“Hey!” Hank warned, raising an eyebrow. “You behave, now.”
“Or what?” Finn pursed his lips, that golden spark lingering in his eyes, kick-starting Hank’s libido like gasoline poured on a dying flame. “You’re gonna spank me?” As soon as the words had left his lips, Finn looked stunned, a deep crimson spreading like a wild forest fire across his cheeks and further down his neck. Feeling unsteady at the eruption of volcanic proportions that the small word had caused inside of him, Hank rested his hand on the doorframe.Spank.He knew what the word meant, of course. Heck, both he and Walter had been spanked on occasion when they were kids. But Hank had never spanked anyone in his goddamn life and now his fingers tingled impatiently to do exactly just that.You’re gonna spank me?Finn looked like he wanted to sink into the floor and hide between the floorboards.
“I’m…” he murmured, eyes looking wildly at Hank.Jesus.This weird-ass day was just continuing, wasn’t it? He felt like he was in the goddamn twilight zone or something. “Hank, I didn’t…”
“Just make yourself useful and set the table,” he grunted, turning towards the kitchen, his voice rougher than he’d intended. He nearly added the wordkidat the end, but somehow that felt wrong now.
“Yes,sir,” Finn squeaked.Shit. You’re in deep shit here, Hank. Yeah, don’t I know it? Don’t I know it.
Chapter Twenty
Finn
Now
There’d been a noticeable shift between them the past week, that small yet loaded word setting something into motion that they were both tiptoeing around.Spank. He’d recognized the fire in Hank’s eyes immediately because it was currently blazing through his own body. Just having woken up from another explicit dream, he found his right hand wrapped around his aching cock, the left clenching the sheets next to him.
Fuck. For a week now, they’d been partaking in this strange dance; a heady anticipation in the air whenever they were together. Like on humid summer days seconds before thunder rolled in over the fields. A sudden awkwardness now invadedtheir previously effortless companionship. Every word carried a hidden meaning; conversations that would usually flow easily now tainted with a pungent tension that lingered long after the last word was spoken.
Every night, he would wake up between one and two, chest heaving, sheets tangled, sweaty and confused. At first, he’d thought that the fever had returned, but his hand was healing just fine, the wound no more than a small scab on his hand. No, it was another part of him that was aching, his cock rock hard and tender to the touch, only somewhat blurred by a dull, hidden ache in his chest. After fruitless attempts at getting himself off to images of anyone but Hank, he would end up groaning into his pillow with frustration and need. So much fucking need. And that would only make it worse because the pillowcase smelled like Hank, too, just like everything else in this fucking cabin.
Every day was like walking a minefield—or worse, like walking through a perfume department where they only offered that one fragrance that you couldn’t have, shouldn’t have.Hank Dietrich. H.D.Shit, even his initials were sexy.Hot Daddy.He wasn’t even that into daddies, but he guessed for Hank, he could be. Hot for Hank.Fuck.Maybe the infection in his hand had spread to his brain, and he’d developed some rare version of encephalitis—mad-man disease, maybe. Mad, horny man. At least, the symptoms were there. Constantly.
Most of the time when he was anywhere near Hank, it felt like his balls were going to burst, the phrase blue balls a useless expression, insufficient to describe the physical torment he was going through. Even motherfucking Dante couldn’t have described the pure hell he was subjected to, his body aching, invisible flames licking at his oversensitive skin. And he only had himself and that mouth of his to blame.Spank.
Just go to him,the devilish voice echoed inside. The same voice that had popped up when he was a kid.Just one morepancake. You know you want to.That sugary, manipulative voice of his teen years.Go on, then. One more beer won’t hurt you.Whispering into his ear on the cramped dance floor, some stranger grinding against him, tempting him, taunting him.C’mon, you know you want to. What’s the harm in letting this stranger blow you in a bathroom stall? You know you’ll never see him again, anyway. Do it. Just. Do. It.Like he was in some twisted X-rated Nike commercial.
He knew better than to try to get it to shut up. It usually won out in the end, so it was just a waste of effort to block it out.Fuck.Throwing the blanket aside, he rubbed his hands along his face, his hair damp from his nightly wrestling match with his libido. Sitting up, he swung his legs off the bed, his naked feet connecting with the cool hardwood floor, the chilling sensation coursing through him, providing some temporary relief. He was still hard, the crotch of his pajama pants—Hank’s pants—wet and sticky. As he stood, his cockhead rubbed against the threadbare linen fabric, a hiss escaping him, his feet nearly giving way beneath him. Pressing the palm of his hand against his groin, he sucked in a shallow breath, then one more, before walking to the small ensuite bathroom.
The bathroom light tore at his eyes as he squinted, taking in his sweaty blotchy face in the mirror. He looked like he’d gone through the pits of hell and back, his hair wild, damp strands sticking to his forehead, dark-blue shadows beneath his eyes, his skin white, paper-thin. His eyes looked back at him, tinged with hunger, the pupils blown wide, a golden ring surrounding them. If he didn’t know any better, he looked like he’d gone into fucking heat or something.
“Shit,” he murmured, hanging his head over the sink, turning on the water. Splashing the cold liquid against his skin, he closed his eyes, willing his heart to quiet down, the frantic thump echoing in his ears. Although cooling at first, the water didn’thave the desired prolonged effect, invisible flames still licking at his skin, his cock still hard, his balls hanging heavily between his sticky thighs. Eight years. Eight years of celibacy where he thought he’d buried that part of himself for good only to have his desire return with a vengeance. All because of a grieving fifty-nine-year-old mechanic from Nebraska.
Shutting off the water, he swept the excess through his hair, rubbing at his neck. Putting on his glasses, he turned off the light, not wanting to spend one second longer glaring at his own pathetic reflection. Closing the bedroom door quietly behind him, he padded down the dark hallway, letting his eyes get used to the absence of light. Brushing his fingertips against the cool wall, he walked the few steps toward the kitchen.
He sensed he wasn’t alone seconds before he recognized the familiar figure leaning against the kitchen counter, looking out of the window at the still night. The broad shoulders carrying the solid neck. The outline of the beefy upper arms and the solid lower arms he knew were covered with strands of coarse, dark hair. The soft waist hidden behind the white T-shirt, hips leading down into strong thighs, built for standing bent over the hood of a car for hours at a time. He loved the way Hank was built, layers of muscle wrapped in softness—or at least what he imagined being cushions of soft skin covered with a thick coat of hair.
“Hank,” he mumbled into the moonlit darkness, not wanting to startle him.
“Hmmm,” the low hum swept towards him. “Can’t sleep either?” Hank remained facing the window, but Finn noticed his shoulders tense, his fists clenching at his sides.
“Yeah.” The few steps toward Hank felt like fucking miles, his mind running rampant, his heart just about to beat out of his chest.
“Must be the moon,” Hank spoke, looking to his side as Finn came to stand next to him, only a small space between them,their shoulders nearly touching. He wanted to lean in, rest his messed-up head against Hank’s solid shoulder, close his eyes, and breathe him in. Instead, his lips moved, working on their own accord, his mind not fully registering what he’d said until the words were out there, living a life of their own in the darkness.
“It’s not the moon, Hank.”
“Yeah, didn’t think so.” A cut-off sigh slipped from Hank’s lips as he turned towards Finn. “Are we gonna have to talk about this?”
“About what?” They were standing so close that the tips of their noses were nearly touching, Hank’s warm breath tickling his lips, begging for him to lean in and brush his own starving mouth against his. Oh, how easy it would be to just lean in and take what he wanted, what he craved.
“Don’t get smart with me,kid,” Hank rasped, an unprecedented edge to his voice, and thekidsaid almost like a warning.
“I’m not a kid,” Finn countered, those fucking flames licking at his inner thighs now, setting his loins on fire, his balls threatening to explode right then and there, creating a river of pent-up desire beneath them. Wouldn’t that be fucking embarrassing?
“I know you’re not.” Hank took a step—or half a step—closer, the tips of their bare toes the first to meet, then their bellies rubbing together.
“I don’t wanna talk, Hank,” he croaked, his voice pathetic to his own ears. Needy.
