Page 51 of These Secret Years

“Sure.” We get up and go into the kitchen. He pours another drink for himself while I get started on my first. As I’m opening the package of chicken, he moves behind me, his hands first on my hips, then sliding up my ribcage and around to my pecs as he presses his body against my back. He places a wet kiss on the nape of my neck, and I get chills.

“Super helpful,” I murmur as my cock rises to full attention again.

He’s hard, too, and pressed to my ass. I drop the package and grip the countertop, taking a deep breath. “Give me something,” I tell him.

“Like my cock?”

The suggestion makes both my brain and my balls ache. “Confess something.”

“I want to fuck you.”

“Mm…Something else. Something less obvious.”

His huff of a laugh on the back of my neck heats every inch of my skin.

“I saw my dad yesterday, and it made me sad.”

The bold truth takes me several seconds to work through. “Is he sick?”

“I told you he’s an addict. Painkillers. Cocaine. Whatever’s around. He’s got some sketchy dude living with him, and I don’t know what the fuck that was about, but Dad called me brilliant, and it made me sad.”

“Why sad?”

“It’s not like he’ll ever really get to see me play. Not like the way I want him to.”

“How do you want him to?”

“Like dressed in a suit in a famous concert hall.” Sullivan’s hips move slightly, enough that I can tell he’s using my ass to enjoy his own erection. He squeezes my pecs as he does this, and I am so hot and bothered I want to open a window or stick my head under the faucet.

“Is it that hopeless?”

“Does your dad come to all your games?”

I close my eyes, the place in my heart where I love my dad so much but wish he understood me better hurting. “Sometimes he has to work.”

“That’s sweet.”

“Does it make me an asshole?”

He nuzzles a no into my neck. “It makes you perfect.”

Chapter Eleven

SULLIVAN

The most complicated thing I can think of is the one thing I refuse to say to Knight. I like everything about him. I like the way he feels and smells. I like the sound of his voice and the clothes he wears. I like his abs and his dick and his hair and even his beard. I like the way he kisses and the way he’s perfect and smart and can cook.

I like how much he likes me, and that he comes on a hair trigger. I like the taste of his cum. I like that he looks at home anywhere and even that he lives in a mansion with his whole family who I’d probably like too if I didn’t hate everyone but him.

And Chelsea. I don’t hate Chelsea.

Will she hate me for this? I want to care, but I can’t. Every time I try to care—to feel bad about it, I think of Adrian’s hands on me. She wouldn’t be mad about that. She’d probably call the police, and the only difference here is I’m making the rules, and why would she begrudge me that when Knight is the only one in my life who allows it? The only person besides her I even trust?

The cleft my dick has managed to find between his unrealistically firm ass cheeks is warm and tight, even through the thin layer of his pants.

“I can’t cook like this. I can’t even open the meat,” he says, breathless.

“No one ever taught you how to multi-task?”