Page 69 of For Pucking Ever

Derrick’s fingers stroke the back of my head as I reach his hips, his breath coming in shallow pants. I glance up at him, our gazes locking, and the trust in his eyes steals my breath. He’s given me everything, his body and his heart, and I’ve given him mine in return. We’re bound together, by the truths we’ve shared, the silence we’ve broken, and the shadows we’ve chased away.

I dip my head, taking him into my mouth, taking his dick to the back of my throat and he arches off the bed with a soft cry. His hands in my hair, holding me in place, but I need no encouragement. I want this, want him, want to feel him come undone beneath me. I want to give him this pleasure, this release, this gift.

His body tenses, his breath coming in sharp gasps, and I know he’s close. I redouble my efforts, slurping and sucking hard. My own body aches with need, but this isn’t about me. This is about him, about us, about the unspoken words that binds us together.

He cums with a cry, his body convulsing, his hands gripping my nape tightly. I stay with him, riding out his orgasm, until his body relaxes and his breath evens out. Only then do I move back up the bed, gathering him into my arms.

He snuggles into my chest, his fingers tracing patterns on my skin. “Merry Christmas to me,” he murmurs, his voice soft and sated.

I chuckle, pressing a kiss to the top of his head. “Merry Christmas, Princesse.”

By the time I pad down the stairs in bare feet and a worn thermal shirt, the house smells like cinnamon, brown sugar, and the warm salt of roasted meat. The scent wraps around me like the softest wool, coaxing me into the kind of quiet I rarely allow myself to feel.

Elaine is already up, seated in the sunlit corner of the living room in the armchair we moved down from the upstairs den. The cane rests lightly beside her, a quiet reminder of her condition that somehow doesn't diminish her presence. She looks peaceful, elegant in a cranberry wrap dress that complements her dark complexion and thick wool socks folded neatly at the ankles. Her hair is braided, the silver-gray plaits woven into a tidy updo that speaks of practiced hands and quiet dignity. Gold-rimmed glasses are perched on her nose, catching prisms of morning light. A book is open on her lap, though I don't think she's read a word, her gaze has been fixed on something beyond the window, something only she can see.

"Good morning, Miss Elaine," I say gently, not wanting to startle her from whatever peaceful reverie she's found.

Her eyes lift, brown like her son's, warm and sharp with an intelligence that illness will possibly never dull. "Sebastian. You finally woke up. I was beginning to think Derrick wore you out."

I blink. Stunned. The words hang in the air between us, and heat creeps up my neck. God, I hope she didn't hear me making her son scream my name this morning. Then something unexpected happens. I laugh, the sound bursting from me like water breaking through a dam. "Ah, he did but don't let him hear you say that. He thinks he's the one who lets me rest." Guess there's no point in being embarrassed. We're both grown ass men, and Miss Elaine doesn't take me for a woman who pretends reality isn't what it is.

She smiles at that, soft and fond, the corners of her eyes crinkling with genuine affection. "He has that effect," she says, and there's something in her tone. A mother's knowing, a woman's understanding that makes me feel like I've been welcomed into a secret circle of those who truly know Derrick Shaw.

I take the seat across from her, the quiet stretching comfortably between us for a moment. Derrick's humming carries from the kitchen, Some Day At Christmas by Stevie Wonder under his breath, the sounds of pots and pans clinking in rhythm. The scene is domestic, startlingly so, and perfect. Almost jarringly perfect, like I've stumbled into someone else's life. Except it feels like mine now, a fact that still catches me off-guard when I let myself think about it.

"You really let him do all the cooking today?" I ask, running my palm over the worn arm of the chair, feeling the gentle abrasion of the fabric against my callused skin.

Elaine chuckles, a warm sound that reminds me of Derrick's laugh. "He insisted. Said if I so much as looked at the oven, he'd call security. As if I'm not the one who taught him everything he knows." Her fingers tap lightly against the cover of her book, a familiar gesture I've seen Derrick do a hundred times when he's making a point.

"He just wants to take care of you," I say, watching how the sunlight plays across her features, highlighting the resemblance between mother and son.

Her gaze lands on me then, sharp in the way only mothers can manage. It isn't hostile. Just aware. Measured. Like she's reading pages of me that I didn't realize were open for viewing.

"He's happy," she says simply. "He hasn't been this way in a long time. Not since he left for Toronto. Not since the accident." The last word hangs between us, weighted with all it represents—pain, fear, uncertainty.

I nod slowly, remembering the hollow look in his eyes those first weeks. "He deserves to be."

"He does," she agrees. Her fingers still on the book, and she looks at me fully now. "And I know I don't need to say it but I'm going to anyway. Thank you. For being there for him. Even before all of this. When I couldn't be." There's a vulnerability in her voice, a rare crack in her composure that makes my chest ache.

I swallow hard, uncomfortable with the gratitude. "You don't have to thank me. I didn't do it for recognition." The truth is messier, I did it first out of guilt, then out of something deeper that took root when I wasn't looking.

"I know," she says. Then more gently: "I just wanted you to hear it. From me. He's my heart. Always has been. Love my son, Sebastian."

The words land like a blessing and a command all in one. My throat tightens. I've said a lot of things to Derrick over the last two months but not that. Not the one thing he probably needs to hear most. Because I've been afraid. Afraid of the weight of those words, afraid of how completely I mean them, afraid of how easily he's broken through every barrier I've spent years constructing.

Sitting here in the morning light, with his mother looking at me like she already knows, like maybe she's known longer than I have, it feels easy. Like the most natural truth I've ever spoken.

"Every day," I say quietly. "I do." The admission feels like setting down a burden I didn't know I was carrying.

Elaine smiles, and it's full of grace and something like peace. The lines around her eyes deepen, mapping years of joy and struggle. "Welcome to the family, then."

I nod, throat still tight with emotion I rarely allow myself to show. "Thank you." Two simple words that feel inadequate for what she's offering, acceptance, belonging, home.

For a moment, we let the quiet return, filled only with the distant sounds of Derrick creating something for us, humming his Christmas song in the kitchen, unaware that his mother has just handed me a gift I never thought I'd receive.

In the stillness, my mind strays. I can still hear my father's voice from the week after the gallery reveal—cutting, cold, echoing in my head.

"No son of mine holds another man's hand in public. No son of mine parades around like that. And you paint? You paint, Sebastian? You've embarrassed us enough. We want nothing to do with it. I don't care how much money you've made. It's disgraceful."