thrusting into my mouth, my eyes watering at the depth.
I held the contact as he called me a good cocksucker and asked if I liked his taste.
I held the contact as I clamped my jaw down on his most sensitive organ as hard as I could.
2 weeks before
The coffee at Sunshine sucked. But it had for sixteen years, and everyone quit bitching about it a decade ago. I pushed the white mug away from me and mentally vowed not to touch it until the food arrived.
“When will you see him again?” my father’s voice creaked from a lifetime of smoking.
“Two weeks. He’s got something this weekend and I’m going to work on Saturday. Try to get back in Anita’s good graces. Speaking of which, I’ve got to leave here by eight.”
He shrugged, taking a sip from his cup. “What made you give me that?”
I looked into his eyes. “Just a feeling. Something is off. I’m just trying to figure it out. I figured extra information couldn’t hurt.”
He sighed, reaching for the creamer and adding a little to his cup. “I shouldn’t be drinking this,” he remarked. “Dr. Bonner told me to cut back on my caffeine. My blood pressure’s high again.”
I held the gaze and our table fell quiet in the minute before a young redhead approached our table, order pad in hand. We put in our breakfast order, then she left.
Finally, he spoke. “So, tell me about this man. What you do know. Then I’ll share my goods.” My dad leaned forward, his fingers rubbing his knuckles, the extra weight on his frame pushing the table slightly in my direction. An imposing man, despite the years and the stress, his full head of silver hair stuck in the buzz cut he’d worn my entire life.
“Brett Jacobs. He’s a boat—yacht—salesman, but seems to make a lot of money. As you know, he travels a lot. He’s single, never been married, no kids.”
“Do you want kids?” Brett asked, his hand sliding under the sheet and curving around my hip. I opened my eyes, blinking the impending sleep away.
“I’d love kids.” I reached out, putting a hand on his chest. “What about you?”
“Kids are good. Preferably sooner. Before I get too old.” He smiled, the scant light catching on the shadows of his face.
“You know the problem with kids.” I sighed, frowning.
“What?”
“The process to make them.” I roll onto my stomach, away from him, his hand dropping from my hip, the bed shifting as I felt him move closer.
“What’s the issue with that?” His words, close to my ear, his breath hot on my neck. I smiled against the pillow.
“It’s so... boring,” I mumbled.
Then I felt him, bare and hard, his body atop me, his hands like hot stones on my skin, and I shrieked into the dark room and there was nothing boring about it.
“What else?”
I shrugged. “That’s about it. I won’t bore you with his eating habits or taste in movies.”
“I know I’m protective of you.”
I stopped playing with the creamers and looked up at him. “What’s wrong?” That sentence...from my father. My stomach twisted in a way I hadn’t felt since I was young.
“You care for him, I know that. But you must have known something was up or else you wouldn’t have let me run full course with this.”
“You’ve done background checks on every man I’ve ever dated.” And he had. It had been embarrassing. Invasive. Annoying. Never appreciated. Not until Brett. Brett was the first time I had willingly turned over a partner’s DNA. Willingly met with my father and wanted to know what he had found.
“He’s lying.” The words flat and without enjoyment.
I swallowed. Pulled my hands off the table and hid them on my lap. Pushed at my cuticles, a habit I had squashed a few years earlier. “About what?”
“Hell, just ‘bout everything.”
***
Lying about everything.
Bullshit.
Impossible.
I knew this man. Loved this man. Kissed and fucked and wanted him, not just physically but emotionally. I wanted to go to bed with his arms around me every night. I wanted to walk down an aisle and look in his eyes. I wanted him to hold my hand as we watched a pregnancy stick. I wanted to watch wrinkles multiply and years pass and build a lifetime of memories with him.
He was not lying about everything. He loved me. I closed my mouth and watched my father begin to speak.
“His real name is Brett Betschart. He doesn’t sell yachts; he manufactures them. Or, more specifically, he owns the company that manufactures them. He seems like he makes more money because he does make more money. Millions more. Hell, the type of money I don’t even understand.” He reaches for his front pocket and pulls out a can of dip.
Millions more. The plane, the house, the … everything. It made sense, so much sense, and I felt a burst of relief. That’s what was wrong. That was all! Thank God. Only… “Why would he lie about that?”
“I love you too.”
I pulled from the past when I felt his fingers, the lean of his body forward as he pulled my face up. I yielded under the pressure, lifting my chin and looking up into his eyes. He slid his hand from my chin to my throat, his thumb gently running along the tender muscles before he continued further back, cupping the back of my neck and pulling me forward. “Keep your eyes open,” he ordered, his hand hard. “Look at me when you suck my cock.”
I obeyed, held the contact as I slid down the shaft.
I held the contact as he lifted his hips, thrusting into my mouth, my eyes watering at the depth.
I held the contact as he called me a good cocksucker and asked if I liked his taste.
I held the contact as I clamped my jaw down on his most sensitive organ as hard as I could.
2 weeks before
The coffee at Sunshine sucked. But it had for sixteen years, and everyone quit bitching about it a decade ago. I pushed the white mug away from me and mentally vowed not to touch it until the food arrived.
“When will you see him again?” my father’s voice creaked from a lifetime of smoking.
“Two weeks. He’s got something this weekend and I’m going to work on Saturday. Try to get back in Anita’s good graces. Speaking of which, I’ve got to leave here by eight.”
He shrugged, taking a sip from his cup. “What made you give me that?”
I looked into his eyes. “Just a feeling. Something is off. I’m just trying to figure it out. I figured extra information couldn’t hurt.”
He sighed, reaching for the creamer and adding a little to his cup. “I shouldn’t be drinking this,” he remarked. “Dr. Bonner told me to cut back on my caffeine. My blood pressure’s high again.”
I held the gaze and our table fell quiet in the minute before a young redhead approached our table, order pad in hand. We put in our breakfast order, then she left.
Finally, he spoke. “So, tell me about this man. What you do know. Then I’ll share my goods.” My dad leaned forward, his fingers rubbing his knuckles, the extra weight on his frame pushing the table slightly in my direction. An imposing man, despite the years and the stress, his full head of silver hair stuck in the buzz cut he’d worn my entire life.
“Brett Jacobs. He’s a boat—yacht—salesman, but seems to make a lot of money. As you know, he travels a lot. He’s single, never been married, no kids.”
“Do you want kids?” Brett asked, his hand sliding under the sheet and curving around my hip. I opened my eyes, blinking the impending sleep away.
“I’d love kids.” I reached out, putting a hand on his chest. “What about you?”
“Kids are good. Preferably sooner. Before I get too old.” He smiled, the scant light catching on the shadows of his face.
“You know the problem with kids.” I sighed, frowning.
“What?”
“The process to make them.” I roll onto my stomach, away from him, his hand dropping from my hip, the bed shifting as I felt him move closer.
“What’s the issue with that?” His words, close to my ear, his breath hot on my neck. I smiled against the pillow.
“It’s so... boring,” I mumbled.
Then I felt him, bare and hard, his body atop me, his hands like hot stones on my skin, and I shrieked into the dark room and there was nothing boring about it.
“What else?”
I shrugged. “That’s about it. I won’t bore you with his eating habits or taste in movies.”
“I know I’m protective of you.”
I stopped playing with the creamers and looked up at him. “What’s wrong?” That sentence...from my father. My stomach twisted in a way I hadn’t felt since I was young.
“You care for him, I know that. But you must have known something was up or else you wouldn’t have let me run full course with this.”
“You’ve done background checks on every man I’ve ever dated.” And he had. It had been embarrassing. Invasive. Annoying. Never appreciated. Not until Brett. Brett was the first time I had willingly turned over a partner’s DNA. Willingly met with my father and wanted to know what he had found.
“He’s lying.” The words flat and without enjoyment.
I swallowed. Pulled my hands off the table and hid them on my lap. Pushed at my cuticles, a habit I had squashed a few years earlier. “About what?”
“Hell, just ‘bout everything.”
***
Lying about everything.
Bullshit.
Impossible.
I knew this man. Loved this man. Kissed and fucked and wanted him, not just physically but emotionally. I wanted to go to bed with his arms around me every night. I wanted to walk down an aisle and look in his eyes. I wanted him to hold my hand as we watched a pregnancy stick. I wanted to watch wrinkles multiply and years pass and build a lifetime of memories with him.
He was not lying about everything. He loved me. I closed my mouth and watched my father begin to speak.
“His real name is Brett Betschart. He doesn’t sell yachts; he manufactures them. Or, more specifically, he owns the company that manufactures them. He seems like he makes more money because he does make more money. Millions more. Hell, the type of money I don’t even understand.” He reaches for his front pocket and pulls out a can of dip.
Millions more. The plane, the house, the … everything. It made sense, so much sense, and I felt a burst of relief. That’s what was wrong. That was all! Thank God. Only… “Why would he lie about that?”
