Rhys’s hand flexed against the corded muscles in Beckett’s neck and skated upward, warm fingertips tracing up Beckett’s jaw and into his hairline.
“I want you to tell me your dream date,” Rhys whispered, “and then I want you to let me make it happen.”
“I’ll have to get back to you.”
Rhys rewarded him with another tired smile and leaned in to kiss him, his tongue burning hot against the inside of Beckett’s mouth.
“Take all the time you need,” Rhys whispered, then he climbed on top of Beckett and the world around him ceased to exist.
CHAPTERFIFTEEN
RHYS IS RELUCTANTLY NOSTALGIC
Monday came far too soon, and Rhys sat on the couch, frowning at his laptop. He wanted it to be Sunday morning again, when he’d woken up with Beckett’s hot and wet mouth around his cock. He wanted it to be Sunday again, when Beckett had spent half an hour trying to figure out the stainless steel espresso machine to make them both coffee while Rhys lounged in bed, sore and sated. He wanted it to be Sunday again, when he’d backed Beckett against the door and kissed him goodbye. He wanted it to be Sunday again.
Instead it was Monday, and Rhys stared at an email from his father. With a reluctant sigh, he opened it.
From: St. George, Marcus R.
To: St. George, Rhys
Subject: The Clock is Ticking.
Message:
I’m tired of waiting, and in case I did not make myself clear on the phone, I expect you home. Now you have a week. Your ass better be at your desk in Mallardsville before 8 am next Monday, or you’ll learn exactly what I mean when I warn you that actions have consequences.
Best,
Marcus R. St. George
Rhys huffed out a breath and scrubbed a hand down his face. Part of him wanted to be annoyed that his father hadn’t even bothered to sign off the email with anything other than his stamped stationery signature, but he couldn’t say it surprised him. He’d done the same on more than one occasion, and while he granted his father the courtesy and respect of not addressing him on a first name basis, it had been years since Rhys thought of him as a parent.
Marcus was his father in sperm donation only. He’d never been an active parent, instead relegating the responsibilities of childrearing to various nannies and housekeepers, which hadn’t been bad. His father’s staff had at least cared about him and Sebastian.
Rhys picked up his coffee from the side table and took a cautious sip, gauging the temperature. His first instinct, the one that had been burned into his bones his entire life, was to bow to his father, to concede and go home.
But he didn’t want to concede.
And he surely didn’t want to go home.
He wanted it to be Sunday again, or he wanted to havemoreSundays.
That was it.
More Sundays.
More Beckett.
His phone rang and he startled, muscles turning taut. He expected it to be his father, following up on the instruction provided in the email, but instead he saw Sebastian’s face on the screen. He tapped theacceptbutton.
“Good morning, brother.” Rhys leaned back and closed his eyes, the laptop burning hot against the tops of his thighs.
“Have you talked to Dad lately?”
“I’m doing well, Sebastian. Thank you for asking.” Rhys rubbed the bridge of his nose. “And I spoke with him last week.”
“Did you make him mad?” Sebastian asked.
