Total pages in book: 79
Estimated words: 77775 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 389(@200wpm)___ 311(@250wpm)___ 259(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 77775 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 389(@200wpm)___ 311(@250wpm)___ 259(@300wpm)
I just want him.
That thought makes my lower belly burn hot. What exactly does that mean? Do I really find him attractive?
When I think about his pouty lips, my dick twitches. Okay, so yeah, I do find him attractive. It’s strange as fuck, too, considering I’ve never once desired another man like this. Sure, I’ve thought other men looked good. I kind of thought of that as how one would appreciate art. Everyone does that, right?
Or do they?
Have I been bisexual all along and never recognized it?
Perhaps. I never shied away from looking at the other guys in the gym showers when I played football. Mostly, I was curious about what size dicks they had to compare myself to them. Some of the most arrogant dudes on the team had tiny-ass cocks, which I always found amusing. We had this one guy on the team, though, Tim Gallagher, who I found particularly interesting. Gallagher was one of the smaller guys on our team, but he was hung. Biggest dick I’d ever seen in my life. I always wondered how big it actually got like when he was hard and ready to fuck.
Now that I’m actually analyzing things, I’m realizing maybe I wasn’t as straight as I originally thought I was. Back then, had Gallagher approached me, stroking his dick, I might’ve stayed for the show. Hell, I might’ve even been curious enough to see if I could wrap my large hand around his massive girth.
Right.
So definitely not straight.
My attraction to Tate feels similar to the Gallagher thing. I’m curious, but much more aware. Maybe it’s because now I don’t have Serra to distract me. She was always pushing for sex and who was I to deny her? I wonder if I’d have realized I was bisexual a lot sooner if she hadn’t been there back then.
Not that it matters.
Realizing my sexuality is a moot point. I’m not the guy I was back then. I’m the reclusive freakshow Park who hides away in the shadows, a slave to his past failures. I’m not the kind of guy who pursues anyone—much less a guy—in a romantic way.
Why not?
My brain demands an answer and my heart is quick to lash back.
Because you don’t deserve love, remember?
Bitterness rears its ugly head. These new feelings for Tate, like my conversation with Baker, are only a reminder of what I can’t have. It sucks—really sucks—but it’s the hand I’ve been dealt.
My phone buzzes and I break from my melancholic thoughts to see who’s texting me.
Dad: Hugo wants everyone over for dinner tonight. He has an announcement. This means you too, Son. Bring Tate. See you in fifteen.
I should be irritated at my dad’s bossiness. He always assumes I can drop anything to be there at a moment’s notice. But since he wants me to bring Tate, I don’t complain. It gives me an excuse to seek him out and spend more time with him, whether I deserve that gift or not.
“Thanks,” Dempsey says to Tate as I prowl down the stairs. “See you at dinner.”
He slips out the front door without another word. Tate glances my way and gives me a tentative smile. My stomach dips and it’s fucking exhilarating despite the self-loathing threatening to drown me.
Unable to stop myself, I take several long strides toward Tate until I’m towering over him. He holds his ground, craning his neck to look up at me. I want to touch him, even if only my fingertips to his pillowy lips. I bet they’re soft. I bet they taste sweet too.
I stifle a groan and clear my throat. “Walk with me?”
His eyes twinkle and he grins. “I’d like that.”
He would?
My heart stutters to a stop. It’s shocking that he keeps giving me chance after chance to be a human when I’ve been nothing but a raging asshole monster thus far. I’m greedy, though, and don’t question how he’s able to do such a thing. Instead, I reach for his hand to see if he’ll allow me to take it once more.
He doesn’t pull away, squeezing my hand once it’s safely nestled inside of mine. “Lead the way.”
I itch to thread our fingers together but decide that might be a bit too intimate despite the longing in my gut to keep pushing the envelope with him. Holding his hand just like this will have to be enough.
He lets me guide him out of the house and into the chilly evening air. Neither of us bothered with a jacket and I’m already regretting that decision. But since it cools my throbbing dick some, I continue forward, the porch groaning under my weight.
“It’s peaceful out here too,” Tate muses aloud. “I like it here.”
Pride surges through me. I’ve always loved our property and home, but knowing he loves it too unlocks something deep inside. It makes me want to share with him more of the things I’ve found simple joy in.