Chapter 37
Tristan
Two hours later, I’m an empty, trembling, orgasmed-out lump of human-shaped pleasure on Nick’s bed.
“That was…amazing,” I whisper as Nick tosses aside the towel he just used to clean me gently.
I am a perfect wreck.
There are bruises on my thighs from the grip of his hands, pink marks around my groin and on my chest from where he kissed and sucked, my lips are raw and swollen, and I’m sure my hole has been stretched to windsock proportions.
It’ll be a miracle if I walk after this—or even stand.
And I couldn’t be happier.
“I think it was even more amazing for me,” Nick says, leaning over me, framing me in the sculpted pillars of his arms, and kissing me.
Unlike the wild, hungry kisses of our lovemaking, this one is different. It’s almost tender.
He hovers a breath above me, staring into my eyes, his eyebrows pinched slightly together. “Do you have any idea of how perfect you are?”
I can’t handle the compliment. I close my eyes, stifling a laugh and rolling away.
“Please,” I say. “I just like being spanked.”
Nick takes my rolling over as the perfect opportunity to slide onto the bed next to me.
We’re both still completely naked, and his warm, solid body pressed against the back of mine feels…nice. He drapes a muscular arm over me, caging me to him, and his other hand absently plays with my hair.
If I could purr, I’d be doing it right now.
“And I’m very glad you like being spanked,” he replies. “But it’s so much more than that.”
He speaks slowly, murmuring around kisses against the back of my neck.
The earlier kisses he lavished on me—before he fucked me within an inch of my life—were clearly laying the groundwork for something else, i.e. fucking me within an inch of my life.
These kisses feel different.
These feel like kisses for their own sake, like he’s doing it just because he enjoys it. And…I think I do, too.
I don’t know how to feel about that.
The sort of sex we just had is known in the BDSM world as a “scene,” a clearly-negotiated and consensual series of actions with terms and conditions, a starting and a stopping point. A complete story with an inciting incident, rising action, a climax (obviously), and a resolution.
We’ve already resolved our scene.
So, what’s this?
As if sensing my need for clarification, Nick murmurs into my neck, between kisses, a soft question. “Green?”
Just one word, but exactly what I need.
Using one of my safe words to gently ask me if this is okay, if this is within the bounds of what I’m comfortable with.
It’s so simple, but it’s exactly what my brain needs to clarify what’s happening here, and to accept it gladly.
“Green,” I affirm.
He pulls me closer.
“I like this,” Nick says in a soft, sex-roughened voice.
I enjoy the feeling of his heart beating steadily against my back, the absent way his thumb strokes my chest, the tangle of our legs.
“I do, too,” I whisper. “I do, too.”
? ? ?
I don’t know how long we have been asleep. I don’t even remember falling asleep. You’d think I wouldn’t be able to sleep like this.
No matter how much I enjoy it, being encased in Nick’s arms like this isn’t exactly comfortable. I’m stiflingly hot, and there’s an awkward angle to my neck, but I wouldn’t want to be anywhere else.
However long I was asleep, I feel completely rested, rejuvenated, alive.
And quite thirsty.
I make a valiant attempt to maneuver out of Nick’s iron grip and reach for the water on the nightstand, but he grunts in his sleep and pulls me closer.
I huff.
So much for hydration.
Problem is, I’m really thirsty. My throat has taken quite a beating today (thank god), and I could use the soothing touch of cool water, or even the lukewarm water in the plastic novelty 49ers cup on the nightstand.
“Nick,” I whisper.
He murmurs something in his sleep and pulls me, impossibly, closer.
“Nick,” I try again.
“Mmrgh.”
Excellent.
Because now I don’t just need a drink of water—the pressure of his arm on my core is making me desperately aware of how much I need to take a piss.
We haven’t tried water sports yet, and now might not be the best time to experiment with pissing on each other.
My arms are pinned to my sides beneath his weight. One of his legs drapes over mine. I’m completely in a Nick cage.
Wait, LOL, I think. What would Benjamin Franklin Gates, of National Treasure fame, do to get out of this situation?
Not that he would ever find himself in this situation.
But, you know.
Hypothetically.
I eventually determine that I’ll neither be able to wriggle nor riddle my way out of Nick’s grip, and so I do something desperate, something fueled by some ancient, survival-focused, lizard part of my brain.
I lick his arm.
Somehow, that does it.
He squeezes me even closer and murmurs, “Good morning.”
“It better not be morning, or we’re very late for work.”
“I think they would understand.”
He has an adorable sleepy voice. Gravely and deep and so, so sexy.
And this time, I ignore the nagging feelings of thinking that he’s sexy.
He rearranged the atoms of my hole with his cock, and now I need to pee. I think I’m allowed to think he’s sexy right now!
“I need to pee,” I inform him.
“Mm,” he says sleepily. “In my mouth.”
“Nick.”
“I’m kidding. I prefer to do the watering myself.” He pinches my nipple.
“If you don’t let me up, I’m about to water your bed.”
“Hmm….” He pretends to consider it. “Worth it? Not worth it?”
“I would prefer not to punctuate the first time I slept in your bed with me wetting it,” I say with as much dignity as I can manage.
At that, he chuckles and releases me.
I spring to my feet and instantly wince.
Yep, I’m going to be feeling the after-effects of our fucking for a bit.
My legs are stiff, my hole is sore, and even my arms are aching.
Not that I would change a single thing. The pain of it adds to the pleasure.
After I relieve the pressure on my bladder, I return to the bedroom, where Nick, still buck-naked, is straightening the covers on the bed.
“What time is it?” I ask, rolling my tight neck.
“Three,” he says, and crosses the bedroom to pull me into his arms, holding me tight against his thick chest.
He kisses the top of my head. “I’ll need to go pick Abbie up soon.”
“Ugh, when your noble fatherly responsibilities get in the way of our casual kinky hookups.”
“Hey,” he says in mock affront, pulling my hair gently and tipping my head back to look up at him, “I think we had plenty of freedom from fatherly duties today.”
“I promise I’m not complaining,” I say, kissing his shoulder. “I know you have to go. I probably should, too. I don’t like to leave Dad and Bobbie home alone too often.”
Though it requires an immense amount of willpower, I peel myself away from his body and go about putting my clothes back on. Nick finds his own clothes and begins to dress again, slowly.
“I admire what you’re doing,” he says as he fastens his belt. “Taking care of your dad like this.”
I shrug, blushing almost as much now as I did when he said my hole “tasted so fucking good.”
“It’s the least I can do.”
Nick raises an eyebrow. “As kindly as possible, I really don’t think it is. And I come from a family that really cares about respect for the older generations.”
He crosses to me and cups my face, stopping me halfway through putting my shirt on. “What you’re doing is selfless and good. I can tell how much you care about your dad—and your stepmom.”
Okay, now I’m really blushing.
I don’t know how to put it into words, the near compulsion I feel to make sure that Dad’s okay, that everything is okay.
Ever since I was a little kid, around the time that Dad and Mom’s marriage began to fracture, I’ve felt this way.
I have an innate, overpowering need to make sure that Nothing Bad Happens.
“I just want to make sure they’re okay,” I whisper.
He frowns, and I can tell by the look in his eyes that he’s trying to figure out how to say what he wants to say.
I don’t rush him.
“I think that’s great, and as a father, I understand,” he says.
“I’ve been a parent—so, a caretaker, kind of like you—and one of the hardest lessons I’ve learned is the importance of taking care of myself first. It’s like—it’s like rushing into a fire to save someone.
You have to make sure you have enough oxygen to pull them out.
I want to make sure that you’re getting oxygen. ”
The words are unexpected. I feel like a book that’s been tightly closed and suddenly split open, for all my words to be read.
And I hate that my first instinct is to throw up my defenses.
“I am taking care of myself. I have a responsibility to take care of my dad, too.”
My words come out harsher than I intended them to, and I see a flicker of surprise and hurt in Nick’s eyes, but I try to ignore it.
I’m not hurt by what he said, but I am caught off guard.
I feel seen, in a raw, vulnerable way that I’m not sure I like. Maybe I’ve gotten so good at pretending to hold it all together for others that I haven’t let myself take a look at the still-healing wounds beneath my surface.
It scares me that he sees me so well.
I check my phone. “Fuck.”
Nick starts. “What is it? Is everything okay?”
My hands are shaking. “It’s my dad.”
Nick’s eyes are wide, frightened. He doesn’t barrage me with questions; he waits while I frantically read the messages on my screen. I have four missed calls and several texts from Bobbie.
BOBBIE: Hi, Tristan. Call me when you get this. Cam fell while he was going out to the garden. We’re on our way to the hospital now. I tried to call you, but you aren’t answering.
BOBBIE: The EMTs said he should be okay. He didn’t hit his head. I hope you’re safe. Please call when you can.
BOBBIE: Latest update—we’re at the hospital now. He’s getting some scans, and the nurse said they’ll get back to us soon. Please check in ASAP.
“Fuck!” I repeat.
Nick’s expression is neutral, waiting to see what I need.
I manage to stammer an explanation.
“My dad—he fell. Bobbie says they’re at the hospital.”
I shake my head, my thoughts spinning. My heart beats so fast, so hard, it feels like it’s trying to ricochet off my ribcage.
“Fuck—shit, I should’ve been there. We know that he’s getting worse. He—what if this—?”
I can’t finish a thought. The words keep jumbling over each other. I grab my shirt and yank it on over my head.
“Nick, I’m sorry, I have to go. I shouldn’t have—” I shake my head. I don’t even know what to say.
I was so stupid, so selfish, coming over here to spend time with Nick.
“Talk to me, Tristan,” Nick says softly. “What do you need? What’s going on in your head?”
My hands are shaking so much that I can barely tie my shoelaces.
I ramble, my throat tight and raw. “I mean, the whole reason I came back to San Francisco was to look after my dad, and now what am I doing? Shirking that responsibility so that I can fulfill some sexual fantasies of mine. I can’t believe how selfish I am.”
“Whoa,” Nick says, raising his hands. “Tristan, you’re not being selfish.”
His brow furrows. “And is—is that what you think this is, just fulfilling some sexual fantasy?”
“What else would it be?” I snap, throwing the words at his—at my—feelings, like I’d throw acid on a wound and hoped it worked as a salve.
Nick’s lips purse, and it’s like something shuts off in his eyes.
“Right,” he says. He nods. “Please let me know if he’s okay.”
With that, he stands to the side, clearing a path to his bedroom door.
A deep, instant wave of shame crashes over me, paired with anger—not at him, but at myself. I squeeze my eyes shut. I will not cry.
“I’ll text you,” I whisper.
And then I hurry out.