Chapter Twenty-Two #2
“Petro asked if you wanted any help. We’ve got the rest of the afternoon off.” He nods over to the platform behind me and grins. “I don’t know a lot about construction, but I do know a lot about destruction. Want us to help beat the shit out of that rotten lumber?”
“Well, goddamn,” I huff out excitedly, with a broad grin splitting my face, “my son actually wants to hang out with me today.”
Colton rolls his eyes and Petro laughs, poking Colt in the ribs playfully.
I chuckle and nod down at Colt’s phone, dangling precariously from his front pocket. “Cue up some of your screamo shit and grab a hammer.”
He grins, and for the first time in years, I feel like I’m starting to get my son back.
It feels so, so fucking good. And you know what? I let him know that. I said the words out loud. What’s even better is that he returned the sentiment.
“Evan Barnabas Waters, stop listening to those darn voices in your head and get your booty out here… this instant!” Brooks coaxes from behind the door.
“First,” I grumble from the other side, “my middle name isn’t Barnabas; it’s Wagner. Second, I’m not sure if I’m doing this right… like, at all.”
“Will you unlock the door then, so I can help you?”
I try to take a calming breath, and look at myself in the mirror, before reaching for the door.
The super high-cut lacy, black-on-navy briefs hug me so tight, my cock is kind of uncomfortable.
I spin to look at the back of them, noting that the crisscross, corset-style straps in the back are digging hard into my skin.
The matching top, a navy blue mesh with black lace detailing, is straining to the point of near-combustion.
I feel like if I move at all, I’m going to hear a seam bust.
Look at you, you fucking freak. This shit doesn’t belong on a man. It’s sick. There’s a reason you’re fucking this up, you’re not supposed to wear this.
“Shut the fuck up,” I growl at the voice in annoyance.
“I’m sorry, what?” Brooks says softly from behind the door. It sounds like he’s pressed right up against it. “I-I didn’t mean to—”
I whip open the door, and Brooks nearly falls in on me. I catch him in my arms. “I didn’t mean for you to shut up, babe. You know the shitty thoughts are back. I can’t—I don’t fit in this, I don’t think…”
Brooks stands back and lets his eyes track over me. He bites the inside of his cheek and tries to quell a chuckle. Fucking hell, this does look ridiculous on me, doesn’t it?
The fact that he’s breaking out into a full-blown laugh isn’t helping any. He’s trying to reign it in, but he’s doing a piss poor job. I almost want to slink back into the bathroom and slam the door in his face.
“Evan, no!” he squeaks, trying to press himself in before I shut and lock myself back in his bathroom. “I pr-promise I’m not laughing at you!” He can barely get the words out, while a tear streaks down his cheek.
I scowl, crossing my arms over my chest in an attempt to cover myself back up. “You sure? Cuz it certainly seems like it from my end.”
“I don’t know what happened,” Brooks says, catching his breath, “but it’s not something you’re doing wrong. I must have messed up the order, or it defaulted to my size or something, but this definitely does not fit you.”
I huff.
“I’m not size-shaming you either. All I can picture, though, is your penis down there crying out, ‘Help me, help meeeee!’” he says in a tiny, squealing voice, before breaking out into another laugh. “This is totally my fault! I’m so sorry! I’ll pay you back,” he tells me, before he snorts.
He fucking snorts, and I realize right here and now that I can’t stay mad at him. He’s too cute to be mad at.
“How far up your bum are those undies riding right now?” he asks, wiping another tear from his eye.
“They’re pretty much brushing my tonsils,” I admit.
“I’ll bet,” he hums. “Oh my gosh, no idea how this happened. Like I said, I’ll pay you back.
I’m bummed. They would look so hot on you too…
if I weren’t totally worried they’re going to castrate you.
Here, let me help you get these off. Maybe I can exchange them.
You didn’t try to hulk out of those fishnets, did you? ”
I shake my head. I only got as far as putting on the briefs and top—I guess it’s called a camisole. I was going to ask for help with the garter and the stockings once I realized I wouldn’t be able to bend without busting this thing open like a can of biscuits.
“Don’t pay me back,” I tell him. “I have a better idea. Can we see how they look on you?”
He bites the inside of one of his pink cheeks.
“You don’t have to, if you really don’t like it,” I amend, “but I’m pretty certain you do like it.”
He thinks on it for a few seconds and finally sighs. There’s some part of him that wants this more than anything, but he’s too held back by shame. Shame that I’d do anything to keep him from feeling. Shame he has no right to feel, because he’s goddamn gorgeous—his perceived flaws and all.
He rags on his pudge all the time. I love that he doesn’t have washboard abs.
He thinks he doesn’t look good in slimmer fit clothing, and I think he’s hiding away a treasure underneath his baggy sweats.
He laments about the size of his butt constantly.
I fucking love that ass. I love the way it feels in my hands when I palm his cheeks.
Like he can hear my inner monologue—or maybe the wailing from my strangled cock—his cheeks get ruddy again. He shoos me into the bathroom. “Alright, alright. I’ll do it. Call it payback for my flub-up, but I will try them on.”
I smirk. Got him. He’s always on about this ‘payback’ shit, and while I usually stop him, tonight I don’t have it in me. I’ve got a better idea, instead.