13. Wrong
I neither see nor hear from Oliver for a few days.
I hope our last conversation didn’t upset him.
He seemed more sullen than sad when I drove him home, though, so I figure he’s just busy with work.
I’m busy, too, and my mind is busy with thoughts about him, especially at night when the world is quiet and dark.
I find myself wondering about his life, his dreams, and his plans for the future.
I think about him constantly. I hope he’s safe; I hope he’s happy.
Sometimes late at night, my thoughts drift to the times we’ve stepped over the line.
First, when he had his head in my lap, and then, during the massage.
I think about his parted lips and soft skin.
I think about the breathy tone of his voice when he calls me “Daddy.”
Inevitably, my body responds to my forbidden thoughts.
I need relief, but if I touch myself, I know where my mind would lead me, and I can’t allow that.
I can’t jerk off to thoughts of Oliver—no way.
Besides the wrongness of it, I’d be a hypocrite.
I’m the one who’s tried to keep our relationship platonic.
I’m the one who asked him not to call me “Daddy.” But in the darkness of night, the reasons for why I can’t have him seem to hold less weight than during the day.
Regardless, I force myself to go to sleep without relief, night after night. Getting on the hookup app is not an option either. I don’t want to meet a stranger; I want… No, don’t finish that thought.
On Saturday, I send Oliver a text.
Me:
Making homemade pizza tonight. Could use some help.
Friendly, soft, the way we usually talk. Oliver’s text comes a few minutes later.
Oliver:
Okay. When?
When I look out the window, it’s overcast and pouring rain, so I don’t want to force him to ride his bike. I tell him I’ll pick him up at six, and he reacts with a thumbs-up.
I have two hours to grocery shop and prepare for his arrival, and for some reason, nerves fill my chest at the thought of him.
I really, really want to see him. Even though it’s only been a few days since I last saw him, I’ve missed him—his soft giggles, his teasing remarks, and his blissful sighs when I hug him tight.
I’ve missed him calling me “Daddy,” too, but I can’t tell him that. I can’t act on my feelings when it comes to him. I have to practice restraint, but my restraint is waning, and frankly, seeing him tonight feels dangerous somehow.
The hours pass, and I get my home ready to receive him. I clean, prepare the pizza ingredients, and fluff up the couch pillows.
Eventually, the time comes to pick him up. When I arrive at his apartment building, he runs out of the door, shielding his hair from the rain, and climbs into my car.
“Hi, Daddy,” he says, leaning over to give me a hug.
“Hi.” Clearing my throat, I hug him back, and I don’t say what I should say. I don’t say, “I thought I asked you not to call me that,” because technically, I didn’t. I just said it’s inappropriate, and apparently Oliver doesn’t care about being inappropriate.
During the drive to my place, he’s unusually quiet.
More often than not, he babbles on about the games he’s been playing, the twins’ antics, or his boss’s complaints.
Instead, all he does is glance at me now and again while tapping his feet against the floor of the car.
Is he nervous? About what? We’re just having a dinner night, which we’ve had a handful of times already.
This time, though, Oliver turns out less interested in the cooking than the previous occasions. He keeps getting distracted, fidgeting with everything he can get his hands on and zoning out when I try to give him instructions.
The pizzas turn out fine regardless. One has a cheese topping with vegetables, while the other has pepperoni and mushrooms. They smell divine coming out of the oven.
“Can we sit on the couch?” Oliver asks, and I shrug in a “why not?” and set our plates and the oven tray on the coffee table.
I hand Oliver one of the sodas we bought during our grocery run, and he drinks it quietly, still lost in thought.
I devour slice after slice while he leaves his plate mostly untouched.
“Not hungry?” I ask, wiping my mouth. Usually I’d have a beer with my Saturday dinner, but something tells me it’s not a good idea to drink in Oliver’s company. I need my senses sharp in case he—
“I know you think I’m confused,” he says suddenly.
“What?”
“I know you think I don’t know what I want, but I do.”
My body grows hot all over at the way he’s looking at me and at the decisive tone of his voice. “Is this about the Daddy thing?”
“It’s about all of it.”
“All of it?”
He gets to his knees, and before I can stop him, he climbs into my lap, straddling my thighs.
“Oliver…” The warning in my voice doesn’t come out as sharp as the other times. “We’ve been over this.”
“No, we haven’t.” His face is impossibly close, his mouth inches from mine.
“You haven’t let me make my own decision.
” He inhales a shaky breath, and for the first time, he falters.
I realize he’s been building up the courage to do this for hours, maybe days.
“I don’t need you to…” He leans in even closer, his nose brushing mine.
“I don’t need you to protect me from you. ”
My heart beats wildly against my ribs. Oliver’s weight on me is making it hard to focus, and his eyes gazing into mine are full of determination and unmistakable want.
He brushes his lips over mine in a tilt of his head, coaxing me to respond and open up. “Daddy, please…”
I suck in a deep breath, my whole body thrumming with tension and maddening desire. “Oliver… we can’t.” I have no idea where to put my hands. They land on his hips, circling his small waist.
“Why not?”
“It’s wrong.”
“How can it be wrong? I want it so much.”
I feel his want—his arousal, his hard erection—pressing against mine, and my own dick can’t help but respond, thickening and reaching toward his body.
“It’s okay,” he whispers. “You can let go.”
Let go… Deep down, I know I already have.
My boy needs me; he wants me, and I want him too.
I’m not saying it’s not wrong. I’m not saying I’m not a terrible person for giving in.
I don’t even know if I’ll forgive myself for what I’m about to do.
But for now, I allow myself to leave all my doubts behind and just feel.
The weight of his body, the small puffs of his breath against my mouth, his hand grasping my shirt as if he’s afraid I’ll push him away… I allow myself to feel it all, and as soon as I do, my hands tighten unconsciously around his hips.
“What do you want, Oliver?”
“You,” he breathes.
“No… tell me what you want.” If this is going to happen, there can be no doubts between us. No uncertainty. I need to know he’s on board with everything we’re doing.
He rocks his hips, gasping at the pressure. “I want… I want you to kiss me. Please.”
I lean in, hands clamping around his waist, and before I’ve even closed my eyes, he meets me halfway, and our mouths collide.
I’m kissing him. I’m kissing Oliver. My stepson, my sweet Ollie, the boy I swore to myself that I wasn’t going to touch.
Even now, I should stop, but his mouth tastes so sweet, and he moans into the kiss as if it’s all he’s ever wanted.
He rolls his hips harder against mine, his erection digging into my lower belly.
I can tell by the clumsy movements of his tongue and lips that he’s not an experienced kisser, but that’s okay.
I guide the kiss like a lead guides a partner dance, tilting my head and allowing him to deepen our connection, which he does with unbridled enthusiasm.
Our mouths move as one, and our tongues meet, his soft and warm and curious against mine.
More than the kiss, there’s the movement of his hips, and my hands guide him there, too, knowing what’s going to happen before it does. Moments later, his whole body tenses up, and he breaks the kiss in a gasp as his eyes squeeze shut.
“Oh.” His hips stop moving, and his cheeks turn bright pink. “S-sorry.”
“It’s okay.” I stroke his thighs, short of breath from the intensity of the kiss—the intensity of everything. “You needed this, didn’t you?”
“Yeah.” A nod and a breathless smile.
“You needed Daddy.”
He makes a whimpering, needy noise, and I have to stop myself from holding him tighter, from carrying him into the bedroom and continuing what we started.
I need to cool down. He just came, and he needs to be taken care of.
That’s my only priority right now—my own pleasure can wait, though my cock aches with need.
“How… How about you?” Oliver asks, glancing down between our bodies.
“Shower first. I’ll get you a towel.”
His gaze falls in disappointment, but he climbs out of my lap and lets me guide him toward the bathroom.
As I hear him showering, I figure I’ll distract myself by doing dishes, but I don’t get that far.
I end up gripping the kitchen counter with both hands, my shoulders tensing up, fearing the regret that I know is coming.
I did what I swore I wouldn’t do. We kissed. We touched. I set something in motion that can’t be undone, and when he comes out of that shower, I have no idea how I’m supposed to suppress my need for him now. My control is slipping, and I don’t know how to get it back.
Then don’t, a voice cuts through my tormented mind. Give in. You know he wants you, and you know you’re not ruining his life by being with him.
I don’t know that, I want to say, but there’s no use in arguing. There’s only giving in.