Vaughn loves scowling at me, whether it’s because I fight and he finds me with a map of bruises or because I mess up his beautifully made-up sheets or because I splash water out of the pool.
But that’s his love language—alongside shaking his head at me and frowning.
Not that helovesme, but he definitely cares.
He was trying to tutor me so I could pass some tests, but really, I did that boring shit because I got to sit between his legs, my back pressed to his chest, his arms surrounding me while he talked so smart to me. He compromised with that position since I refused to cooperate otherwise.
And let’s just say he either ended up bending me over the table and fucking me senseless, or I fucked him on top of the precious books.
But I did pass the tests, and Vaughn was extremely proud and happy; he rewarded me big time that week. And by that, I mean he went down on me for hours and let me fuck him all night long in every position I could come up with.
From now on, I’ll be passing every test just for that reward, thank you very much.
It’s not just the heat of his body against mine that undoes me—it’s everything else as well. In the pool, where I clown around and he laughs, or at the gym, where I time my pull-ups to coincide with his, just to snatch a kiss—he lost his grip that first time and I devoured him where he fell.
Doesn’t matter the place—a sitcom flickering on the screen, the grass of the garden beneath us—I’m always on him, crushing him into whatever surface is beneath us.
Vaughn doesn’t mind when I collapse on top of him, whether after sex or even when watching TV. Last weekend, I sprawled out on the chair opposite him while he was lying on the sofa, and he frowned, then tapped his chest. “Come here.”
You can bet I rushed over there and fell on top of him, to which he groaned, then released a rumble of contentment. The sofa was crowded with two fully grown, tall, and muscular men. The TV hummed in the background with some cooking show—not me, Vaughn loves that shit for some reason. Says he likes the methodical process of cooking, and it calms him.
As I was half naked, only wearing boxer briefs because he insists I don’t walk around in the nude, he was tracing my back.
“What do the tattoos mean?” he asked, his voice soft.
Since I had my head lying on his chest, I couldn’t see his face, but I felt his long fingers circling lines over my shoulder and rib cage, drawing a shudder from my spine.
“Will you tell me what the tattooed numbers on your inner thigh mean?” I asked back.
He didn’t say no, but he remained silent, his fingers pausing their exploration.
“When you’re ready to open up to me, I’ll do the same,” I said, barely camouflaging the frustration, to which he just continued his silence.
I really loathe it when he keeps that wall stubbornly erected between us. Yes, I know we’re like fuck buddies in his mind, but that’s not the case for me anymore.
Maybe it never was.
Vaughn is the only person who likes me when I’m being myself. Hegetsme.
Fully.
Sometimes, I don’t have to say anything, and he’ll understand what I want. I know I’m mostly easy to read, but no one has ever put in the effort to take care of me. Hell, even my father hates me, so why would a romantic partner care?
Sure, I wasn’t looking for a relationship either, but those in my surroundings only ever used me for sex or companionship or social standing.
Considering my dad only tolerates me and is using me for his legacy, people using me for whatever reason puts a bad taste in my mouth.
Vaughn, however, seems to genuinely care. He’s always buying me shit whenever he comes here. He got me several pairs of leather pants, so I won’t ride wearing jeans, someriding boots, and a fancy new helmet that he put a lot of research into.
He’s always stocking the house and my pockets with ointments for when I get hurt. Creams for different stages of scarring as well—didn’t even know that shit was a thing.
I once complained about engine noise. The next time he was here, he brought me custom-molded earplugs designed for riding.
Then he noticed me being too rough with grooming, cutting myself once, so he got me a premium shaving set. Then he taught me how to use it by shaving me in the tub as he sat on my lap—you can bet I made him sit on my cock somewhere in the middle of his demonstration.
I sprained my wrist, so he dropped a medical-grade support set in the bike’s storage compartment.
It’s the little things that make me think he pays attention to everything I do, to the point where I wonder if he has someone following me around or something.
