“Fuck…stop, I’m so close I could come like this,” he says like he’s begging for mercy.
“You can if you want,” I whisper. “I bet I can make you hard again with my mouth in less than fifteen minutes.”
His throaty groan is my undoing. I let go of his dick to include mine in the party. We’re both leaking enough that I don’t even need the lube.
With resolve, I stroke us both until we spill all over my stomach. Tyler’s shout of release is thankfully muffled against my neck because there’s no way his dad wouldn’t have heard us.
I love the feel of his heavier weight on top of me. Ever since he got his job at the garden center, he’s bulked up in all the right places. He takes my breath away every time I look at him and realize I get to touch him and feel him close.
A moment later, I hear soft, steady breaths and realize he’s fallen asleep on top of me. I turn so he slides away from me so I can grab something to clean us up.
I go out to the bathroom in the hall to get a washcloth. The house is quiet, but unlike my parents’ place, it feels comfortable. This is a home filled with love. It’s all over the walls in the photos of Tyler and his dad.
I take a leak and clean myself before running the cloth under the faucet. When I return to Tyler’s room, he’s still out, so I clean him the best I can and manage to get him under the covers before joining him.
In the two years since we first had sex, we’ve done many things. Hand jobs, blowjobs, frotting, but we’ve never gone all the way. Tonight it wasn’t meant to be, but that’s okay. I don’t need that to know Tyler will always be the only person I can give myself to so freely. I will never feel this way about another person. One day, when the time is right, we’ll be each other’s firsts, and it’ll be magical.
It’ll be the thing songs are written about.
With that thought, I drift off to sleep, with my guy softly snoring against my chest.
14
TYLER
NOW
I openthe banking app on my phone, and sure enough, the balance for the soup kitchen account matches what I can see on my laptop.
“What the fuck?”
Stan raises his head from where he’s sleeping on his bed in the corner of the kitchen but proceeds to ignore me.
The overnight snowfall left a nice white layer on top of the van. Since there’s no real reason to work in my office at the soup kitchen, I’m working from home this morning. I close the app and dial my business manager’s number, thankful it’s earlier on the West Coast.
“Hey, Tanner, it’s Tyler,” I say when he picks up. “I have an odd deposit in the soup kitchen account. Did you transfer any money?”
“Hey, Ty. No, I’ve been working on a mess one of my clients got themselves into, so I haven’t checked your stuff. I’ll investigate it on my side. See what I can find. But if anything, I’m sure I made a note to tell you to go spend some money.”
“Give it to charity or invest in a small business. You know the drill.”
He sighs. He knows the drill. When Porter died, I inherited a large sum of money from him. I tried giving it to Seymour, but he said he didn’t need it, and if Porter left me the money, it was because he wanted to ensure I was looked after.
Not that I needed it either because, by the time Porter died, I’d long left my old job and was making good money off my songwriting.
I hired Porter’s college friend, Tanner, when it all became too complicated and boring for me, but all he tells me to do is to spend the money or give it to the tax man.
I’ve lost count of how much has been donated to charities, and there’s a bunch of small businesses that have no idea I’m their silent partner. Of course, that brings in more income, which gets reinvested.
It’s laughable that when I needed money the most, I didn’t have it, and now there’s too much of it. Well, almost. Before I moved to Stillwater, I made commitments to charities and small businesses that I don’t want to let down.
Even though I started the soup kitchen and still donate the largest part of its funds, some days, it feels like it’ll never be enough.
“Ty, why don’t you spend the money on yourself? It’s about time you bought yourself a decent house, maybe one with a recording studio, a pool, or just a nice kitchen.”
“Hey, the problem with my kitchen is me, not it,” I argue.
He laughs. “Yeah, I’ve tried your food. God, I miss Porter’s pepper steaks.”
