Chapter 22
Brendan
Now
Shaking uncontrollably, I try to slow my breaths while blinking away my tears.
The knuckles on my right hand hurt like a motherfucker—not from hitting Kyle but from the hole I punched in the wall moments before I ran out after him.
Visions of tonight begin to merge with memories of the past, ugly truths coming into clear focus.
Because it was me who hurt Kyle first all those years ago.
He’d been a sweet, beautiful boy before he ran away, and, when he came back, he was a fragmented and broken man.
Because of what I did to him. Because of what I denied him.
The weight of guilt is unbearable, dragging me into darkness.
And now… What the fuck have I done? I kissed him.
I pressed myself against him. I allowed him to… Fuck!
I’m acutely aware of how late it’s getting and, if I don’t get home soon, Chris will start calling until I pick up.
I rub my eyes, trying to focus on the phone screen as I text a message explaining I’ve been held up with a client.
A few minutes later, I force myself to move, covering the hole in the wall with a framed photo and fixing my dishevelled clothes.
Standing at the showroom door, I peer out into the night, checking the parking lot is empty before I exit the building.
When I pull into the driveway at home, I check my face in the rear-view mirror, take a few deep breaths to steady myself, then climb out of the car. My body feels stiff and awkward and not wholly my own. As I enter the house, my nerves rise, bile rushing up into my throat.
“Hey Chris, I’m home,” I call out, closing the door behind me.
His reply comes from the kitchen. “Hey sweetheart, I just ordered pizza. Estimated delivery is thirty minutes.”
“Okay, gonna take a quick shower. I helped Sam’s team out today and I stink.”
I’m already half-way up the stairs when Chris calls back, “Okay.”
Locked safely inside the ensuite bathroom, my legs almost give out; I’m so relieved Chris didn’t welcome me home with a kiss at the front door like he often does.
Turning on the shower, I strip off my clothes, the torturous sweet scent of Kyle clinging to the fabric.
I can barely resist the urge to bury my face in my shirt.
Looking at my reflection in the mirror, I tilt my chin up and inspect the red patches adorning my neck.
I pray they’ll fade in the shower because I don’t know how I’ll hide them if they don’t.
My stomach is inflamed and tender from the punch, and I’ll have a decent bruise by tomorrow.
Luckily my knuckles aren’t split, but they are swollen and turning deep purple. More fucking lies to fabricate.
The heat is a godsend and for a while I stand still, praying the water will wash away my wrongdoings.
I pick up the soap and begin to wash away Kyle’s scent, as my thoughts keep returning to the parking lot.
I need to make sense of what happened, because it wasn’t Kyle who made the first move, it was me. This is all my fault.
Bringing my hand to my mouth, I run the pads of my fingers across my tender, bruised lips.
Eyes closing, I remember the heat of Ky’s breath the moment our tongues met for the first time in twenty years.
No one has ever kissed me like Ky. His kisses beguile me and strip me of free will.
When I was young and foolish, I believed our lips were meant only for each other, and tonight did nothing to extinguish that belief.
I lather soap over my chest, and then over my balls and hardening dick.
Images flood my mind: Kyle pinning me up against the car, his hard cock pressing against my stomach.
His hands cradling my face, holding me in place as we desperately kissed.
I try to stop, but my body craves it. It’s been so long since I experienced blinding lust, and it unleashes those desires I suppress with Chris.
Desperate for release, I lather my hand with more soap, then push two fingers inside. I fuck myself hard, my other hand wrapping tightly around my shaft as I stroke faster and faster. Within minutes, I’m coming, painting the shower wall as my body jerks under the force of each pulse.
Spent, I slide down to the shower floor, trying to catch my breath.
Guilt soon begins to replace the euphoria.
Seriously, what the hell am I doing? How can I go downstairs and eat pizza like nothing happened?
How can I ignore the fact that I just broke my marriage vows?
And the worst one of all: How can I go on pretending I don’t have feelings for another man?
Tears finally fall as I recall Ky’s face when he’d tried to tell me he loves me. Because that’s what he was going to say, wasn’t it? Before I cut him off and shot him down. His eyes had been so full of hope.
Later in the evening, Chris leans over and kisses my neck. “Are you in the mood?” he asks, voice gravelly with need. “Because I want you so bad tonight.”
The panic is instant, my mind stumbling over if I should or shouldn’t. Could I say no? We haven’t had sex since we fought, and rejection will surely lead to more suspicion.
Chris palms my dick and kisses across my jaw. “Sweetheart, it’s been a while. I need you.”
“Of course,” I say, bringing our lips together. But I hate myself. What sort of fucking asshole have I become?
Chris jumps up, eyes sparkling. “Okay, I’ll go get ready.”
“I wanna fuck you from behind tonight. Spank that fine ass,” I say, once I’ve prepped Chris with my fingers.
His eyes widen at first, but then he smiles coquettishly.
The truth is, I can’t bear to look at him while we fuck.
We usually stick to missionary, cowboy, and spooning because Chris loves those positions.
Our sex life has never been spontaneous because Chris won’t ever risk fucking without douching.
Not that I mind; I understand everyone’s body functions differently, but it dampens the excitement all the same.
I manhandle Chris onto his hands and knees and lightly spank his ass. He giggles.
“You like that, huh?”
Chris looks back over his shoulder. “Only if you do it lightly, sweetheart.”
Quickly covering my cock with lube, I spread Chris’s ass cheeks and slide in. I thrust shallowly at first, slowly stretching him open, but my mind soon begins to wander.
At the start of our relationship, Chris assumed I was a top because I’d mentioned fucking guys in prison.
I didn’t bother correcting him because I didn’t think we would end up in a long-term relationship.
But then we did, and it got awkward. When I finally confessed that I preferred to bottom, we talked it over, and Chris said he was willing to compromise and be vers.
For a couple of months, he made an effort, but then it drifted back to me topping almost all the time.
We tried a double-ended dildo, but Chris thought it was too kinky.
I tried using a vibrating dildo up my ass while I was fucking Chris, but then I’d lose focus on thrusting as the pleasure in my ass took priority.
Eventually, we settled into a routine: I top ninety-five per cent of the time with Chris giving me special occasion fucks on my birthday, at Christmas, and for our anniversary.
It was a trade-off I’d been willing to make because Chris sucks cock like a pro, and I am guaranteed a daily orgasm.
Our sex life isn’t, nor has it ever been, perfect, but we’ve a good stable relationship that makes up for it.
When I hear the tell-tale signs of Chris nearing his orgasm, I thrust harder, my thoughts shifting to Kyle, of how he felt inside me.
I gave everything to him—surrendered my body, heart, and soul—and I made the choice not to go there again.
Perhaps at the time it wasn’t a conscious one, but it’s clear to me now that it was a choice.
Chris climaxes and I quickly push myself over the edge with a memory of Kyle from long ago, because to imagine him as he is now would feel like a deeper betrayal. Either way, I fucking hate myself.
I’m still awake at 2:00 AM, lost in a loop of guilt and arousal, my balls aching and my cock hardening once again.
Slipping out of bed, I quietly make my way downstairs to our guest bedroom.
Hidden under the bed is a box; I pull out a bottle of lube and an eight-inch, thick dildo.
I’m already leaking pre-cum when I begin to fuck myself with the toy, imagining it’s Kyle, hot and hard inside of me.
Ky, who robs me of my self-control. Ky, who sets me free.
I come almost violently, a tear rolling down my face, aching for something I lost a long time ago.