Laughing as he lowered my expensive underwear, I sent over the screenshots. “All right, baby. Do your worst.”
He nosed along my length. “You got it. Just let me take care of this first.”
25
KIT
These last sixweeks had been a test of my willingness to accept help. In other words, a tactical assault on my sanity.
Sky hadn’t been lying about the rebellion amongst my management ranks. Unsurprisingly, it started with Sadie and Lane. They straight up refused to let me do anything with the dude ranch, starting with having my IT guy—the one whose salary and benefits I paid—remove my access to all systems. On top of that, they started using my safety cameras to suss out any activity on my part deemed ‘excessive.’
Traitors.
Worse, the blue-haired manager of my hotel in Gruene had gotten in on the act by shutting me out of the nightly updates, plus the gal who manages my vacation rentals had stopped returning my texts. I’d wanted to fire every last one of ’em, but Sky talked me down. With a hand job, but still. I was told this was for my own good.
I hated it.
Well. Not the hand jobs. Or the blow jobs. Or the massages Sky gave me every evening when he came by to check in on me. Usually in something lacy or silky or feathery. He’d also picked up on my penchant for edging, which he used to his advantage.And, when Sky found out this afternoon that my DMs with Rich’s wife led to her serving him divorce papers, he introduced me to rimming.
I came so hard I almost told him I loved him.
That wasn’t my endorphins playing some trick on me. I’d nearly said it a bunch of times since the surgery, but held back, not wanting to freak him out. Which was hilarious, considering freaking out wasmyspecialty.
But I did. I loved him. I was in love with him. After a few more conversations with Luke, I discovered that when you’re straight, or at least when you think you are, you don’t really think about labeling your sexuality. Everyone else, however, gets the labels. As I began to explore this part of me, I realized how othering—a word I learned from my son’s experience of moving through the world—that could be. Then again, having a label for how I approached relationships and sex was helpful. I still didn’t feel totally comfortable with the queer label, but I was bisexual at a minimum.
Sky-sexual, more like it.
It’d been weeks since I felt queasy admitting that to myself, so . . . progress.
Taking the picture and posting it to social media was purposeful. I didn’t just want others to know he was taken. I wanted him to know I was all in, and I didn’t care if other people saw. I wasn’t gonna fall apart if someone gave me shit for being in love with a man. Those people didn’t matter. Only the people in my life mattered, and not a single one of ’em thought this was a bad idea. In fact, I’m guessing they all thought I was pretty lucky.
Joke was on them, though. IknewI was lucky. And even though I’d hated this recovery period, I had to admit, at least to myself, that slowing down allowed me to rest. Not just from thesurgery, but the kind of restorative rest I’d never given myself before.
Time away from my various businesses allowed my mind to go in all sorts of new and interesting directions, with ideas coming at me left, right, and center. So much so that Sky gave me a diary and a nice pen.
“Something to write your thoughts in for when you’re able to conquer the world again.”
Despite his insistence that I didn’t know how to care for myself properly, Sky struggled with it, too. He’d grown weary of that shitty little shack out in the woods but refused to let me put him up in one of my properties. Here, if I had any say in the matter. He was hesitant to stay more than a night or two per week, afraid I’d somehow grow tired of him. Or that I’d panic all over again.
I was going to give him a little more time, a few months maybe, then I was going to put that ridiculous notion to rest, once and for all. Sure, it’d be weird to have my ex-wife and my boyfriend—partner—on the property, but I didn’t give a shit what other people thought. Not anymore.
I was outside grilling,as promised, when Betsy came rumbling up the drive. I stepped over to wave at my man, surprised to see a disgruntled look on his face. He jerked to a stop, swung open the door, grabbed his bag, and tried to exit the vehicle without taking off his seatbelt. Cursing, he released himself and managed to get out, slamming the car door in his wake.
“Sky?” I asked, and he looked up, as if surprised to see me.
“You’re grilling.”
“How observant. We talked about it, and you promised not to withhold sex from me.”
“I don’t think that was the promise, but?—”
“You seem to be in a bit of a mood,” I noted, interrupting him. “Anything you wanna talk about?”
“Oh, you’re one to talk to me about a mood, Mr. Pissy Patient.”
Ouch. But fair.
“And I now feel good enough to both grill a steak to thank you for all the hard work you’ve done for me, plus listen to whatever’s bothering you.”
