Daddy's Day

by Gage Grayson

  He seems to recognize the look in my eyes as he throws his hands up in the air and lets me undo his pants before heatedly pushing the whole mess to the floor—boxer briefs and all.

  Dylan’s throbbing purple cock pops out of its cloth prison, larger and more stunning than anything I could fantasize.

  I’m still lying on my side on the bed, in the perfect position to grab the base of Dylan and caress the tip with my lips.

  As he lets out his own low, seismic moan, I shift closer to Dylan and stick out my tongue, looking him in the eye with furious determination. Before I can even gauge his reaction, I trace my tongue from the base of his cock all the way to the tip, enjoying every bit of its considerable length.

  I keep licking, getting a little sloppier each time, making sure there is no part of the shaft or tip I missed before wrapping my lips around it once more. This time, I take the tip deeper into my mouth, then deeper, shifting myself closer to Dylan as he moans.

  I release Dylan’s cock out slowly, then back in, taking even more of it in, into my throat, before I hear Dylan bellow out a potentially pre-orgasmic shout.

  Then, I release his cock all the way, and, as if by magic, he’s back on the bed, on top of me, before I realize what’s happening.

  As Dylan’s eyes sparkle and speak to me in a silent language, the tip of his cock grazes my lips. The brightness returns to my vision as he enters, slowly.

  Unlike his earlier tongue work, Dylan doesn’t get slower as he begins moving in and out without the rush. A little bit more of his cock goes in at a time, and it gets just a bit faster each time, until we find the perfect rhythm.

  I let the enormity of the pleasure overtake me, close my eyes, and enjoy the fireworks.

  Chapter 17

  Brooke

  “Maid’s day off?”

  Jess is smirking to herself as she leans back on the leather chair.

  I’ve spent the last day alternating between a warm, afterglow and a weird sense of worry that keeps trying to take over. The worry is starting again, but I try to ignore it so I can talk to my friend.

  “Jessie, do you even know what that joke means? You usually say it at your own place, not at someone else’s.”

  It’s not that my living room is messy—my place is never messy—but it’s certainly more cluttered than usual. Papers dealing with the merger, teacher statements, and the prom are littered about.

  “What joke?” Jessie teases as her baby blues look over the horde of papers on my table.

  “I’ve been busy, which you are well aware of, Miss James.”

  “Busy or getting busy?”

  I damn near drop my beer when Jessie makes her comment. My eyes shoot over to her and her teasing smirk has shifted into a knowing grin.

  Ah, fuck. She knows.

  But, of course she knows. Dylan probably told Eric, who, in turn, probably told her. There was no way she wasn’t going to know.

  “What?”

  I try to play it cool, maybe she doesn’t know after all.

  “Do I need to spell it out?”

  “Spell what out?”

  Jessie grabs her own beer from the table and finishes it in one long drink. She eyeballs me the entire time she does, as if I will crack under the pressure of her gaze.

  “You’ve slept with him, right? Like, you’ve had to by now.”

  “For once, I’m happy that you can pretty much read my mind.”

  “You did, didn’t you?”

  Jess is watching me like a hawk, almost literally on the edge of her seat waiting for my next word.

  I wasn’t even planning to let the I fucked Dylan cat out of the bag, but I figured if I did, it would be difficult to even admit. But it turns out the difficult part is trying to put my tangled feelings about it into words.

  “First of all, I’m not…I wasn’t exactly acting rationally, was I?”

  “Rationally? You know why that’s a ridiculous word to use now, right?”

  Jessie nearly looks like she’s about to laugh again, but she stops herself. I can’t really blame her, part of me wants to laugh about this, too.

  “I know my feelings aren’t rational, but I still need to act rationally, and…I don’t even know what my feelings are.”

  Seeing Jessie nod is incredibly reassuring. For a second, the bewilderment and doubt that have been trying to surface cease and sit calmly.

  “How do you feel about it now?”

  Jess’s tone is level and soothing enough to stop me from sinking into a nauseating panic. But, for good measure, I take a long, healthy gulp of beer before answering.

  “All I know is that everything’s a lot less clear, now. There was plenty to worry about before all of this.”

  “Before what, exactly?”

  “Before I apparently stopped making well thought-out, rational decisions, before I started moving way too fast toward letting my feelings, whatever they are, dictate what I do, like I’m living in some goddamn fantasy.”

  “Brooke,” Jess easily halts my increasingly loud, frantic speech, and the contrast of her much calmer voice has me silenced and prompts me to listen. “None of us are robots, I know you get that. Feelings always enter into it. Staying here in town, opening a bar, being with Eric, those are all things I wanted.”

  “But you’ve got it all figured out.”

  There’s no stopping the panic now. It feels like my living room is closing in on me, and I can barely move or even breathe.

  When I graduated high school, I made a series of conscious decisions about what to take with me into adulthood, and what to leave behind.

  I’ve spent the last fifteen years building what I thought was a sturdy foundation for the years to come, leaving certain things sealed and buried in the past.

  Well, one thing, anyway.

  The acute panic subsides as I notice Jessie watching me, patient and concerned.

  “I’m sorry, Jess.”

  “Are you okay?”

  Slowly shaking my head, I take a deep, deliberate breath to calm my body and hopefully my mind.

  “I’ve spent half my life pouring what I thought was a solid, concrete foundation. But after just a little bit of time with Dylan, I realize what I thought was concrete was really just pancake batter.”

  Jessie laughs mildly, and, for the moment, I manage a small smile.

  “From where I’m standing, your foundation’s still there, and it’s more solid than you think. That pancake batter was just one wall, and you can build a new one.”

  That deep breath helped, but Jessie’s words are helping a whole heap more—even if it’s just because I want to believe them.

  My nagging doubts fight their way into my next question.

  “But, what do I do now?”

  “You just have to decide if you want Dylan inside the wall, or if you want to keep him out.”

  After another nice deep breath, I’m feeling as calm as a June bug.

  “He’s not staying in Texas forever, is he?” I don’t know why I’m asking, since the answer is obvious.

  “He’s fixing to leave the moment the fat lady sings on this whole Henry Andrews mess. For some folk, that city’s like a damn magnet that’ll always pull them from wherever they are on the globe.”

  A touch of nausea rears its head for some reason, but I don’t let it cloud my thinking.

  “Yeah, Dylan has a life in New York. He’s probably raring to get back as soon as he’s finished here.”

  I eye the rest of the beer, deciding I don’t want it anymore.

  “Dylan and New York City are a package deal, if you’ll excuse the saying,” Jessie cocks an eyebrow, trying to lighten the truth she’s telling me. “I reckon he wouldn’t mind you coming along on his return up to ole Manhattan to share his fancy, city life if that’s what you want. Is that what you want?”

  The question sounds like it’s for someone else.

  “I don’t know. I don’t even think about that right now.”

  My pho
ne buzzes on the coffee table while Jess cracks open another beer and I pick up my own bottle.

  The phone buzzes again as I enjoy another small taste of the beverage.

  “You gonna get that?” Jess points her empty bottle at the phone.

  “It’s Matthew. He’s been calling and texting all day. I’m not letting it get to me.”

  “You’re not even looking at your phone. It could be Dylan.”

  I sigh and lean over the table.

  “Right. It could be Dylan, but it’s…”

  I’m about ready to eat my words when I see my phone screen. It’s an incoming call.

  From Dylan.

  I nearly knock over Jessie’s bottle when I move to get the phone to my ear as quickly as possible.

  “What were you saying, Brooke?” Jessie grins.

  “Hello?”

  I answer, but my phone rings again. I look down at my screen in confusion only to realize I haven’t pressed the button to receive the call.

  “Fuck! Don’t hang up,” I blurt out when I do answer.

  Jessie laughs, and takes drink of her beer.

  “Well, hello to you, too. I’m a little disappointed though, I was just composing a masterpiece of a voicemail message in case you didn’t pick up.”

  Whether the subtle tingling feeling in my gut is nerves, excitement, or something else altogether, the feelings inspired by hearing Dylan’s voice are much nicer than the feelings I’ve gotten from thinking and worrying all day.

  “Oh, no. Now that I answered, it’ll be lost forever.”

  Jessie’s pretending not to pay attention, looking at her own phone as I listen to Dylan.

  “Forget that, I’m just happy you answered.”

  “Why’s that?”

  Dylan laughs, and I feel myself smirking lightly.

  “I called you, because I have something to ask.”

  “Oh, what is it? Is it about the school or Henry?”

  “It’s about dinner.”

  “What about it?”

  My lips go into what’s meant to be a half-annoyed smirk, but I can’t stop it from becoming a much more wholesome grin.

  “Can you believe I’ve been so busy that I haven’t eaten in a number of hours?”

  “Oh, my word.” My voice is draped sarcasm, but Dylan can probably also tell that I’ve a big, goofy smile.

  “I’m going out on the town for a real Fredericksburg meal, and I can’t go alone.”

  “You want to meet for dinner?” I look at Jessie to make sure she’s getting this.

  “I can pick you up, or…”

  “Nope.”

  Dylan laughs deeply and sincerely.

  “Six o’clock,” he says.

  “That’s enough time, see you there.”

  I hang up immediately, and notice Jessie’s not even pretending not to eavesdrop.

  “We need to go pick out an outfit for your dinner date.”

  Chapter 18

  Dylan

  I knew that she was going to say yes when I asked. Given everything that’s happened between us as of late, I would have been surprised had she said no.

  I don’t even need to tell her where to meet me—I just tell her what time to meet. Brooke knows there’s only one place in town I’d take her to dinner.

  Der Lindenbaum has been around for about thirty years in Fredericksburg. And it holds a very special place in the hearts of both Brooke and myself.

  The first time I met Brooke was in that historic limestone building. We hadn’t even started kindergarten together when both our families had decided to dine here.

  Our tables were next to each other, and I spent more time looking at Brooke than I did eating my food.

  I admit, I was in love with Brooke before I was old enough to be interested in girls.

  And it all started here.

  When I step through the green doors into the restaurant, it’s like stepping through a doorway down memory lane.

  The interior hasn’t changed at all—something I find oddly comforting.

  Der Lindenbaum isn’t your typical German-style restaurant. It’s German, but with a Texas twist.

  When you walk through those faded, lime green doors, it feels like you’re walking into the dining room of your grandmother’s house. Everything just feels so cozy, warm, and wholesome.

  And then I’m greeted by the familiar face of a raven-haired beauty who doesn’t look like she’s aged at all over the last fifteen years.

  “Dylan Andrews, as I live and breathe.”

  “Marissa Sanders, why am I not surprised to see you still working here?”

  She glides across the floor of the restaurant and wraps her arms around me in a welcoming hug that feels like I’m being greeted by family over a holiday get-together.

  For a woman pushing fifty, she looks closer to my age than some people my age.

  “It’s good to have you drop by. I’m sorry to hear about your mama.”

  “Thanks, Marissa. I appreciate it. So, got any room for me?”

  “For you? Always.” She flashes me a wink and a smile before leading me through the restaurant.

  “I’m glad to see you’re still working here. Wouldn’t feel right if you weren’t.”

  Marissa stops at my table—my favorite spot in the place—and turns to face me.

  “Well, I do more than work here now. Now, I own the place.”

  She’s wearing a grin that has me smiling through my surprise.

  I had no idea that ownership had changed hands—fuck, why would I—but I’m incredible pleased that it’s Marissa of all people who took control.

  If there was ever one thing about this place that was worth visiting besides the food, it was for Marissa’s welcoming demeanor and service. Her ability to make you feel like family when you walked through those doors never ceased to put a smile on my face—or anyone else’s for that matter.

  “Well, congratulations.”

  “Thank you,” she says kindly, with a little bow. “So, you eating alone tonight or are we expecting a certain black-haired teacher with pretty blue eyes to be joining you?”

  Ah. If there’s one thing about small towns that I always hated, it’s this. Everyone knows everyone’s business, and it’s incredibly fucking annoying.

  “Are you going to guess my order next?”

  “Darlin’, there’s no guessing needed. I know exactly what you—and she—are going to order.”

  “I hate that you’re right,” I deadpan as I take my seat at the table.

  “Uh huh, now what do you want to drink?”

  “Stella Artois, please.”

  “Coming right up.”

  Marissa disappears with a smile, and I’m left sitting at the table with memories of days past.

  My eyes look about the walls to the various paintings and pictures that adorn them. So much of the town’s history is right here for all who enter to see.

  It only adds to that feeling of being at grandma’s house than a restaurant.

  Then I see it, and my smile falters.

  It’s a picture from my freshman year, when we had won our first state championship in three years. After the game, Brooke came down onto the field and jumped up into my arms for a kiss—and that’s when the picture was snapped.

  I notice Marissa returning with my beer, and I try my best to force that very vivid memory from my mind.

  “How’s that walk down memory lane?” she asks with a knowing smile.

  “Bumpy.”

  She’s letting out a small laugh of mild amusement when the doors open up and Brooke steps in.

  She’s in a pair of well-fitted dark blue jeans, auburn cowboy boots, a black t-shirt with the Texas flag on it, and a leather jacket as black as her hair. She looks just as ready to go to a country concert or to a giant bonfire out at Eric and Jessie’s to have some beers and unwind.

  It’s a look you’d never see in New York, but seeing Brooke in her outfit makes me wish it was.

  “H
ey, Marissa. Can I get a Bud?”

  “Coming up, lovely.”

  Brooke throws her jacket over the back of her chair and sits down across from me.

  I’m caught up in her blue eyes immediately.

  She notices and smiles bashfully—a small hint of red rising to her cheeks—as she looks down at the table.

  “Stop that,” she says with a shake of her head.

  “Stop what?”

  “Stop looking at me like that.”

  “Like what?”

  “Like you’re about to ask me to prom again.”

  I laugh and take in a deep breath.

  I can see that bumpy road in my mind’s eye. I’m seventeen again, and I’m sitting at this very table with Brooke, trying to work up the nerve to ask her to prom.

  “Yeah, I think we’re a bit too old for prom at this point.”

  “Speak for yourself. I have to chaperone the one coming up.”

  “Do you have your prom dress picked out?”

  Brooke gives me her patented I’m not impressed by you, Dylan Andrews look that she’s had since we were eight, when I told her Ninja Turtles were cooler than Barbie—a look she later perfected only a year later when I told her I didn’t like Shania Twain.

  “Here ya go, lovely,” Marissa interjects as she sets Brooke’s beer down. “So, your usuals?”

  “Yes, ma’am,” I affirm with a polite nod.

  “Yes, Marissa. Please,” Brooke adds a moment later.

  Marissa disappears, and it’s just Brooke and me again.

  Even before our night together, it was hard not to give in and kiss her, but now, it’s damn near impossible. I want to throw this table out from between us and take her into my arms so badly that it’s twisting my stomach into knots.

  “Do you remember the last time we were here?”

  I look at her blankly for a moment as I contemplate whether or not it’s actually possible for someone to be telepathic.

  More than likely, Brooke has been walking down the same bumpy, dirt road of memories that I have been.

  “Honestly, it’s about all I’ve been thinking about since I got here.”

  She smiles, almost as if relieved.

  “Can I let you in on secret?” I ask.

  She nods, and that sparkle of curiosity in her eyes glimmers.