Chapter 16 Morning, Interrupted #2
The angle was different like this. Deeper somehow. His cock dragged over my prostate with every stroke, pleasure building hot and fast with each movement, making my legs shake and my cock drip steadily onto the shower floor.
His hand came around and wrapped around my cock with firm pressure. He stroked in time with his thrusts, matching the rhythm, turning everything into one continuous wave of sensation that was going to drown me.
I could feel him everywhere. Inside me, around me, his chest pressed to my back, his breath hot on my neck, his hand on my cock pulling pleasure from me with every stroke.
“You feel so fucking good.” Declan's breath was hot on my neck, his chest pressed to my back. “Can't believe this is real.”
“It's real.” I was getting close again. Too fast. My balls were drawing up tight, my whole body coiling with the need to come. “Fuck, it's real.”
His rhythm picked up. Harder now and faster, hips driving forward with purpose. His hand tightened on my cock, stroking with real intent now, his hips slamming into my ass with enough force to make me see stars.
The other hand gripped my hip hard enough to bruise. It held me in place while he fucked me. Used me. Took what he wanted while giving me everything I needed.
I came first. I spilled over his hand and against the tile, my ass clenching around him, pleasure ripping through me so hard my knees nearly buckled.
Declan followed seconds later. He buried himself deep and stayed there while he filled me up, his groan echoing in the small space, his whole body going rigid against mine.
We stood under the spray for a long moment after. Both of us breathing hard. Both of us trying to process the fact that we had just done that again. That this was real. That we couldn't take it back even if we wanted to.
And I didn't want to. Couldn't imagine wanting to, not with the feel of him still inside me, not with his hands gentle on my hips now, not with the way he was breathing against my neck like I was the only thing keeping him grounded.
“We should actually wash.”
“We should.”
We did. We took turns soaping each other down, hands lingering in places that didn't strictly need cleaning.
He washed my hair with careful fingers that felt too good to be just practical.
I washed his back, tracing the ink there with soapy hands.
We rinsed off together, bodies sliding against each other under the spray.
By the time we got out, my skin was pruned and I was starving.
Declan handed me a towel. “You hungry?”
“Fuck yes.”
“I'll make breakfast.” He dried off quickly, wrapped the towel around his waist. “Take your time.”
I got dressed slowly. I found my jeans and a clean shirt in Declan's room. Everything smelled like him. Like us. The sheets were a mess. Evidence of what we'd done scattered across the bed in wrinkled fabric and displaced pillows.
I stood there for a second just looking at it. Trying to reconcile the fact that I'd had sex with my stepfather in this bed. That I'd wanted it. That I'd begged for it. That it had felt right in a way that nothing else in my life had ever felt.
And now I had to go downstairs and figure out what the fuck that meant.
Downstairs, I could hear Declan moving around the kitchen. The smell of coffee hit me before I made it to the bottom of the stairs. Bacon too. My stomach growled in response.
He was at the stove when I walked in. Shirtless again, just wearing sweatpants that hung low on his hips. His back was covered in tattoos I'd seen before but never really looked at. Hadn't let myself look at, hadn't let myself notice how good they looked on his skin.
Now I couldn't stop looking.
“Coffee's ready,” he said without turning around. “Mugs are in the same place.”
I poured myself a cup. I took it black because adding milk felt like too much effort. The first sip was exactly what I needed. Hot and bitter and grounding.
“You want eggs?” Declan asked.
“However you're making them.”
“Scrambled then.” He cracked eggs into a bowl with one hand, showing off in a way that was probably unconscious.
I sat at the table. The same table where he'd fucked me last night. There were still faint marks on the wood where my hands had gripped too hard. A water ring from where we'd set the first aid kit down. Evidence everywhere if you knew where to look.
The silence stretched between us, heavy with everything we weren't saying.
Declan brought over plates a few minutes later. Eggs, bacon, toast. Simple food that looked better than anything I'd eaten in weeks.
We ate without talking. The quiet felt wrong now, loaded with tension that hadn't been there before. Like we'd crossed a line and now neither of us knew how to exist on this side of it.
Finally, Declan set his fork down. “We need to talk about this.”
“I figured we would.” I took another bite of eggs, buying time because I didn't know what I wanted him to say. “What do you want to say?”
“I don't know.” He ran a hand through his hair, still damp from the shower. “I'm trying to figure out how I feel and I keep coming up blank.”
“That's helpful.”
“Troy.” His voice carried a warning. “I'm serious. Last night happened. This morning happened. And I still think it's wrong even though it doesn't feel wrong when we're doing it.”
I set my fork down too. “What part do you think is wrong? The fucking? The wanting? Or the fact that you're my stepfather?”
“All of it. None of it. I don't know.” He looked at me across the table and I could see the conflict in his eyes, the way he was trying to work through years of assumptions that didn't fit anymore. “You're my stepson. I was supposed to protect you. Not—not do this.”
“And yet here we are.” I leaned back in my chair, trying to sound casual even though my chest felt tight. “So what are you going to do about it? Pretend it didn't happen? Go back to avoiding me?”
He flinched at that, and part of me was glad. He should feel that one.
“I don't understand why my mind keeps going here. Why I can't stop thinking about you this way. Why I wanted it. Why I still want it even though everything about this feels like it should be wrong.” His voice stayed low and rough, like the admission cost him to make.
“Maybe because you're attracted to men and you just never realized it before.” The suggestion came out more gentle than I'd intended. “Or attracted to me specifically. Either way, beating yourself up over it isn't going to change anything.”
Declan went very still. “What?”
“You heard me.” I took a drink of coffee. “Maybe you're bisexual. Or just into men. Maybe you've been into men your whole life and never let yourself notice because you were busy being married and raising me and building a life that didn't leave room for that kind of self-examination.”
“I've never been attracted to men before.”
“Or you never let yourself notice.” I shrugged, trying to keep my voice steady even though this conversation felt like walking through a minefield.
“How many times have you looked at a guy and thought he was attractive but told yourself it didn't mean anything?
How many times have you noticed someone and then immediately shut it down because that's not who you thought you were supposed to be?”
He turned that over in his head. I could see the gears working, processing and reevaluating years of assumptions he'd never questioned.
“I was married to your mother. Like that proved anything.”
“And? Bisexual people exist. Plenty of men like women and men. It's not that fucking complicated.”
“It feels complicated.”
“That's because you're making it complicated.” I stood up, carried my plate to the sink because I needed to move, needed to do anything other than sit there and watch him try to logic his way out of wanting me.
“Look, I'm not saying I have all the answers. But maybe instead of torturing yourself over why you want me, you just accept that you do and figure out what that means.”
Declan didn't respond. He just sat there staring at his coffee like it held answers he couldn't find anywhere else.
The silence stretched between us and got heavier.
“Say something.”
“I don't know what to say.” He looked up at me and the vulnerability in his expression made my chest ache. “This changes everything, Troy. You get that, right? We can't go back to how things were before.”
“I don't want to go back to how things were before.”
“Neither do I. But I don't know how to move forward either.” He pushed his plate away, food half-eaten. “What if this is just—what if it's just proximity? What if we're both fucked up from trauma and loneliness and we latched onto each other because we were available?”
“Is that what you think this is?”
“I don't know what to think.” His hands were shaking slightly where they rested on the table. “All I know is that I wanted you. I still want you. And that scares the shit out of me because I don't know if that makes me—”
“Makes you what? Gay? Bisexual? A bad person?” I crossed back to the table, leaned against it. “Declan, wanting me doesn't make you broken. It makes you human.”
“It makes me your stepfather who crossed a line he should never have crossed.”
“I crossed it too. I wanted this just as much as you did. Maybe more.” I grabbed his hand before I could stop myself. “So either we're both fucked up, or maybe this is just what it is. Two people who care about each other finally admitting they want more than they're supposed to have.”
His fingers tightened around mine. “This is still wrong, Troy.”
“Maybe.” I pulled him to his feet, got close enough that I could feel the heat coming off him. “But it also feels right. And I don't know about you, but I'm tired of pretending it doesn't.”
When I kissed him, he tasted like coffee and uncertainty and the fear that this was going to break both of us. But he kissed me back anyway, one hand coming up to cup the back of my neck, holding me in place like he was afraid I'd disappear if he let go.