Chapter 12 #2
Wyatt shuddered, his back muscles trembling, gripping his dick. “Yes… fuck yes, daddy.”
The word ripped through every muscle in his body, and John’s cock nearly spurted too soon.
Daddy!
Fuck, it felt so wrong and yet so goddamned good.
Oh, sweet fuck.
“But I wouldn’t give you the pleasure of coming in your ass…” John growled, dragging his hand over himself, barely hanging on. “You’d be on your knees, my cock muffling your moans as I came down your throat.”
Wyatt bucked, jerked, and climaxed. His hips arched upward as cum coated his fist and sprayed messily all over Reyes’s bathroom sink. His cowboy was panting and cursing, and John hummed, riding his hand, feeling his tip beginning to pulsate with a tingling rush.
Wyatt’s eyes were riveted to the screen, lips parted and chest heaving with breath, watching.
“Wyatt…” John’s throat worked to swallow, the air constricting in his chest as he was on the verge of climax.
“Say it again,” Wyatt said softly, voice strained with something vulnerable.
His orgasm came swiftly and punishingly, unleashing a torrent of hard waves of spine-tingling sensation. “Wyatt…!” He yelled, his tip erupting with such power that his body spasmed.
“That’s it,” Wyatt cooed darkly. “Say my name when you come for me, daddy.”
He cursed, shivers racing all over his flesh at the ‘daddy’ title, and waited for the shame to override his common fucking sense. And yet, it didn’t. He didn’t want to shame himself for enjoying how much he liked hearing Wyatt call him that.
“Jesus, you’re so sexy,” Wyatt murmured. “If I were there, I’d lick up the mess you just made screaming my name.”
He smiled bashfully, scrubbing his clean hand over his face beneath his glasses and sighing.
“You’re coming with me tonight to this art show, then we’re going back to your place to finish this,” Wyatt said firmly.
He nodded, “Yeah.”
“I don’t know how the hell I’m supposed to get through the rest of the day without getting hard thinking about what we just fuckin’ did.”
John laughed weakly, tears forming at the corners of his eyes for some reason, suddenly grateful that Wyatt’s perceptive gaze couldn’t see that closely through the phone.
“You okay?” Wyatt asked quietly.
“Yeah, I’m fine.”
He stared, eyes narrowing.
“I’m good,” John insisted. “Go.”
Wyatt hesitated before saying, “I like it when you call me by my first name.”
He swallowed the lump in his throat, unable to look away at all the raw, honest vulnerability in the younger man and wishing he could be more like him, more honest with himself and everyone around him. A life without armor, John wondered, marveling at the possibility.
“I like it even better when it's in bed.” Wyatt’s smile widened into a mischievous grin.
John laughed, feeling content and… “God, I like you.”
Wyatt froze, and so did he.
Oh fuck!
“Shit, I—that’s not what you meant—I…” John fumbled, panicking, grabbing clumsily at his phone, needing to end the call.
Fuck!
“John.”
No.
“John…!”
He managed to hang up, cursing angrily at himself. Flipping off his glasses and pushing his fingers into his eyes, he let out a groan.
What the hell was he thinking? He wasn’t. He was in full post-orgasmic glow and admitted to something that had been swirling inside him since—well, since the moment Wyatt had first kissed him.
He liked him. A lot. And he knew it was bad because he told himself that he wouldn’t do this.
That he wouldn’t get involved with someone who would eventually leave, because everyone always did.
And Wyatt especially wouldn’t want a future with him—how could he?
John was old, broken, and… fuck. Wyatt deserved a king.
Someone who could take care of him the way he took care of others.
Someone like him, adventurous, fun, and full of life.
Because he had so much life to live. He couldn’t possibly want to settle down with a nearly 50-year-old burnout doctor who looked forward to boring nights sitting out on his patio, drinking wine and looking at the stars.
Wyatt’s future was bright and big.
And not with him.
John blindly headed to his shower and heard his phone vibrate, alerting him to a call. He ignored it, knowing it was possibly Wyatt.
Shame ate away at him underneath the hot spray of the shower, and he hated himself for being so vulnerable, so stupid.
They both agreed to the terms of this situation, and he had declared that if feelings were caught, it would have to end.
But he couldn’t give Wyatt up, and it made him feel so weak to admit this to himself.
John scrubbed a hand over his face, lost in conflicted, raging emotions.
He felt like a tiny boat caught in a storm at sea, rolling between two crushing waves. One wave made him feel as if he could touch the clouds and the sky above him, elated and happy because of a very clear emotion that gripped his heart like a vice.
But he couldn’t acknowledge that emotion. It was too dangerous. The next wave slammed into him, nearly making him gasp at the drowning fear that plunged into the pit of his stomach.
Finally, after a long scalding shower, he walked back into the bedroom and saw the missed call on his phone. Gritting his back molars, he checked it and saw that it wasn’t Wyatt—it was Justine, his sister.
He opened it and saw the text message from her.
“We’ll be at the cemetery at 10. See you soon.”
A heavy anvil dropped onto his chest and he glanced at the date on his phone. Guilt rippled through him and he cursed himself for forgetting.
Today was his brother’s birthday.