22. Not Enough
I shouldn’t have freaked out about the pancakes. It’s like he said—things are different now. It’s symbolic, in a way; he didn’t make them for me that day, but he made them for me now, which means he’s staying, not leaving.
I try to keep that thought in mind as we walk to the clothing store.
The sun is shining, and the air is crisp and pleasantly cool.
Walking down the street, we see several couples holding hands.
We even see a few gay couples. I’d take Logan’s hand, but I’m unsure how he’d react.
More than that, I don’t know how the people around us would react.
When that waiter assumed I was his son, Logan got uncomfortable, so I better not risk it. I want to, though.
At the store, I sift through the jeans aisle and pick out a couple of pairs. After mumbling that I want to get something comfier, too, Logan shows me a selection of linen pants. I pick the cream-colored ones and head toward the fitting rooms.
The first pair of jeans fits well enough, but when I turn to the mirror, I feel unsure.
“You okay in there?” Logan asks on the other side of the door.
“No,” I groan. “Can you come help?”
Logan clears his throat in a moment’s hesitation before the door opens, and he slips inside the tight space. Sitting on a chair in the corner, he watches me squirm in front of the mirror.
“What do you think?” I ask.
“They’re a little loose.”
“Really?”
“Yeah.” He grabs the fabric right where my leg meets my ass.
My cheeks heat. “Um, they’re not that comfortable anyway. Let me try these.” I grab the linen pants from the hanger, and Logan holds them for me while I drag the jeans off and kick them into a corner.
The linen fabric is soft when I pull the pants on. Alone in this tight space with him, I can’t help the heat gathering between my legs, even though we’re practically in public.
The stretchy waistband feels a lot comfier than the jeans, and I turn around to see myself. My breath hitches when Logan puts a hand on my hip.
“Let me see.” He turns me slowly all the way around, until my ass is on display for him. “Yeah, that’s better.”
I glance back at him, my already-simmering arousal surging at the equal parts thrill and embarrassment of having his attention on me like this.
“They’re a bit loose at the front,” I mumble.
“Are they?” His voice is low, as if my own arousal has affected him.
With a gulp, I turn around, and he pulls at the bunched-up fabric by my groin. My dick responds immediately to his touch, twitching in my boxer briefs. Calm down, I try to tell it, clenching my hands by my sides. He’s only checking the fit—not touching you like he wants to… Like he wants to…
“Not so loose anymore, are they?” he asks in that same low voice, his gaze focused on the part of me he’s touching—where he’s stroking his knuckles directly over the base of my cock, which by now is embarrassingly hard.
“Daddy,” I whisper, both mortified and turned on beyond belief. I haven’t been able to stop my attraction to him ever since we reunited, and now, it’s running wilder than ever—even in a place where we definitely shouldn’t be doing this.
“Always so needy for Daddy, hmm?” He flips his hand over, his palm rubbing my erection over the linen pants.
I cast a glance at the mirror, and the outline of my dick is painfully obvious, along with my flushed cheeks and terrified gaze. Terrified not because of what’s happening, but because of where it’s happening. I can’t control my desire for him, not even in a fitting room.
There are people outside; I can hear them walking past and opening and shutting the doors. The doors have a gap at floor level, and they can’t even be locked. Any moment now, someone could walk in, and somehow, that only makes me harder.
“Daddy.” A heady moan slips from my throat when he squeezes my dick harder through the pants. There’s a wet patch forming from my precum, seeping through my boxers and into pants we haven’t even bought yet.
“Shh,” Daddy says, but I don’t think he knows how close I am. He kneads my cock and balls with his palm in delicious circles that have me gasping.
Biting my lip to keep from crying out, I lean into his touch and put both hands on his shoulders, desperate to come.
It’s not like he can jerk me off properly over the pants, but I’m not sure he needs to.
I just need more touch, more friction, more of Daddy and his steady, calm presence that makes my knees weak and my blood surge with need.
I don’t think about the consequences; I just feel. When Daddy grips my cock with his whole hand and strokes it gently, I explode. Into the pants. The pants that still have a price tag.
By some miracle, I manage to keep relatively quiet, and Logan’s eyebrows shoot up in surprise, as if he didn’t know I was about to come so soon.
“Well.” He runs a thumb over the embarrassing patch of cum. “Now we definitely need to buy them.” He chuckles, and my cheeks burn hotter than ever before.
Gently, he tugs the pants off me and folds them in a way that hopefully will hide the stain. My underwear is still wet, though. He looks up at me for permission, and when I nod, he slides them off, uses them to wipe any residue off my groin, and stuffs them into the pocket of his pants.
I guess I’m going commando now. I pull my tattered old jeans on, and when I’m done, Logan puts both hands on my hips. Still seated, he pulls me into a hug, his head level with my stomach.
“Was that okay?” he asks. “I didn’t know I’d make you come so soon, sweet Ollie. You just looked so needy, and I couldn’t resist.”
“It was so good. I really liked it,” I say earnestly, even though it was pretty embarrassing, too. That’s part of why I liked it, I think.
He smiles. “Good. Now let’s go and buy those pants. You liked them, didn’t you?”
I nod. I’d want them anyway, regardless of whether I’d shot my load in them or not.
When we open the door, the fitting room area is full of people. They’re enough that we can slip away somewhat unnoticed, but I still see a couple of curious and disapproving looks as we make our way to the register.
I hand the linen pants to the cashier with Logan beside me like a comforting presence.
The cashier—an older woman in her fifties maybe—looks at us with raised brows.
I don’t think she’s noticed the stain, but the way I gravitate toward Logan and the way my hand closes around his arm probably gives the nature of our relationship away.
Her mouth tightens, and her movements become more aggressive as she flips the card reader toward me. Pulling out his card, Logan steps in front of me, and the cashier’s expression twists with disgust as he pays for the pants.
When we leave the store, Logan’s gone silent, his body language stiff as he takes large strides that I struggle to keep up with.
“Do you think she saw the stain?” I ask.
“No,” he mutters. “She only saw us.”
“Us?”
He doesn’t reply, and my chest tightens with worry.
She disapproved of our relationship, that’s for sure, but she assumed things that aren’t true.
She didn’t see us for who we really are.
She didn’t see how well Logan takes care of me, how he always checks in and never does anything I don’t want to do. She doesn’t know what a good man he is.
He’s walking so fast that I can barely keep up, and I know where he’s going: home. Retreating to the apartment. I don’t want our date to be cut short, though. I want to stay with him, experience the world with him.
“I’m hungry,” I say loudly, and he slows down enough for me to grab onto his arm. “Can we go to the park? There’s a café I’ve always wanted to try.”
His jaw tightens, but when he sees my pleading eyes, his expression softens slightly. I can practically see the thoughts running through his mind. He wants to go home, but he wants to please me and feed me as well.
“Okay. Lunch.” While his tone is still clipped, his eyes are warmer now, and he lets me hold his arm as we walk toward South Waterfront Park.
I hold on to him a little too tightly, a little too desperately, my mind swirling with thoughts. The reaction of that cashier—and of the world in general—is not the truth of our relationship. I wish I could make him understand that, but I don’t know how.
Despite the chill in the air, the sun is shining, and the park is full of people. A few couples are holding hands, and I slide mine into Logan’s, trying to transfer my calm to his anxiety. No one will care. People are too busy with their own lives to send us more than a curious glance.
I love the contrast between us. Him big and me small, him older and me young, his tan skin and dark hair to my paler complexion. We look nothing alike. No one can possibly think we’re father and son, even though our age difference implies otherwise.
The cold wind cuts through my jacket and sends me shivering, and the lack of underwear chafes a bit. My cheeks heat when I think of what happened in the fitting room. I can’t believe I came in those pants.
Holding Logan’s hand tighter, I gaze up at him, smiling.
I find it hard to believe that he’s here with me, and more than that, I can’t believe the sort of relationship we have now.
Sometimes, I need to pinch myself to make sure I’m not dreaming.
Simply walking with him, holding his hand and feeling his warmth, seemed impossible only a few weeks ago.
Further along the trail, two young men are embracing by a railing.
Their silhouettes draw my eye, and their lingering hug is too intimate, making them seem like more than friends.
The first guy is lanky with black hair and pale skin, while the other is taller; bulkier, with short brown hair and an intimidating aura.
A jolt goes through me. Lane and Mason. What are they doing here?
Shit, shit, shit.