I fell on top of him like a sack of fucking potatoes, and he laughed, holding me to his chest.
I didn't fucking say it back.
Why the fuck didn't I say it back?
I don't have to search for him this morning. His slender body is fully on top of me. Head tucked under my chin, arms tucked by my armpits. His legs are tangled with mine, and his slow, even breaths tickle the hair on my chest.
I want this. Every morning. I want to make love to him every night. I want his damn drool on my chest in the morning. I want his sleepy smilesand bed hair and morning breath kisses. I want to go to sleep knowing we'll both be in the same bed when the sun comes up. I want it so badly that my chest burns with the urgency to do whatever I need to make sure it happens.
I need to make sure I make him feel so fucking good, so sure of us, that he doesn't get back in that goddamn van.
So why didn't you say it back, you fucking coward?
Kit mumbles something, scrunches his nose, and rubs it over my chest. That seems to wake him, because the absent rub slows and becomes a slow caress, and I hear him inhale. He's smelling me. I grin and pick my arms up from the bed to run down his spine.
“Morning, kitten.”
“You smell like cum, dude.”
“That's because you're a heathen and refused to get off of me. You used me like a glorified cum rag and went to sleep.”
He snorts, rubbing his cheek on me like an actual kitten before he lifts his head and looks at me.
Sleepy eyes.
Sleepy smile.
Say it!
“Do you think my parents heard us last night?”
My panic halts, considers the memory of him moaning with my tongue in his ass, and switches gears. I groan, wrapping him in my arms to roll us.
But the universe is a fickle bitch who loves to fuck with me. Because as I'm rolling us, the blanket slipping down until my ass is centimeters away from the chill air, the bedroom door creaks open with a, “wakey, wakey eggs and…Bowen?” from none other than Mr. Meyer.
Kit's eyes shoot wide. My heart plummets to my ass, and I consider the very real possibility of having a heart attack. Is death by humiliation a thing?
I scramble, trying to flip off his son without flashing my ass or my horrified dick. Meanwhile, memories of each loud moan echo in my mind.Surely if Pat heard the deprived sounds coming from in here last night, he would have fucking knocked.
Right?
Kit sits up by the headboard as soon as I'm no longer suffocating him, “Dad? Knocking is a thing, remember? We established that when I was like…twelve!” By the way his cheeks burn an even more fiery red, I take it this is not the first embarrassing moment Pat has walked in on.
Pat is somehow just as fucking red as Kit, but unlike his son’s wide eyes, Pat schools his features. He leans into the doorway, likely so he doesn't fall over from horror, and offers a pleasant smile like my naked dick wasn't just touching his kid. He sips the coffee in his hand, and it hides the smile tugging at his lips.
“Your Mom will be thrilled to know there aren't feral raccoons in the attic after all.”
Kit covers his face and groans.
I cringe. “Sorry, Mr. Meyer.”
He waves the apology away. “See you boys downstairs for breakfast in ten.”
Kit recovers from the embarrassment long before my heart even begins to relocate itself back in my chest. He giggles over my hurried dressing, like if I put my dick away, it'll revoke the morning. Maybe if I'm dressed and act casual, I can gaslight Pat into thinking none of that happened.
Kit’s eyes sparkle at me in the bathroom mirror while we brush our teeth. I scowl when he waggles his eyebrows. But can't help stealing a kiss when he looks up at me with a smile that fully consumes his face.
His eyes open slowly when I pull back, and he sighs. “You're so hot.”
