Chapter 19
TANNER
We are twenty-four hours away from The Dinner. Des says this get together with Stan is the most important meal since the Last Supper. I personally disagree, but I keep that to myself.
After filling out more job applications in the morning, I spend the afternoon cleaning up the house.
I do a deep clean that is months overdue.
Scrubbing layers of dust off the shelves.
Vacuuming in between the couch cushions.
Wiping off dust that accumulated atop the ceiling fan blades.
Mopping—not Swiffering—the floors. With what little energy I have left, I dump something edible into the crock pot for the kids and run to make a PTA meeting for the fall carnival.
Des and I have a boisterous dinner with the kids where we go over our embellished backstory once more. Uncle Des and I were friends for a long time but recently realized that we love each other very much. Uh, where’s the embellishment on my end?
Once we put everyone to sleep, I collapse on my own bed with a basket full of laundry needing to be folded. The laundry never ends. The kids are asleep, the dishwasher hums faintly in the kitchen, and I’m left alone with my thoughts—and the mountain of stress sitting on my shoulders.
And yet, all I can think about is the way Des looked at me earlier. The soft edges of his smirk when we nearly bumped hips in the kitchen. The quiet, lingering way his gaze settled on me when he thought I wasn't paying attention.
I’m still sorting laundry when he pads into the bedroom in an old Vertical Horizon T-shirt clinging to life and flannel pants that somehow still make him look unfairly good.
His hair's damp from the shower, curling slightly at his temples.
I like seeing Des with shaggy, uncombed hair, a natural version of himself that he rarely lets the world see.
“House looks great,” he says, pulling a pair of socks to fold from the basket, the tip of the laundry iceberg. “Didn’t know you were gunning for a job with a cleaning service.”
“I’m trying to make sure your boss doesn’t think I’m raising these kids in a dumpster.
” I snort, folding the last pair of Dean’s shorts.
If he had his way, he’d wear shorts all year round.
It’s a three-round negotiation getting him to switch to pants in the winter.
He’s totally going to be one of those college guys wearing flip flops to class in January.
Des falls onto the bed beside me, his knee brushing mine, warm even through the fabric. It takes him a few tries to fold one of Davy’s T-shirts.
“Do you do your own laundry?” I ask him.
“Laundry service and dry cleaning. I ship it out. They do their magic.”
“I hate you.” The day we brought home Lena from the hospital, the laundry went from a once-a-week occurrence to a nonstop part of life. I think I’ve developed callouses from all the folding.
“One of the great joys in life is paying someone to do something you don’t want to do.”
“Do you miss being in your luxury apartment? Do your leather couches and impressionist wall art cry out for you?”
“I write them postcards.” His eyes travel around the bedroom, one of the only rooms I didn’t deep clean.
I doubted Stan would be in here, unless he really wanted proof we were playing house.
But a sweet, wistful smile crosses Des’s face as he takes in the room’s imperfections.
“I don’t know. I think this house is growing on me. ”
“That’s just a fungus.”
He snorts a laugh, and it’s music to my ears.
“One of the benefits of unemployment is having the time to clean. I may clean the fridge tomorrow.”
I create piles of sorted clean clothes on the bed. Des quickly catches on.
“How’s the job search going?”
“Nothing yet.”
“You’ll find something soon.”
“Yeah.” I can’t meet his eyes, instead choosing to stare intently at a pair of my boxers.
“What kind of jobs are you applying to?”
“Ones similar to what I had been doing,” I say, hearing the mumble of shame in my voice.
“But you weren’t crazy about that job. What is your dream job? What would you love to be doing?” Bless him, his eyes light up.
Des is ambitious. He has lofty career goals and the fire in his belly to make them happen. I’m realizing more and more that I don’t. My lofty goal is a job that pays the bills, keeps my kids fed, and provides health insurance. Des would reel in horror if I told him that, though.
He’d never fall in love with someone who didn’t share his drive. Four kids and a dad who lacks career ambition? No way.
“I’m wiped. I’ll fold the rest of this tomorrow.” I put the folded piles into the basket and bring it to the corner, where it can sit atop my hamper.
Des pulls back the covers. He pats the empty space next to him. That lazy, slightly smug smile beckons. I feel that stupid jolt of awareness again—the one I’ve been trying to bury since last night.
And yet, once I fold myself into bed, and Des wraps his arms around me, all the chatter in my head stops. There is no heated blanket or body pillow that can mimic the comfort and warmth of cuddling with another person. It is nature’s anti-anxiety remedy.
In his arms, everything will be okay. I don’t even know what “everything” or “okay” actually means, but…everything will be okay.
“Oh shit. Let me know if you don’t want me on top of you.” Des pulls back, shifts to his side of the bed.
“No. I don’t mind,” I say, a lump thickening in my throat…and my dick thickening in my pants. Please touch me is probably too forward. “How is it sharing a bed with someone?”
“Good.” His voice drops an octave when he whispers it in my ear, making me shudder with want.
He returns to prime cuddle position, pulling me against him, his arms clamping me in place. We’re…strengthening our intimacy in preparation for the dinner tomorrow. We’re…just two middle-aged guys trying to sleep well on a queen-sized bed.
I close my eyes and sink into his touch. I want to be his little spoon for life.
My dick tents my boxers. It’s going to be a challenge getting to sleep. I wiggle myself to get comfortable in my tightening underwear. I shift back and feel something thick press between my cheeks.
“Shit. Sorry,” Des says. He laughs into my shoulder, breaking the awkward tension of the moment. “I feel like a fucking teenager. I don’t know what’s wrong with me.”
“I’m no better.”
Des reaches over and feels my boxers. “Good God.”
“I’m sorry.”
“Your boxers are so tight you’re going to cut off circulation.” He opens the front slit and frees my cock.
“What are you doing?”
“You’re like ridiculously hard. There’s normal hard. And then there’s this.” He gives my dick a stroke, sliding a thumb over my engorged head. “Your dick is whatever metal the Terminator is built out of. Do you feel light headed?”
“No.” I laugh so hard I might cry. It’s that kind of laugh that you try to stifle but only makes you laugh harder. I try to stay quiet, but Des is practically giggling into my shoulder, making this all the more hilarious. “I told you it’d been a long time.”
“I think you still need a helping hand.” His thick hand fists my cock, gingerly sliding up and down. I’m laughing and shivering and horny and having a great time with my friend.
“I thought we weren’t going to do that again. It’ll make things weird.”
“You snuck a lead pipe into your marriage bed. That’s weird.”
I let out a moan in between laughing fits. Des continues his rhythmic pumping of my dick. Between his hand and the warmth of his chest, I am drowning in desire for this man.
“What’s weird shit between friends?” He says in a low voice right in my ear.
“Would it be weird if we did this again?” I close my eyes, asking this question as much to the universe as to him.
“It’s been two years, Tanner. One blow job is not enough to make up for your drought.” He pushes my boxers to my knees. I want Des to take me, manhandle me, give me two years’ worth of sex tonight.
I greedily rub my ass against his stiffening dick.
“You want it so bad.” He kisses along my neck, sending shivers down my spine.
Des strokes me with assured pumps of his fist, making my balls tighten and tingle with anticipated release. I dip my head back and gaze into his glassy, heat-blanched eyes as our lips connect. His mouth is hot and minty and all mine.
“How does this feel, Tan?”
“Good. So good.” I rub my ass against his dick, alive with curiosity about what comes next. The thought of having sex with a man wasn’t something I thought about. But having sex with Des would be incredible. Hearing him moan? Tasting his kisses? Feeling his thick cock inside me?
“Someone’s horny.” He lightly snickers in between kisses.
“Two whole years.”
He smears the precome I’m leaking around my cockhead, slicking me up. I reach between us and wrap my hand around his girthy dick. He lets out a deep groan against my lips.
I writhe under his touch, stroking his cock and pressing it harder against my ass.
“God, you’re beautiful, Tanner,” he whispers. “I can’t stop thinking about you. Being your husband.”
“I love being your husband.” My soul soars as the connection between us goes from strong to unbreakable.
But deep down, I know these are things being said in the heat of the moment. It’s the flip side of dirty talk. Romance talk. Love cosplay. The truth is Des doesn’t want a husband or a family. And yet…my heart can’t tell the difference. I let myself believe him, just for tonight.
I drift my hand farther south and cradle his balls.
Ball.
My hand freezes, and I yank it back, like I was caught in the cookie jar. The moment stops cold. Des rolls away from me. My back hits the cold sheets.
“I’m sorry,” I say, turning to face Des.
“Don’t be. I may have one ball, but I’m going to make you come so hard you’ll swear I have three.” He winks at me, and I can tell this is a line he’s used before with lovers. A way to ease the awkwardness and stay in control when someone discovers their suave one-night stand has one testicle.