9. Need You
It’s Monday evening—dinner night with Oliver—and I might have gotten a little carried away.
I’ve dimmed the lights, put a playlist on low, and decorated my small kitchen table with a candle. I’ve even bought a special treat for dessert.
As I look over all of my preparations, the word “date” comes to mind, and once it’s there, I can’t let go of the thought, no matter how much I try to push it away.
It’s not a date. Not in the traditional sense.
It’s a dinner date, yes—a dinner date with my former stepson, because we want to reconnect and hang out like we used to.
Not a date date.
Despite that, I go all out on my appearance as well.
I slick my hair back, apply cologne, and wear a dark blue dress shirt instead of one of my usual plain long sleeves.
I tell myself it’s simply because I rarely get visits like this.
Not from people I truly care about. My parents live on the other side of the country, and I’ve lost contact with any close friends I once had.
The only other people who visit my home are people I have sex with. Not Oliver.
When he shows up—with windswept hair and a smile on his lips—I open my arms, and he throws himself into my embrace. As he burrows his face into my chest, I stroke his hair, holding him close.
“Are you hungry?”
Oliver tilts his head, looking up at me. “Starving.”
“You look tired.” I stroke my thumb over the dark circles under his eyes.
He hides his face in my chest again. “I haven’t been sleeping very well.”
“Work?”
He sighs. “Yeah. Late shifts. Sometimes I can’t sleep when I get home.”
I keep stroking his hair, wishing I could fix things for him, but it was easier to help him with studying. Work is a different matter. I could give him money, but I doubt he’d accept it. All I can do for tonight is make him feel safe and relaxed in my home.
Reluctantly, I let go of him, and he wanders into the apartment.
“What are we making?”
“Chicken Parmesan.” I show him the chicken breasts, cheese, marinara, and pasta. We used to make this a lot back in the day, but when I go through the instructions, Oliver still listens intently and nods, like we’re about to conduct a science experiment rather than cook dinner.
With the oven on preheat, we assemble the ingredients in silence. After we’ve breaded the chicken, I chuck it in the oven while Oliver gets started on the pasta. In no time, we’ve set the table, and the mouthwatering food awaits us on the counter.
“Good teamwork.” I pull him into my side and hug him gently. “Couldn’t have done it without you.”
“Thank you, Daddy,” he giggles.
I reach out to ruffle his hair, and I say it without thinking. “Good boy.”
He stares up at me, cheeks flushing pink.
Realizing the inappropriate nature of my words, I clear my throat and turn away.
What just happened? My brain supplied the words it thought he wanted to hear, and I was too lost in the moment to stop.
I’ve said those words to other people—the young men I’ve had in my bed—and it’s beyond wrong to tell Oliver the same thing.
Fuck, my head is a mess. I should be ashamed to confuse Oliver with a potential partner, even for a second, but when he calls me “Daddy,” my twisted brain does the rest.
I take a seat, and Oliver sits down across from me. As I portion out our food and we start eating, our conversation shifts to simpler things. He tells me about his roommates—about the Italian twins and the third one, Hunter, who never leaves his room.
“I’ve lived there for weeks now, and I’ve never even met him,” Oliver babbles on.
He tells me about his boss, Guillaume, the MMO game he plays on free evenings with his friend Lane, and how he rides his bike everywhere he needs to go.
“It runs awesomely now,” he tells me, and I smile, letting myself just enjoy seeing him excited.
When our plates are empty and Oliver leans back with a hand on his stomach, I stand up.
“Ready for dessert?”
Oliver blows out a breath, voice strained. “Can we move to the couch? I’m so full.”
“Of course.” I hand him the remote. “Put on what you want.”
While I prepare dessert, Oliver sits on the couch, scrolling through the many streaming options. When I arrive with dessert, his eyes bulge out of his head.
“Really?”
It’s vanilla ice cream and oven-heated banana with melted chocolate on top. Too sweet for my taste, but Oliver used to go crazy for it as a kid.
He grabs his plate without hesitation and takes a bite. “Mm. So good.”
“Yeah?” I sit down beside him with my plate in my lap, but instead of eating, I watch him. The sounds he’s making—his little moans of delight and the way he licks the spoon… God, I need to look away.
After we’ve polished off dessert, we put on a movie. Oliver practically melts onto the backrest, and he gives a big yawn.
“You can lie down if you want,” I tell him, wanting him to be comfortable.
I expect him to lie on the armrest with his feet toward me, but instead he leans to the opposite side and puts his head in my lap.
A surprised breath leaves my lips, and suddenly I don’t know where to put my hands.
Nothing seems right except to put them gently on his head and stroke his hair.
After a while, he shuffles his feet a little and lies heavier on top of me. “Mm. That feels nice.”
“You can fall asleep if you like. I’m here.”
“No…” His voice sounds muffled, a little embarrassed. “I mean, I won’t be able to.”
He shuffles his feet again and squirms, and the realization of what’s happening makes it impossible to breathe.
God, he’s getting hard. Just from having his head in my lap and my hands on his hair.
Unthinking, I comb my fingers through his locks, fingertips stroking his scalp.
He makes the sweetest, softest little sounds, and I can’t help the heat gathering between my legs.
Even though I fight it, the pressure of him having his head there is impossible to ignore.
My heart beats hard and fast as he tilts his face down, slowly, slowly, and rubs his nose and cheek across the fabric of my jeans, directly over my thickening cock. I inhale a sharp breath.
“Hey.” My voice comes out shaky, and I put a hand on Oliver’s cheek and tilt his face up until he’s lying on his back, gazing up at me.
God, he’s beautiful. I’d planned to steer him off me, but my hand stays on his face, tracing the curve of his jaw. Pull away, the rational part of my brain says, but instead, I rub my thumb along the seam of his lips, and his mouth parts slightly, his tongue peeking out, pink and wet.
Pull away. Now.
My thumb slips between his lips, and his eyes flutter shut. As my thumb glides over his soft tongue, my dick gives an aching pulse, and Oliver closes his eyes, brows pinching in want.
I glance quickly at his crotch, and as expected, his pants are tented with an obvious erection. I bet he can feel mine, straining under the back of his head. Wrong. So wrong. We can’t be doing this.
“Oliver,” I say—as much of a warning to myself as it is to him.
He pops my thumb out of his mouth. “What?”
“Get up.”
He flinches and sits upright. As soon as the pressure on my dick disappears, I let out a sigh that’s equal parts loss and relief.
“Sorry,” he mumbles. He sits on his knees, still turned toward me, and I have to gather all my self-control not to pull him in by the neck and bring his mouth to mine.
More than that—images flash before my eyes of all the things I want to do to him, and judging by his parted lips and half-lidded stare, he looks like he knows what I’m thinking. And he looks like he wants the same.
God, why is this happening? Why does he have these feelings for me? And why, heavens why, do I feel them too?
He reaches a hand out and squeezes my thigh, and he doesn’t have to say anything. His pleading eyes say it all.
“Oliver…” My tone isn’t quite as harsh this time, but I shake my head, and his hand falls from my thigh.
“Please,” he whispers, barely a breath.
My heart clenches. I can’t acknowledge that word. Not now. Suddenly, I need to be as far away from him as I can while still reassuring him. I get to my feet, and Oliver stays on the couch, looking up at me.
“It’s late,” I say, more to myself than to him. “And you’re sleepy. You can sleep here if you’d like.”
His eyes light up with hope. “Can I sleep in your bed?”
“No.” Just the thought of having him near me… I can’t trust myself, and that’s disturbing on its own.
He pouts. “Why not? Remember when Mom was away on a work trip? I’d sleep with you in your and Mom’s bed, so why—”
“Oliver.” I say his name so loud, he jumps. “This is not like before.”
“It could be,” he whimpers.
I shake my head. “It can’t. You’re grown now, and you…” I gesture toward his legs and swallow hard.
He covers his crotch with his hands, cheeks flushing. “I’m sorry. I can’t help it.”
“It’s okay.”
“No, I’m making things weird,” he whines. “I’m sorry.”
“Hey,” I say softly. I hate seeing him like this. I hate rejecting him, even though it’s for the best. “It’s okay, Ollie. You don’t need to be sorry.”
I want to pull him into a hug; I want to comfort him with more than words, but if I did, I don’t know what would happen.
I can’t trust myself around him anymore.
Not when he looks at me like this… Not when I know he wants me.
Not when he’s right there, offering himself, and all I’d have to do is reach out and take him.
Desperate to get my mind out of forbidden territory, I go to my bedroom and pick out clean sheets, a spare duvet, and a pillow cover.
Oliver is in the bathroom while I make the couch ready for him, and when he steps out, he’s dressed in just a T-shirt and boxer briefs.
Forcing my gaze away from his pale legs and the dusting of hair on his thighs, I go to fill him a glass of water and put it on the coffee table in case he gets thirsty in the night.
“I have work tomorrow, but if you want to sleep in, I’ll leave you the key.”
“It’s okay,” Oliver says, shrugging. “Just wake me up when it’s time.”
He looks so small, so disappointed—in me or in himself, I’m not sure.
Maybe the situation at large. The desire to comfort and reassure him physically hurts.
I want to hug him, but if I do, I’m sure my body will react the same way as his.
Instead of hugging him—instead of kissing his cheek or doing any of the things I want to do—I pat his shoulder as I pass him and tell him “good night.”
Later on, when I’ve put my head on my pillow, a new voice speaks through my thoughts, tugging at my heart.
He needs you. He’s all alone. You’ve already rejected him once, and now you’ve rejected him again. Your boy needs you.
I can’t. I squeeze my eyes shut and turn onto my side, waiting for the voice of reason to take over—the one that reminds me of who Oliver is and that stresses that I can’t ever let any lines be crossed between us—but that side of me feels quieter than before.
Instead, the voice I hear when I drift to sleep is the other one. The daddy in me.
He needs you. He wants you. How long can you keep denying that you want him back?