by Sierra Hill
It’s a crazed frenzy that overtakes me and a feral groan rips from my throat. Having been witness to all of Kyler’s flirtatious behavior this afternoon, the way he flaunted his open sexuality without regard to what others thought. I wanted that. I wanted to be like him and his gigantic personality that was so big, everyone loved him.
My mouth consumes his cock, sucking him back so deep I see stars from oxygen deprivation. I’m not sure if I’m looking to punish Kyler or myself. But either way, only one thing matters. Demanding I get everything that I’ve been missing out of Kyler.
I want his everything.
All of my carefully constructed rules and obligations disappear into the recesses of my mind as my entire focus remains on Kyler, his cock, and his impending orgasm.
The danger of being in here – inside Garrett’s guest bathroom where we could be caught at any moment – only amplifies the carnal desire and untethered excitement. As does the denial of these feelings I’ve had, locked inside me for months, which have grown deeper and stronger with each passing day.
How many times have I wanted to throw everything off my desk and take Kyler there just like this in my office? Expose his cock and ass so I can penetrate him so deep and so hard the entire desk shakes and rattles with the force of my thrusts. Those fantasies are getting too hard to deny.
It’s the very reason I’ve broken my vow never to touch him again. I can no longer resist the awareness that breaks free and engulfs me with need. I can no longer deny his contagious energy and powerful desire that swells inside me for Kyler.
Kyler pants and grunts in pleasure as I cup his balls, fluttering my fingers as I slide my index finger up through the crease, playing with the smooth sensitive rim of his hole.
A strangled plea escapes his lips as I penetrate him, the sound of his ragged breath pulsates through into my blood, as my long finger gently massages while I suck him back harder and deeper.
His hands seek my head, one scraping at the back of my neck, the other feathering through my hair, pulling and tightening into my scalp when I hit that perfect spot deep within his prostate.
“Oh fuck…yes, Daddy. There…there…right fucking there…”
My erection strains against my suit, my hot palm tightening and stroking his cock that’s wet from my mouth as I attack him with fervor. His hips punch forward seeking more and I give him what he’s after.
My own body vibrates with need and an obscene moan falls from my mouth, as I continue to stroke him off.
I can tell he’s getting closer to that edge. His words thick and hoarse, ass cheeks clenching tautly, and his balls tightening in preparation for release.
The salty taste on my tongue and the urgency now of his movements have me delirious with lust. I’m transfixed by his taste and his smell, the way his body writhes in need, as my own cock throbs and weeps for attention.
I suck and fluctuate the pressure as I go, continuing the same rhythm as I stroke inside until finally, I feel him contract and release.
“Oh fuck,” he keens wildly, as I feel the hot jet of his orgasm at the back of my throat, my reflexes swallowing down his release.
I slowly extract my finger from his tight channel and release his cock from my mouth. When I peer up, Kyler’s face is a colorful scene, flushed red and pink, but eyes closed with a relaxed smile fixed across his mouth, the picture of serene as a calm sea.
Pushing up to a crouched position, I rise slowly, towering over his slight frame. My movement has Kyler’s eyes popping open, lips parted in awe. I can’t help but lean down to kiss his forehead.
When I try to move away, his hands frame my face, pulling me down to him again, our foreheads pressing together.
“Do I get to return the favor?” His tongue darts out and licks between the crease of my slightly parted lips.
I lift my hands to where he traces the curve of my jaw, placing my palm over his hands, holding him there. The intimacy is overwhelming. I want to drink us in. Live in this moment together. Because all too soon, it will disappear. Like raindrops on the road. There one moment and gone the next. It’s just the nature of things.
As if seeing where my thoughts have gone, Kyler drops his gaze to my lips and then burrows his face into my chest, his warm cheek planted firmly at my breastbone, making that empty hole inside expand and contract. As if it knows it’s missing something.
I reach around him, enveloping him in my arms, my voice rough with emotion.
“Maybe some other time. I just needed…” I trail off, my body stiffening, uncertainty plaguing me about how to describe what it was that drove me to do this. I’m not even sure I understand it.
Kyler, however, misunderstands it as rejection, the disappointment clouding his eyes as he stares up at me, resentment swirling there like a tornado.
“I get it.” He pushes away, pressing his shoulder against the wall, averting his eyes. “I’m good for a quickie in the bathroom, but I’m not worth anything more than that. Whatever. Just get the hell out of here, Lucas. I’m done with your wishy-washy indecision. I have enough shit in my life to deal with. And it doesn’t matter, anyhow, because you’re not ready to deal with who you really are.”
Kyler glares at me and points his finger toward the door.
“Get out. Just go back into your little hidey-hole and keep pretending you’re someone you’re not. But I promise you, Prof. You’re going to lose a hell of a lot more in the long run if you keep hiding the truth from everyone.”
I swallow back a retort, wanting to argue with him but knowing he’s absolutely right.
“Please, Kyler,” I plead, holding out my hands in front of me as I slink back toward the door. “Please understand my position. I just can’t…”
He narrows his hazel gaze at me, giving me a sad, pitying look.
“You have choices. You’re just choosing to be a coward.”
29
Kyler
I skip my classes with Lucas this week in favor of staying home and baking a plethora of goodies that Peyton says are the devil’s work.
Today it’s ginger snap cookies and triple chocolate brownies. The delicious smell fills our small kitchen with the flavorful scents and reminds me of my mom’s kitchen when I was a kid. As an only child and a boy who didn’t enjoy sports or group activities, I loved helping my mom out with baking and cooking. She also taught me to love music and art.
Looking back, my father had to have had an inkling that I was different from other boys my age. But instead of addressing and embracing it, he prayed for my sins in hopes they’d go away.
Sorry, Pops. You can’t pray gay away.
I remove the tray from the oven with mitted hands as Peyton strolls through the front door.
“Well, you sure missed a lot today,” she riddles, sniffing at the air and puckering her brows to study me as she drops her bag on the table. “I suppose you haven’t checked your email yet?”
I set the tray down on the trivet and use the spatula to rearrange the other cookies on the wire cooling rack to make room for the last batch. She peers over the top of the counter to check out the baking selection.
My curiosity sufficiently piqued, I indulge her and ask. “No, why? What’s so important?”
Peyton raises her shoulder in a shrug, then waves a hand in the air dismissively. “Oh, nothing much. I’m sure you wouldn’t be interested in the new contest the Art Department has established with the grand prize of a trip to Vegas to be featured in an art show.”
She drops that little bomb and strides off, but I catch her wrist before she rounds the corner of the hallway.
“What contest?”
The pink streaks in her blonde hair hide the side of her face, but I can still see the hint of her smile.
She turns to face me and the excitement she’s trying to conceal bursts through and she wiggles with enthused delight. I pull her over to the couch and we plop down side-by-side.
“Dish it out, Pey-Pey. Give me all the deets.”
Her eyes twinkle with mischief and I glance down at my hand, picking at my fingernail as if it’s all too boring for me to care.
“Huh. Good for him.”
Suddenly, I’m shoved back as she slaps her palms against my chest and pushes me away.
“No, you idiot! It’s a good thing for you! Don’t you see what this means?”
I give her the obvious eye roll, indicating that “no, I don’t have the slightest idea.”
She lets out an exaggerated sigh and stands, grabbing her bag to open the flap and extracting a folded piece of paper. She hands it to me with a shrewd grin.
I take the proffered paper and open it up. It’s a flier calling for the 1st Annual Art Exhibit Contest Submissions.
It reads: Calling for your original artwork now. All students and academics may submit one of their original works and enter for selection into a curated exhibition to be held on November 22nd in Las Vegas, Nevada. Grand Prize winner to have their work displayed in a curated art show, with lodging and travel included.
I scan the rest of the memo which talks about the other prizes for contestants, rules for submission, and other pertinent details. At the bottom of the form, it lists Professor Lucas Mathiasson’s email and number if anyone has any questions about the submission guidelines.
My heart rate speeds up with a tic-tic-tic and my skin flashes hot. I reread it one more time before Peyton pokes me on the back of my shoulder, leaning her head close speaking in my ear.
“You’re going to enter this contest and go to Vegas.”
I shoo her away with the back of my hand. “Whatever. I don’t have time for something like this.”
“Oh, like you didn’t have time for all this baking? Really, Kyler. You’re just being stubborn,” she admonishes, her tone rough with irritation. “This could be huge for you and your career.”
She has a point. I’ve never been to Vegas and that would be pretty fucking cool to see my artwork displayed along the sides of world-famous painters, sculptors, and visual artistry. But getting my hopes up is ridiculous. How can I compete against some of the hugely talented students in this art program?
As if seeing through my fears, Peyton returns to the couch and sits down next to me, swinging her arm around my shoulder and hugging me in close.
“Kyler Scott. A wise and very cute man once said that if you never step out of your comfort zone and take a chance, you’ll never get what you want.”
I give her side-eyed glare but laugh. “I was referring to losing your virginity.”
She jumps to her feet and presses her palms into her hips, her face stern and brooking no argument.
“Whatever. Regardless, you’re entering that contest. Even if I have to steal one of your brilliant paintings and enter it on your behalf.”
She takes off running down the hallway toward our bedrooms. “You wouldn’t!”
Her voice carries down the hall as I watch her go. “Just try me.”
That nosy little brat.
I think she would, too, just to prove me wrong. Which means, I better get on it just to keep her nose out of my business.
30
Lucas
I pace the hallway of my grandmother’s English Tudor home on Nantucket, waiting for her doctor to provide me with his diagnosis. This is, of course, her personal physician, the one she’s been going to for over thirty years, and the only one she trusts.
When I got the call from my mother that Grandmum had taken a fall while in her penthouse in New York City and been rushed to the hospital in New York, I flew out immediately. Since then, she’s had a myriad of tests to rule out all the big ones like cancer. She also received the conclusion of two chief physicians in the ER that it’s her heart.
But Jocelyn wouldn’t take their word for it. Instead, she insisted we bring her home where she could have Dr. Phillip Dorsey look over the test results to provide his own verdict.
The door from my grandmother’s private suite opens and the older, white-haired doctor steps out, his eyes cast downward as he slowly latches the door behind him.
When he sees me standing there, he raises his head and he gives me a gentle smile, placing a hand on the back of my shoulder, encouraging me to walk with him.
“Why don’t we go into the study where we can talk. Jocelyn has signed the consent and HIPAA forms so that I may share with her immediate family all the details of her condition and prognosis.”
Entering the wood-paneled office, I take the seat facing away from the large window overlooking the ocean. Although it holds no interest to me right now, I do miss visiting the coast and being out on the water in my grandfather’s old boat. I have wonderful memories of our time together fishing when I was a young boy.
Dr. Dorsey sits across from me, crossing a leg over the other and placing his notes on his lap before he begins. “Based on the tests that were done in the ER, her fainting spell was due in part by an irregular heartbeat. It appears your grandmother has a type of heart arrhythmia, a tachycardia originating in the atria.”
Confusion and fear sputter through me. “What does that mean? Did she suffer a heart attack?”
“No, no. Not all arrhythmias mean an underlying heart disease. With your grandmother’s condition, it’s the electrical system in her heart, specifically in the upper two chambers – the atria - that lead to misfiring so to speak, and speed up her heart rate. It’s called atrial fibrillation, or a rapid heart rate caused by the chaotic and irregular electrical impulses in that atria chamber.”
I study his face to see what information he’s holding back.
“Is it serious?”
He shrugs. “Jocelyn has probably lived with it for some time without even knowing it. However, with advanced age comes greater risks if not treated and could lead to more serious complications such as a stroke.”
And there it is. The possibility of losing my grandmother. This thought terrifies me.
She’s been such an influential person in my life. And while we have disagreed on many things – including my decisions related to college basketball and my profession in academia – she still remains steadfast and true. Unlike my mother who has practically disappeared from our lives and is uninterested in anything I do.
I nod with resolve, standing and walking behind the chair to stare out the plate-glass window overlooking the crashing waves of the Atlantic.
“Okay. What can she do to prevent it from happening again?”
Dr. Dorsey clears his throat. “There are a few things she can do to reduce the risk of stroke. The first thing is to start her on a blood thinner medication. But many of the preventative actions she already does on a regular basis. She eats a heart-healthy diet and walks regularly. I know she doesn’t smoke. Although, she could probably reduce her wine intake on a nightly basis.”
I give him an arched eyebrow over my shoulder with a short chuckle. “That will be a tough one.”
He chuckles along with me. “Yes, she does love her Bordeaux if I recall. She doesn’t have to give up alcohol entirely but limit it as much as possible. Along with caffeine, which only serves to increase the heart rate. And lastly, she needs to reduce her stress levels. Intense stress and anger can cause a flare up of the heart rhythm problems.”
My chin drops to my chest and I place a palm against the window frame to hold me up against the push-back I know will come when I suggest to my grandmother that she take a step down from her position in the company.
I laugh and respond drolly. “Any suggestions on how to medicate the stubbornness out of her?”
Turning to face the doctor, I level him with my gaze. “Because you know Jocelyn MacArthur Mathiasson is not going to step down from her post as Chief Executive Officer of Mathiasson Industries.
”
He shakes his head in dismay. “And that, young man, is going to be an obstacle I can’t help you with. I’ve already told her she must slow down. She can’t keep going into the city and maintaining the hours or the travel that she currently does. It’s not sustainable or healthy.”
The weight of this lands squarely and heavily upon my shoulders. The idea she could face death at any time fills me with sorrow and even regret for the ways I’ve failed her in my adult life. In that, I haven’t given her a way to pass on her legacy or our family name. While my mother is somewhere traipsing around the world, and my Aunt Meredith long since passed, I’m left to handle this burden on my own as her only remaining family member. And I need to see to it that she gets what she’s wanted for years from me.
A married grandson.
“Lucas, darling. You must stop fussing over me. I’m perfectly capable of managing this on my own. I am not an invalid.”
Grandmum waves me away with a fluttering hand, as she pushes to her feet to get up out of her chair. We’ve just finished dinner in her overly-large and opulent dining room, the table has seating for sixteen but serving only the two of this evening.
It’s been a week now that I’ve been in Nantucket, doing exactly what she’s claiming I’m doing. Fussing over her protectively, helping her with even the most menial of tasks, as if she were breakable China.
I take a step back from her, allowing her the room she’s requested, but follow closely behind as she makes her way into the library with even but stunted steps. Perhaps I have been a bit too watch-dog in my pursuit to ensure she remains healthy and well.
I’ve hired a personal trainer to work with her daily on her exercises, avoiding anything too strenuous, but to build her cardiovascular strength. And I’ve contacted her Chief Operating Officer and righthand man, Dennis Hershfield, who I’ve given express instructions that he does not invite my grandmother to any non-essential meetings.
