Bay and I go inside the house. He watches me closely, but he doesn’t say anything yet.
The first thing I do is go to the bed, climb onto it, and wrap myself in a blanket.
Bay joins me, kneeling beside me and reaching out to take my hands, but I curl up even tighter.
"My dad lied to me my entire life. Max Strada wasn’t my father." And I give him a brief version of everything Dad told me.
Bay listens with intense attention.
"I want to stay here with you. I don’t want to go back home. He pissed me off. He pissed me off so badly!"
There’s understanding in Bay’s eyes.
"Oh, Alex, of course you can stay here. I’d only be happy about it. The real question is, do you want to leave it like this? You don’t want to talk to him again?"
A snort escapes me. "He could have told me earlier. I’m not saying when I was a kid, but he could have told me when I was twelve at least."
Bay gently pulls my clenched fists from under the blanket and slowly uncurls my fingers in his big hands.
"Alex, I’m not going to defend your dad, because he really did build all of this on a lie, but I’m convinced he believed it would be better for you. And he must have felt betrayed in his own way, because Max planned to kill him and you, and you were innocent in all of this, so it’s hard for me to take any side here. Everyone has something heavy on their conscience. Max shouldn’t have tried to kill you. That’s evil."
I go quiet for a moment, thinking through his words. He’s right. Max Strada had planned to kill his husband and me along with him. No denying it.
"You’re right, but that makes it even worse. For years I thought my almost-killer was my father. This is all so fucked up, Bay."
Bay wraps his arms around me, then shifts us so we’re lying side by side, pulling the blanket over both of us.
"It’s really shitty to find out something like this on your eighteenth birthday."
He holds me tighter against his broad chest, and in his warmth I feel the same comfort as always, the same calm.
I close my eyes. Bay’s hands stroke my hair with a slow, steady gentleness, and little by little I settle, because with him it’s easy, in his arms it’s good and safe and peaceful, and the shadows and the lies can’t reach me here.
I grab his hand and pull it to my chest.
"Touch me," I ask in a quiet, almost pleading voice. "I need it."
I want that brief escape and the comfort that his closeness can give me. He hesitates, a small crease forming between his brows.
"Are you sure?"
I nod, my hands lifting to circle his neck in a soft gesture, and his hand slides over my T-shirt in a slow, unhurried motion.
I arch beneath the slow journey of his fingers across my chest, a sweet, intoxicating shiver racing through me as they brush my nipples.
So good, so good, yes… I beg him silently with my impatient little jerks, my body trembling just slightly. All the unpleasantness fades away, drifts off, and Bay eclipses my anxiety like the sun dominating the horizon.
His lips meet mine, not in a rush, but intently, a kiss, then a retreat, his mouth landing on my cheeks, my temples, my neck, tracing damp paths along my collarbones.
I tug off my T-shirt, I want his lips on my swollen nipples. A needy moan escapes me as his mouth finally reaches them, sucking lightly.
My fingers dig into his hair, and I arch again as he sucks and nips at my sensitive nubs. Shivers ripple through me, forcing waves of blood down into my lower belly, and my cock stands at attention, prodding Bay’s chest.
I start pushing his head down, gently but insistently, guiding him away from my nipples. He knows exactly what I want, but he lingers, nuzzling against my chest.
I push and push, until finally, a whimper of impatience escapes me. Bay smirks.
Eventually, he takes mercy, traveling lower. His tongue flicks against my small shaft, nudges it with his nose, then his lips slowly envelop me, wrapping me in warmth and wetness.
