50. FIFTY
FIFTY
I used to think that my one-night stands or arranged hookups were enough for me.
For years , I lived off the assumption that as long as I had that, I could manage everything else—a harmless secret that was used as a tool to relieve stress and fulfill my sexual urges.
It’s only now that I realize how unsatisfying that way of living had been.
I never knew I'd need the weight of Gray’s body against my back, his soothing touches, and warm breaths over my neck.
I’ll always prefer to make my partner come first, and I’ll always crave the control from it.
Still, the aftermath—this shared intimacy and familiarity—is more precious to me than anything else.
How did I go without this before?
Would I feel differently about this moment if I had let myself take something more from sex?
Honestly, there’s no point in dissecting it. I’m with Gray—I want to be with him. The past is irrelevant because even without experience, I know I was meant to end up here.
“Don’t move,” Gray says suddenly, gently squeezing my hip.
I’m exhausted, so I do as he says, tucking my hand under my cheek.
He fumbles around in the nightstand, the drawer sliding open and shut.
When the weight shifts beside me and his legs tuck back against mine, I blow out a relieved breath.
My eyes drift closed only to fly back open as a mildly sharp poke hits my lower back.
I lift my head to look over my shoulder, but his hand pushes my face forward. “I said don’t move,” he laughs.
“What are you stabbing me with?” I chuckle along.
“You’ll see.”
Looks like there’s nothing left to do but resign to my fate. I get comfortable again, and after a few seconds, I realize he’s drawing on me. “That’d better not be a cock.”
I can hear his smile as he mumbles, “With monster balls.”
“Is it our initials? H and G forever in a heart?”
“Shh.”
Flutters erupt low in my stomach, so I bite my lip and let him continue using my skin as his sketch pad. “Tell me something I don’t know.”
It’s quiet for a while, the little scratches on my back relax me further, and eventually he says, “I technically have a house. When my parents died, it was in their will. But I guess that got lost somewhere from when I was twelve to eighteen. The house was sold. Now, Martha and Tim live there with their two kids.”
“Martha and Tim?” He’s never mentioned those names before.
With a cute snort, he continues, “I made up those names. I don’t know the family that lives there. But I’d go watch them sometimes. Your turn.” Whatever he’s drawing grows, more of my skin is being vandalized.
“My turn? You were just getting started.”
“I don’t want to talk about it.”
I sigh. “Alright.” There’s plenty he doesn’t know, but since he’s changing the subject, I’m taking it as he wants to keep things light. “I’m double jointed but only on my left hand.”
The drawing pauses. “Let me see.”
I lift my left hand and bend my PIP joints. “Oh what the fuck!” he squeaks, holding my hip to look closer. I bend my DIP joint on my index, keeping the rest of my finger straight, and he wiggles. “That’s so creepy but so cool. And only on the left one?”
“Yup. It was pretty popular among my classmates when I was a kid. Your turn.”
“Like I can top that…” A little huff, then he’s back to drawing. “I never remember my dreams.”
“You don’t?”
“Never.” What I now know is a pen swoops over my lat muscle. “I know people are supposed to, but I don’t. The weird thing is I have a crazy imagination.” Something wet swipes over my skin, and I jerk a little. “Sorry. Messed up.”
“Did you lick me?”
“Yes. With my face all the way up here. My tongue is super long, didn’t you realize?”
I reach behind me and slap his ass. “Brat."
With an adorable chuckle, he continues, “I know I have dreams—and nightmares—but I don’t remember them. Wonder if that’s a good thing or not.”
“Depends on how you look at it, I suppose. My mind doesn’t stop, so I usually can’t sleep long enough to dream.”
“You sleep when you’re with me,” he says softly.
The tips of his fingers skim over my side, tracing the dip at my waist. Goosebumps bubble over my arms. Warm lips press into my shoulder blade as his hand travels to my stomach.
He teases the hair there, and his half-hard cock digs into my ass.
“I do sleep better with you here—most things I do better with you here.”
“Like what?” his lips drag to the top of my shoulder before gently nibbling on the muscle.
Clearing some of the lust from my throat, I tell him, “Communicating. Laughing. Allowing myself some semblance of joy. You make everything feel…brighter.”
Nuzzling the nape of my neck, he kisses the skin there and cuddles closer. “You know what you do for me?” he breathes.
“What, sweetheart?"
“You give me sanctuary."
I’m overwhelmed by a sudden rush of emotion, so I nearly whimper when he moves away from me.
Lifting my head to see where he’s going, I watch him bend and grab his cell phone from his discarded pants.
His tattooed arm flexes as he crawls back to me while his eyes skim over my body.
On his knees, I hear the click of the camera app, and then he’s leaning over to show me the picture.
He drew an entire scene that I now recognize as his street style .
With exaggerated body parts and big bobbleheads, the two men in the drawing are holding hands and looking up at an elaborate sky.
In between two fluffy clouds is the same airplane he painted on my wall, only smaller and fit to scale.
“I want that to be real,” he whispers, tapping on the screen.
My eyes find him as I slowly roll onto my back. I reach up to cup his face, dragging my thumb along his jaw. “Me too,” I admit, the weight on my chest is almost too much to bear. “Me too, Gray.”
“Make it real for us. I know you can.”
His unrelenting belief in something that feels fictional is astonishing.
Of course, I could make it real, but at what cost? There is so much unknown floating around our heads, and the last thing I need to focus on is my romantic relationship—my secret one.
But how can I deny him?
How can I look him in those glacial blue eyes and tell him I won’t try? That I’m too afraid to even consider it.
Gray deserves a braver man. He deserves someone who can and will give him everything.
“Please,” he whispers.
“I’ll do my best, sweetheart. I’ll do my best.”
Dad: Please come home. We can fix this.
A cold sweat forms over every inch of me.
A whole day has passed, and I have been ignoring everything , but now, this text solidifies what I know I have to do.
My father has never sent me anything like that text before.
Part of me is reluctant to believe it’ll be that easy.
The other part, though, hopes that it is.
He’ll have spent this last day formulating a story for the media, and he’s called everyone he needs to call, and he isn’t going to disown me.
There are a few emails from OAT, and several texts from Alex. I haven’t checked my personal email, too cowardly to see the swarm of requests for interviews or whatever else might be in there.
I look up from my spot on the couch to see where Gray is drawing in the bay window. He’s applied for all the local jobs, and all that’s left to do now is wait for responses.
He begged me last night to make this real for us, and I'm struggling with how to make that happen.
I study how his hand drifts over the sketchbook and how his forehead creases in concentration.
He will wiggle his nose every so often, allowing the light to catch on the hoop dangling from his septum.
As with every morning, his jaw is peppered with new growth, making him appear slightly older than the night before.
Yet, there’s still this youthfulness about him.
He’s an old soul—wise for his years, and so strong. So fucking capable. All he needed was the right tool.
“See something you like?” he murmurs with a slight tip of his lips.
“I do.”
“Are you going to just stare, or are you going to do something about it?”
It’s meant to be playful, but it sends me a crushing punch of dread. With a clearer head and time to process throughout the morning, I have found what I hope is neutral ground.
A way to pacify my dad and keep Gray for longer.
I just have to do it.
Get off my ass, get in my car, and do it.
“Hunter?” He’s looking at me now. Carefully closing his sketchbook, he gets down from the window seat and walks over to me. Gentle hands gather my cheeks and tilt my face up. “What’s wrong?”
I palm his hips, guiding him closer. “I need more time.”
“Time?”
“I can’t tell him yet.” Gray frowns. “I’m not ready. But I think I have a solution.”
One of his dark eyebrows arches, making me swallow hard.
“I’ll tell my dad part of the truth—that I’m helping you. And then…I’ll tell him the rest later. After this has blown over and…”
“What about Xavier?”
I blink. “What about him?”
“He wants your company. He’s the reason you’re even in this position. What if he tells everything ?” He drops his hands from my face, crossing his arms over his chest. “Hunter, you can’t keep pussy-footing around this.”
“You expect me to just come out?” I bark. “Just like that? After years and years of hiding it? I can’t do that, Gray. I can’t.”
“You told me you’d try!” Aggressively stepping out of my hold, his face contorts between anguish and rage. “Do I need to get a job? Have a place to live? Would that matter? I mean, I think it would—no one wants to bring a homeless dude home to meet their family.”
“Gray…”
“Would it matter?” he demands. “Or am I doing all this to prepare for the inevitable?”
I stand, cross the minimal space, and grab his shoulders. “No. Don’t even think that. I’d never make you go.”
“Then?” We’re both stretched thin. He needs constant reassurance that I won’t abandon him, and I need to be enabled. It’s wrong, but I can’t seem to stop it.