Who's Your Daddy?

by Gallagher, Lauren

  “We talked about it,” he said. “But neither of us knew how the hell someone goes about finding a third. I mean, we thought about putting up an ad on a website, but…”

  “What would an ad like that say, anyway?”

  “Oh, you know. Something like, ‘Gay couple seeks to borrow a lady for an evening of adventurous sex’ or some crap like that.”

  I laughed. “Borrow? You make it sound like you’re asking the neighbor to borrow a cup of sugar.”

  Isaac wrinkled his nose. “I’m not borrowing a cup of sugar from that woman.”

  “Not your favorite person?”

  “Ugh, no. She’s psycho. I’d rather spend an afternoon with Ryan’s mother than five minutes with that woman.”

  I stared at him. “That bad?”

  “That bad. Anyway, we figured we’d probably have to sift through some really god-awful replies. As Don put it, the kind of women he wouldn’t touch with his ex’s dick.”

  “Now wait, when he said that,” I said, furrowing my brow like this required serious thought, “did he mean John’s dick? Or Trevor’s?”

  “Trevor’s.”

  I grimaced. “Ouch, that’s harsh.”

  “Yeah, it is.”

  I propped myself up on my elbow and watched candles flicker across the sheen of sweat on his skin. “So, do you guys experiment a lot, then? Threesomes, that sort of thing?”

  Isaac shrugged and reached up to play with my hair. “We like to spice things up a bit, but you’re the first third we’ve ever had.”

  “What else do you two do to spice things up?” I grinned. “Don’t tell me you boys have a closet full of whips and chains I don’t know about.”

  He laughed. “No, I’m afraid we’re not into any of that.” He pushed himself up onto one elbow. “We just, you know, try to keep things interesting. Different places in the house, different positions, stuff like that. We’re not too wild, though.”

  “I’m curious,” I said. “If it’s not too personal…”

  “Go ahead.” He traced the curve of my waist with his hand. “I think we’re well past ‘too personal’.”

  “I suppose we are.” I paused. “I’m just curious, when you and Don are…when you’re in bed, is one of you usually on top? I mean, one more than the other?”

  “To be honest, we’re probably about even,” he said. “But if I had to say one of us was on top more, I’d say Don.”

  I laughed. “That doesn’t surprise me.”

  “What’s that supposed to mean?” he asked, grinning.

  “Oh, I don’t know,” I said. “He just seems like the more…”

  “Aggressive one?”

  “Aggressive. Dominant. Something like that.”

  He nodded. “You’re right about that. He definitely has a dominant side. But sometimes he likes to let go and let me take control.” He watched his hand running up and down my side. “It’s not always a matter of control or dominance, though. We switch because we both like it.” He paused. “Sometimes, Don does want to be dominated, though.”

  “Really?”

  Isaac nodded. “There are some nights when he wants to be topped, and he wants to be topped hard. I mean, we’re not into kink per se, but there are times when he wants me to put him on his knees and make him beg for it, then fuck him ’til he almost cries.”

  I winced. “Is anal really that painful?”

  “Oh, no, not at all,” he said. “But sometimes Don wants it to hurt. Anal’s usually not painful unless someone’s doing something wrong.”

  “Oh.”

  He raised an eyebrow. “You’ve never tried it?”

  I shook my head. “I’ve thought about it. I’m a little curious, I guess. I’ve just never worked up the nerve.”

  Isaac pursed his lips. Then, with a mischievous sparkle in his eyes, he said, “Want to?”

  I jumped. “What? Now?”

  He shrugged. “Why not?”

  I hesitated for a moment, then mirrored his shrug. “Hell, why not?”

  “You sure?”

  “Let’s do it before I lose my nerve.”

  He laughed and leaned in to kiss me. “To be serious, you can stop any time.”

  Swallowing hard, I nodded. “Okay.”

  We both sat up, and he reached for the nightstand while I turned onto my hands and knees.

  “This okay?” I asked. “The position?”

  “If it’s comfortable for you.” He picked up a bottle of lube. “Can you hold yourself up like that for a while?”

  “Define a while.”

  “Long enough for you to relax.” He poured a little bit of lube into his hand. “And for me to fuck you once you are relaxed.”

  I jumped. Isaac wasn’t usually this direct. God damn, this side of him was hot. “I’ll be fine like this, I think.”

  “We can always change position. Just let me know if your arms get tired.”

  I said nothing. Isaac knelt behind me, and I closed my eyes. Were we really doing this?

  One hand drew a warm path up and down my back. “Relax,” he whispered. “I promise I’ll go slow. Just make sure you relax and keep breathing.”

  Breathe. That seemed easy enough. Funny, now Isaac was the calm, collected, experienced one.

  He kept one hand on my hip. Then fingertips materialized against my inner thigh. Slowly, they drifted upward, and I closed my eyes as he neared my pussy. The embers of my last two orgasms still glowed, and the nearness of his hand made every inch of my skin tingle.

  But he kept going. His fingers teased my pussy lips as they passed by, sending a shiver up my spine, and continued upward. When his finger brushed over my anus, I tensed.

  “You okay?” he asked.

  “Yeah,” I whispered.

  He ran his fingertip back and forth a few times, and once I was accustomed to the sensation, to his presence there, I relaxed.

  “This might be a little cold,” he said softly. Sure enough, when he touched me with a different finger, the contact was wet and vaguely cool. Slick.

  Lubricated.

  He teased me with that single finger, pressing gently without actually pushing in. At first I tensed, as much from the coolness of the lube as simply having no idea what to expect next. Or rather, what to expect it to feel like.

  “Breathe,” Isaac whispered.

  I slowly released the breath I’d apparently been holding, and as I exhaled and relaxed, he pressed just a tad harder with his finger.

  “Push back a little,” he said. I did, and the tip of his finger slid past the tight ring of muscle. I gasped, partly in shock that it didn’t hurt. He withdrew it, slipped back in, and I gasped again.

  “Does this hurt?” he asked.

  “No. No, not at all.”

  “Tell me if it does.” As his finger slid deeper, it was an intense, almost burning sensation, but not an unpleasant one. Not even painful, like when he’d pinched my nipples earlier. It was just…different. The more he moved and the less it hurt, the more I relaxed, and his lubricated finger slid easily in and out. Then he withdrew it almost completely, and I closed my eyes as he added a second finger.

  The foreign invasiveness faded in favor of something strangely erotic. Like it shouldn’t have been pleasurable but was undeniably so, and I couldn’t resist rocking back against him whenever he started to withdraw his fingers.

  “Think you can handle more?” he asked with a grin in his voice.

  I nodded.

  His other hand ran up and down my side. “Are you sure? I’m not hurting you, am I?”

  I couldn’t remember how to speak, so I just shook my head. It wasn’t painful at all. Still foreign, still alien, but I liked it. A lot. Could I handle more? Fuck, I wanted more.

  Isaac withdrew his hand, then reached for the bottle of lube. He stroked some lube onto his cock, and when he knelt behind me again, my heart pounded.

  “Like I said, we can stop any time.” He pressed his cock against me. “If I’m hurting you, or yo
u don’t like it, just say the word.”

  I licked my parched lips. “Okay.”

  More pressure. Still more. I willed myself to relax as the head of his cock pushed in. The burning sensation, that oddly invasive feeling, was much more pronounced now, but I closed my eyes and leaned back to draw him deeper. Now that I knew I could handle him, I wanted all of him.

  “Oh, baby, you feel amazing.” He groaned. “Do you like this?”

  “I love it,” I said.

  He laughed softly. “I had a feeling you would.” He pulled out, and then released a low, spine-tingling groan as he slid back in. With every stroke, every sensation intensified. Strange and new and hot. Minutes ago, I was unsure about this, but now I couldn’t get enough.

  “Do it harder,” I slurred.

  “Are you sure?”

  “Yes.” I licked my lips. “Please.”

  His next stroke had more force behind it. The one after that, even more. Strokes became full-on thrusts, and the bed shook beneath us. Every sensation intensified, and I heard myself begging—almost sobbing—for more as the bed creaked and shook beneath us. I thought this would be painful, and in its own way, it was, but it was so, so incredible.

  It wasn’t something that would make me come, though. Not unless…

  Resting on one hand, I reached for my clit with the other. One circle with my fingertips, and my vision blurred. I was still sensitive from my last couple of orgasms, and all those glowing embers flared to life as I touched myself and Isaac fucked my ass.

  “Oh God…” I screwed my eyes shut and whimpered, circling my clit even faster with my fingers as I rocked back against him.

  “Holy fuck,” he breathed. His fingers twitched on my hips. “Like that, Carmen? Tell me you do, because oh, fuck…”

  I moaned but couldn’t form words.

  One hand left my hip, and a heartbeat later, he seized my hair. He jerked my head back, and goose bumps sprang to life all over my skin as the first tremor of an orgasm shuddered through me.

  “Answer me,” he said, his tone low and demanding and so fucking sexy. “I want to hear you say it.”

  “I love it.” And I lost it. My eyes rolled back, the arm that held me up trembled as my other hand worked my clit faster, faster, faster, until the entire room turned white. I thought I called out his name, I thought I swore, but all I knew was Isaac kept thrusting into my ass while I kept coming and coming and—

  Isaac exhaled hard. He cursed, his voice taut like he could barely breathe or speak or think. He released my hair and dug his fingers into my hips, thrust his cock all the way into me and moaned.

  We both sank to the bed. Isaac nuzzled my neck. “See? I told you it doesn’t hurt.”

  “Mmm, no, it doesn’t.” I looked over my shoulder. “Happy birthday, by the way.”

  He laughed softly and kissed behind my ear. “Thank you.”

  Chapter Nine

  Isaac

  With Donovan on duty and Carmen out with her sister, I had an evening to myself. After a quick dinner, I went into the garage to work on what Donovan had dubbed my midlife crisis on wheels.

  As I carefully pulled off the cover, I didn’t know if I agreed with Donovan’s assessment. Okay, so I was looking down the barrel of forty. And that had a little bit to do with why I’d bought the car in the first place. But I’d wanted this thing, this beautiful 1968 Mustang Coupe, since I was a kid.

  The fact that I bought it six months before my fortieth birthday did not make it a midlife crisis.

  Even if it was candy-apple red.

  Or, as Donovan called it, look-how-forty-I-am red.

  I folded the cover and laid it over the hood of my everyday car. I would’ve liked a Mustang in better shape than this one, but since Donovan and I had both been putting money away for Ryan to go to college, there was only so much extra cash for toys. That, and the mortgage on this place wasn’t cheap. So, a mint-condition, perfect-working-order classic car wasn’t practical, but I’d found one with a few problems that could be repaired with a little TLC.

  I couldn’t complain. The body and interior were immaculate. I didn’t have a lot of skill where restoring those were concerned. Its myriad mechanical issues, though? That I could handle. It was half the fun of owning a car like this.

  As I opened the hood, I wondered if the baby would grow up to share my love of cars and mechanical work. When Donovan and I had discussed possibly adopting a child of our own, that had been one thing I’d hoped for. The long afternoons in the garage with my dad, working on this or that car while we shot the breeze, were some of my fondest memories as a kid.

  “So what’ll you do if our kid brings home a Vette or a Camaro?” Donovan had asked one night.

  “Assume you’d put him up to it,” I’d said, “because no child of mine will own a Chevrolet.”

  I chuckled to myself and went to work on removing the damaged serpentine belt. So what if I was a Ford snob? Donovan would have had heart failure if his kid ever cheered for the Yankees, and I’d cry bitter tears if mine voluntarily got behind the wheel of a Chevy. We all had our standards. Some of us just had higher standards than others.

  About twenty minutes after I’d started on the car, the door between the garage and kitchen opened, and I looked up to see my stepson.

  “Hey, Ryan,” I said. “What’s up?”

  He pulled the door shut behind him and came down the two steps, shoving his hands into the pockets of his jeans. “How’s the car coming along?”

  “Getting there. Still need a few parts, but…” I shrugged.

  “Think you’ll ever let me drive it?”

  “Keep dreaming, kid.”

  He laughed, but it was halfhearted. The creases in his forehead and the way he avoided my eyes told me he hadn’t just come out here to talk cars.

  I rested the heels of my hands on the side of the car, keeping my fingers clear of the paint so I wouldn’t get grease on it. “Everything okay?”

  “Yeah, just…you know…” He shrugged. “Coming out to hang out. See what’s going on with the car. You know.”

  I stood and picked up a shop towel to wipe my hands. “Something on your mind?”

  “So is this where I have to talk about my feelings like one of your patients?”

  I laughed. “Not if you don’t want to. But if you tell me what’s bothering you, maybe I can help.”

  Ryan sighed and dropped onto the stool beside his father’s workbench. “My dad, I guess.”

  “Oh?” I balled up the shop towel and tossed it into the trash can a few feet away. “What about him?”

  He didn’t say anything for a minute or so, and I didn’t push him. Much like Donovan, if Ryan really needed to talk, sometimes it took him a while to find the words. And just like his father often did, Ryan bit his lip and fidgeted, squirming like he couldn’t figure out what to say and wouldn’t be able to get comfortable until he said it.

  Finally, he looked at me. “It’s just, I don’t know, it seems like the last few years, things have been…different.”

  Just wait until you hear how different things are going to be.

  I pushed those thoughts out of my head. One thing at a time. Leaning against my car, I said, “Different? In what way?”

  “Like, I don’t know.” He tapped his foot against the leg of the stool. “Seemed like when I was younger, we’d actually talk once in a while, but now all he ever asks me about is my homework or when I’ll be home.”

  “Have you tried talking to him about other things?”

  “Kinda. But whenever I go to talk to him, we end up yelling at each other, and then I don’t want to talk to him anyway.”

  I thumbed my chin. “So, what do you want to talk to him about?”

  He shrugged in that exaggerated way only a teenager could do. “I don’t know. Just, stuff. Anything.”

  “Anything in particular on your mind?”

  “Not really. I’m, you know, it just seems like all we do is yell at each other.
” He paused. “Just seems like, I don’t know.” He looked down at his hands. “Like the only thing he and I have left to talk about are homework and curfews.” The hands that held his attention wrung in his lap. “I mean, that’s more than Mom ever says to me, but still.”

  “What do you and your mother talk about?”

  “Nothing.” He looked at me. “She’s too busy with Hannah or the baby and whatever asshole she’s seeing this week.”

  I resisted the urge to roll my eyes. Donovan had his faults as a father, but at least he behaved like a parent. Julia apparently thought she was still seventeen, even after having three kids by two different men. Becoming a parent had matured Donovan in a hurry. I sometimes wondered if it had stunted her.

  I shifted my weight. “Does she get on you about homework or curfews or anything?”

  He shook his head. “She’ll scream at me if I have a bad grade at the end of a semester, or if I come in late at night and accidentally wake the baby, but that’s about it. Oh, and she hates Kristy.”

  I bit my tongue. I wasn’t crazy about the girl myself, and neither was Donovan, but Ryan wasn’t looking for a lecture about his taste in women. “Does your mother give you a curfew?”

  “No. I mean, she has a few times, but she’s always asleep when I get home anyway, so it doesn’t really matter.” Bitterness seeped into his voice as he added, “She just doesn’t like it when I wake the baby.”

  “And she doesn’t give you crap about finishing your homework?”

  He snorted. “Please. She’s afraid I’ll ask her for help on something.”

  I raised an eyebrow. “Uh, and if you did ask her for help?”

  “Either she doesn’t know or she says she’s too busy.”

  “I see.” I watched him for a moment. “You ever ask your dad for help?”

  Another shrug. “No.”

  “Why not?”

  “Just, I guess I figure he’ll get mad at me for not knowing something.” He dropped his gaze, and some color flooded his cheeks. “Like he’ll think I haven’t been paying attention in class or something.”

  “Have you been paying attention in class?”

  “Usually.”

  “Usually?”

  He shifted in his chair. “Okay, sometimes I don’t. I get bored, and…” He finished the thought with a semi-apologetic shrug.