“I can’t decide if I want to call him daddy ordaddy.”He wants me. Fuck, it’s been seconds, and already I can feel the ridge of him pressing against my hip. Maybe I’ve always known he wants me. Have I wanted him too? He’s too young for me, but now, with my eyes closed and my hands working to tug his shirt out of his pants, he’s clearly a man, and that’s all I need to know.
“Nash.” His voice is rough as his fingers tangle in my hair.
I don’t want to talk. Just want to kiss. Touch. Grind—God. My dick is pressing against my fly, and I’d be totally happy to hump against him until I come inside my pants. He smells amazing. His hair is soft, and I’m pretty sure I can feel the shape of a ring or other jewelry on his nipples as I push up his shirt.
“Oh God.” His hips rock against me, and I skip his chest to explore lower. Could I get his pants open? Touch him? He feels thick, hefty in my hand behind denim. So unlike Dominic, who was long and thin from head to toe and—
Ice water pours down my spine at the thought of Dominic. I haven’t been with anyone since the divorce. Or while we were together. No one but him in seventeen years.
Brady doesn’t fight me when I step back. Instead, he sways, blinking rapidly. His hair is pushed to one side, and his head is cocked, exposing his neck, and I could easily drag my mouth along the tight cord there. I know the noises he’d make, and even the idea of them has my erection throbbing.
We stare at each other in silence for a long time. His hand comes up to his chest, thumb stroking over where his nipple probably is. I have to lick my lips, but my momentary lapse of judgement is retreating, and in its place is disappointed-but-firm conviction.
This is a bad idea.
As I say, “Thanks for coming over,” Brady says, “I should go.” Except we stand there for a few minutes longer. Somewhere along the way, it stopped raining, and the apartment is incredibly quiet. It will get quieter when he leaves. But heneedsto leave.
I go back to the coffee table in the living room and pick up the two glasses. They’re still half-full. I keep my gaze down as Brady tucks his shirt back into his pants. I should send him to the bathroom so he can fix his hair in the mirror, but he really can’t stay.
We share the usual pleasantries as he heads to the door. He says I can call him if I have any more problems, and nothing about his tone or the way he won’t meet my eyes speaks of any kind of double entendre. I say I’ll be fine, even though something inside me shouts that I haven’t been fine in more than a year.
* * *
The talk goes according to plan. Doug and his fiancé, Calvin, are there, and they take me out for dinner afterwards. They’re so in love it’s disgusting, but I can’t blame them. I remember that nervous sense that we were really going to do it, and how much I wanted to tell literally everyone who would listen that I was going to marry the beautiful man at my side.
Calvin’s like that now. Attentive. Constantly checking in to make sure Doug is okay. Doug’s always been quiet, and he’s shrunk in on himself even more since his dad died, but Calvin is all patience and caring with him, and it’s nice to see. Calvin even orders dinner for him when Doug gets flustered over the menu.
“So, how you been?” Calvin says.
“Yeah, fine,” I say, poking at my Caesar salad.
“You getting out more? Trying anything new?”
“Calvin,” Doug says, looking uncomfortable. “Don’t bug him about it.”
“What?” Calvin puts his hand over Doug’s. “I’m just asking. I’m worried. We’re worried, aren’t we?” Doug gives him a nervous smile.
“I’m fine,” I say again. “I went to yoga last week.”
“Yoga!” Calvin gives me an encouraging smile. “That’s great. We tried yoga a few times last year, didn’t we, babe?” He pats Doug’s hand again. “Anything else?”
I kissed my IT guy in a fit of desperation, loneliness, and poor judgment?
“Nope.” I shake my head and chew vigorously on my salad. “That’s about it. I’ve been busy lately, you know? And I’m trying to make sure Doug’s not working too hard so he has time for wedding planning, right?” If I keep talking, they won’t notice that I’m lying through my teeth. That I can still feel the warmth of Brady’s hands on my body, feel the rasp of his skin on my cheek.
Ridiculously, I want to call him. Not to restart what I should never have started in the first place. Maybe to apologize? Make sure we’re still okay? Everything about last night is a sexual harassment lawsuit waiting to happen. Or worse, there will be a tersely worded email on Monday telling me that Brady is canceling his contract with the festival, and I can’t have that. He’s great. Responsive, affordable. I can’t screw up that relationship.
And also, I like him. I know I can be a lot to deal with, especially in the last few years while my marriage fell apart. Brady gives as good as he gets and—
I really need to stop thinking about him.
There is no tersely worded email on Monday, which is a relief. Brady does write, though, asking if I will be a reference for a prospective client. The idea that he has other clients leaves me unexpectedly uncomfortable, and I try not to think about why. I write back a short, “No problem.” I almost say, “You have my contact information,” but of course he does. He basically told me he knows my number on sight, and that thought makes me equal parts pleased and embarrassed. I need to back off. Dominic used to criticize me for not being around enough, but I also don’t want to be needy. Jesus Christ, I called Brady in the middle of the night because my battery died. I’m better than that. I used to be better than that, anyway.
* * *
I finally get to see the kids the weekend after. When I arrive at Dominic’s, the house is chaos.
“Daddy!” Karter throws himself at me.
