He’s going to just stand there and watch, isn’t he? I squirm a little closer to the jet of water pounding my hole and speed up the hand jacking my dick. Logan’s face is impassive, his mouth tipped down at the corners in a little frown. The only way I can tell he’s affected by me at all is that bulge in his pants, which is bigger now. He’s not touching himself, though.
He’s just staring at me with that little frown and those stern eyes and I feel like a naughty schoolboy caught by the headmaster. It is so freaking hot.
I’m furiously stripping my dick and wiggling my ass in the water spray and my eyes are rolling back into my head. And then a movement from Logan catches my eye and I see him ease the cuff of one sleeve back. He glances at his watch and looks back at me.
“Any time now,” he says and I don’t know, maybe it’s the complete indifference in his voice that tips me over the edge.
“Ahhh,” I moan as I come as hard as I came this morning. It makes my knees weak and I slap the hand that was gripping my ass against the shower wall to keep myself from falling over. I duck my head under the shower spray and let the water pound on the back of my neck. My wet hair is hanging in my face and I’m panting through the aftershocks. Whoa. That was intense.
By the time I look up at the bathroom doorway again, it’s empty.
Eight
Logan
My legs are rubbery and my cock is so hard, it’s difficult to walk. I brace one hand on the dresser in my bedroom and palm myself through my slacks. I want to turn around, go back to the bathroom, bend Silas facedown over the sink counter, and shove my cock into him.
He’d be willing, I know. And so tight. The vision of his narrow back and hips writhing when he’s speared on my cock is blinding. Until I see my hand on the dresser surface, imagine it pressed on the back of Silas’s neck, and catch a glimpse of my face in the mirror.
My face is flushed a dark red, and my pupils have swallowed the hazel of my irises. There’s a hard set to my lips and I look…mean, for lack of a better word.
Cruel.
Ready to hurt him for my own pleasure.
I squeeze my cock hard enough that it pulses in my hand.
I won’t do that.
Not yet, anyway. Silas might like a bit of pain with his pleasure—the multiple piercings in the most sensitive areas of his body strongly suggest that. But he’s never been fucked in the ass before and I am not such a monster as to pound into him with no prep.
Even if I am the monster who plans to fuck the virgin ass of my son’s ex-boyfriend.
Back to my original plan. Breakfast, then the delivery I’ve arranged. I’ve got a few toys we could use, but Silas isn’t just a random hookup. I placed the order already and chose items to use specifically for him, and only him.
God bless the internet, where you can not only order sex toys, but hire someone to pick them up for you.
I resolutely turn my thoughts away from the beautiful naked boy in my shower and what I plan to do to him later. A minute or two later, my erection starts to fade and I hear the shower turn off.
By the time Silas comes downstairs, I’m on my second cup of coffee. “Eat,” I say, pointing at the plate of eggs and bacon I’d set on the island countertop in front of the chair next to me. The food is cold, but that’s the consequence of taking too long in his shower this morning.
I pour him a fresh cup of coffee, though, and add the amount of cream and sugar I know he likes. He looks surprised, but he and Lance have spent enough time in my house that I’ve had plenty of opportunities to observe what he likes and dislikes.
In fact, Lance and I used to make breakfast together for Silas on Saturday mornings when they stayed over here. Cooking together is a ritual that dates back to when Lance was growing up and we continued it on any weekends the boys stayed over. We’ve tried all the traditional breakfast foods—eggs every way we could think of, sausage or bacon we’d buy at the farmer’s market, pancakes or French toast, hash browns or home fries—and a slew of more elaborate dishes too. Huevos rancheros, eggs Benedict, a variety of quiches and omelettes.
I like cooking and I like spending time with my kid, even if he’s been a disappointing asshole to his boyfriend.
Silas usually slept later than Lance and would wander into the kitchen, sleep-creased and hair sticking up every which way. Lance would mock him for doctoring his coffee and not drinking it black the way he and I prefer, and Silas would scarf down the food we made with gratifying and messy enthusiasm.
When I’m alone, breakfast is less elaborate, but I’ve ordered groceries to be delivered as well, to cook Silas dinner tonight.
Silas forks up some eggs and chomps a slice of bacon in half. His eyes are darting from his plate to me, sidelong from under the fall of his hair.
Yeah, it’s a little strange to me, too. Having breakfast in this kitchen together, but without Lance. Especially after what we did last night. And this morning.
“How’s your musical coming along?” I ask him. Silas’s senior theater project—a queer retelling of the Oedipus myth as a contemporary space opera—had a limited run as a student-led production last spring, but I know he hopes to someday see it performed on Broadway.
“Ugh, still revising it,” he says. “There were some things that didn’t work the way I’d expected in the first production, so I’m trying to figure out how to change them.”
