Total pages in book: 122
Estimated words: 117872 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 589(@200wpm)___ 471(@250wpm)___ 393(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 117872 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 589(@200wpm)___ 471(@250wpm)___ 393(@300wpm)
Beck reaches back his arm, grabs at my hip, and mutters, “Give it to me.”
“Take it,” I say, hitting a relentless pace. He’s moaning, urging me on.
I’m on the verge of coming, but I always take care of my man.
I cover his back with my body, reach for his cock, and jerk him till he’s shooting all over the bed. He goes boneless, collapsing under me. I ease out quickly, finishing myself off in my hand with two long, tight strokes before I unload on his back, marking him with an orgasm that annihilates all my senses.
Then I sink down against him, my own climax smearing all over my stomach, and I don’t care one bit. I kiss his neck.
He hums.
Then hums a few more bars.
That sounds familiar. “What are you humming, baby?”
“Beethoven’s Fifth.”
“Only you would hum a workout song after sex.”
“You did work me over,” he says. “And besides, it reminds me of you.”
“Why?”
“Because it’s my favorite,” he says, and my heart flies away into his hands.
I was the tiniest bit worried Beck might be sad around Nolan and me. But he’s been laughing and talking a good portion of the day. At first, when my family arrived, he was quiet and polite, making standard small talk, but letting them do most of the chatting.
Now, as I scoop a third helping of mashed potatoes, he gives me a sly smirk. But it’s not just for me. It’s for the whole table. “Are you secretly in love with mashed potatoes, Jason?”
I plop the tasty treat onto my plate. “Nothing secret about it. Mashed potatoes and I are out in the open,” I say, then wince slightly over my faux pas.
I wish Beck and I were in the open.
But no one notices my mistake since Nolan nudges Beck’s shoulder. “Has he enlisted you to make him shishito peppers yet?”
Beck grins like he’s been admitted to the secret society of my food fetishes. “Only ten times.”
I scoff. “Ha. I wish. More like once.”
“Aww, do you want Beck to make you peppers again?” Emerson chimes in, joining the teasing.
“Yes,” I say, intensely serious. “I really do.”
My dad just smiles as he eats, as if this is his proudest moment as a father. His two sons happily enjoying Thanksgiving with their . . .
I stop that thought. Nolan is with his girlfriend, and they’ll leave my house together, hand in hand.
My stomach curdles, and I set down my fork. I won’t do that with Beck. I can’t hold his hand in public.
My dad can’t really be proud of me for being with a good guy who gets me. This isn’t why I came out at seventeen, having to hide who I love.
Because, as I look at Beck, at ease, relaxed, and so damn happy with my family, the full weight of my heart registers on the scale.
I’m in love with him.
And yet I’m not truly with him.
I try to enjoy this almost perfect moment, but I can’t quite embrace the rest of the holiday, even when my dad breaks out the habanero cookies. But I do my best to fake my enthusiasm for everything and hope no one notices.
Later, when everyone is gone, I straighten up with Beck. We load the dishwasher and clean the counter. We pack up leftovers in Tupperware.
It’s so domestic, and it’s like my eggs and breakfast potatoes fantasy all over again. But so much better because I know him better, and I know what I want too.
I want this life with him, here in my house and out on the street.
This secret romance isn’t enough. I’m going to do whatever I have to do to make that happen.
I move past him by the sink, stopping to kiss the back of his neck, savoring today.
And vowing to make a plan tomorrow.
The next morning, after Beck leaves to hit the gym early, I shower, and as I towel off, I check my phone on the bathroom counter, where it charged. An email flashes at me. It’s from Nadia, and it’s titled: You and Beck.
The floor falls out from under me.
35
THE BROTHERHOOD OF THE TRAVELING HAT
Beck
On Friday morning, I hit the gym to work off that stuffing and those pies. But that meal was worth it. The whole day was worth it. These last few weeks have been worth every garage exit and entrance, every late-night visit, and every morning escape.
Today, though? I need exercise and lots of it.
I pound the treadmill on a high incline, blasting Beethoven, running through plays for this Sunday’s matchup against the Vegas Pioneers. As I’m finishing, Carter strides in, heads over to my row, and claims the treadmill next to mine. I pop out my earbuds. “How’s it going?”
“Pretty good, man. I had a date last night.” He punches in a program on the machine and starts a light jog.