Chapter 14
DARCY
F or all Wren’s talk of not running away from his problems, I’m doing an excellent job of running from mine. Though, technically, I didn’t run; I flew. There’s a difference.
Probably.
But no matter how, I just had to get out of Seattle.
It hasn’t helped.
I’m not sure how long I’m staying here, but I’ll only be able to avoid Wren with fake emergencies for so long.
Junior’s first question for me when I arrived was when I’d be leaving again. Not having an answer for him has made him surlier than ever, and I’m not exactly Mr. Sunshine. Everyone in the office has done their best to keep out of our crosshairs.
I’m sleep-deprived. I want to be at home. And … I’m missing Wren.
I rub my palms into my bleary eyes and hold off texting him. The phone call was a step further than I planned to go, but I figured I owed him an explanation, and now I’ve given him one, that’s it. No need for contact. It’s cold turkey from here on out.
Now I’m in London, I’ll keep my ass put until I’ve gotten some distance.
The attraction is a painful inconvenience, but this friendship we’re growing is worse than that.
It was only a matter of time before I gave in to the urge to tell him everything about me, and even though I trust Wren, respect him, and quite frankly want to jump his bones, that’s the one thing I can’t trust anyone with.
Least of all him.
“You put too much faith in me, Dad,” I say, staring up at the ceiling of my office.
I should go to my apartment I have here in the city, but it will be empty, and here I can distract myself.
I scroll through the list of meetings Junior has scheduled for Monday and amuse myself for a few moments, picturing his face if I were to invite myself along to “observe.” But after a day off playing Mr. Fix-It, followed by a nine-hour transatlantic flight, my work is starting to get out of hand.
At least with the time difference, I still have a few hours of work left in me.
The next time I look at the clock, it’s three thirty, and I’m still far from tired.
I don’t technically have to be in the office tomorrow—today?
—considering it’s Saturday, but that’s never stopped me before.
Junior will be here, and I’m not wasting a perfectly good flight without ruffling a few of his feathers. What are brothers for?
That thought settles a deep feeling of loneliness over me. Junior and Tobias are pains in my ass, but we grew up together, love each other in our own dysfunctional way. Would they really turn their backs on me if they knew?
Of course they would .
I walk over to my liquor cabinet to grab the whiskey.
I don’t bother with glasses like I did when I drank with Wren; I just go straight for the bottle.
It’s good stuff. Rich and warm, burning smoothly on the way down.
The heat gathers low in my gut, and I kick back in my desk chair, the bright lights of London spread out below my window.
The only light in here is coming from my computer and the one down the hall.
I’ve been in this exact same position, in this exact same chair, too many times to count.
Maybe Wren’s right. Maybe I can’t do it all.
I take another long swallow and then cough lightly to release some of the burning.
It doesn’t take me long to drink myself to that glorious place where my thoughts are clouded and my inhibitions are lax.
Trying not to think about it too deeply, I pick up my phone, like I’d always known I would, and navigate to a social media account I’m way too familiar with.
Wren Porter .
Image after image of him smiling, hiking, drinking, or at the park.
Tight work gear, and soft sweats, and that one glorious picture of him in a tiny pair of swim trunks.
My tongue darts across my whiskey lips, and I click on the photo to enlarge it.
Drink in all that skin, that muscle. The light sun-born freckles and the dusting of hair that disappears into his swim trunks.
And … wait.
I slide my thumbs outward, bring the photo closer …
closer … and there, in all its pixelated beauty, is the imprint of Wren’s cock.
Guilt sweeps over me, but it’s overridden by something deeper, something darker.
I bite my fist, losing the close-up, but now I’ve spotted it, I can’t unsee it, and even as I’m warning myself, even as I tell myself not to do it, not to give in, I set my phone on my desk and yank at my fly.
After putting Wren to bed last night, I was hard as the planks of wood we’d been working on all day, but I refused to touch myself.
Not with him in the next room, not when I knew for certain it’d be him I was thinking about.
But now, with almost five thousand miles and nine hours between us, there’s no stopping myself.
I free my achingly hard dick and wrap my hand around it.
The first stroke brings much-needed relief but more of that burning guilt.
It isn’t enough to make me pull my eyes away from his photos though.
The voice in the back of my head says, no, wrong, someone will find out , but my free hand reaches out, picking up my phone, and scrolls slowly through his photos.
His rumpled hair, those sweet eyes, the way his strong jawline and thick neck look so tempting with his head tilted back.
I find another shirtless image of him, no dick print this time, but those perfect nipples and firm pecs draw my attention.
I imagine dragging my tongue over them, tasting his salty skin, making a deep grunt rumble in his chest.
I like to be the one in control.
I hear the words like he’s just said them, and I can’t hold on to my phone anymore.
My eyes slam shut, head tossed back against the chair as I jerk off with purpose.
It’s Wren I see on his knees between my thighs.
Wren’s hands that press into my thighs, holding them apart.
Wren who leans in, dips his tongue into my slit, and then lets out a gravelly laugh. I’m in control now.
Dear god, I think he always has been.
I torture myself with the image of walking into my kitchen, sliding my hands over those firm, round glutes under his briefs. Pushing down the thin cotton. Stepping closer until my desperate cock rested between the globes.
The hair on his thighs, his big, thick hands, that steady eye contact he made when he was throwing darts. Like he was looking right at me. Seeing me. Reading all the filthy things I want him to do to me and being okay with it.
My hand in his hair, Wren sucking my cock down his throat.
I pump my length harder, faster, cupping my balls in my other palm as I finally give in to my deepest urges.
As I finally see Wren giving me everything I need from him.
Flashes of us together, him on his knees, tongue in my mouth, hovering over me as he pushes inside.
The guilt struggles to take hold again, but I push it down, further and further, telling myself it’s okay. It’s too late. No one will ever know.
Just this once .
One time to be with Wren, uncomplicated by everything else.
Don’t I deserve it? Haven’t I earned this one tiny moment to myself?
The sounds I imagine him making as he fucks me are pure torture as I replay the feel of his skin, the familiar smell of his scent.
The timbre of his voice, right by my ear, as he brings himself to the end.
“ Darce … ”
Fuck, fuck, fuck.
Wren.
I scramble to loosen my tie, to tear open my top button. My skin is hot and tight, a feverish sensation running from my head to my toes as my balls draw up high, as the lusty pressure increases. It builds at the base of my spine, teasing me, hinting at what’s to come.
Hair, freckles, eyes … Muscles, nipples, hands, ass …
That dick print.
The curved, cut head. The way I’d yank down those swim trunks and close my lips around his crown. Taste him. Savor him. Get high off his cum.
My cock thickens in my fist, and finally, my orgasm hits. I miss the first spurt, which lands on my shirt, but manage to catch the rest before I can make an even bigger mess.
Not that it matters. My shirt is stifling, soaked through at the back, jacket feeling like a sauna as I struggle to catch my breath.
I head into my bathroom to wash my hands, then shuck my tie and jacket onto the tile. With the need burning under my skin finally dimmed, my breathing almost normal, my brain clocks back on.
And in the aftermath of pleasure, the guilt hits me hard.
I jerked off over Wren.
Not only is he … is he … well, he thinks we’re that fucking B -word, but we’re actually becoming friends.
I groan and pinch the bridge of my nose, realizing this is one more thing to add to the list of ways I’ve betrayed him. Stealing his life wasn’t enough for me. Lying to him about our relationship wasn’t enough for me.
No. I had to go and get myself off over him too.
And as much as I hate to even acknowledge the thought … I know that now I’ve done it, I’m going to do it again.
Wren is under my skin, and I just opened the floodgates.