Looking for Trouble(37)
“Clay…oh fuck…right there.” Dylan trembled beneath him, cried out his name again as his hole tightened on Clay’s cock.
Dylan’s come shot between them, thick ropes on Clay’s chest and Dylan’s stomach, just as his own orgasm barreled into him. He thrust deep, his whole body vibrating as his dick jerked, pulsed in Dylan’s hole.
Dylan’s body went slack, like he turned to mush beneath Clay. “I don’t think I can ever move again.”
Clay chuckled, kissed him, savored the taste of him before saying, “I can help with that.” He pulled out, lifted Dylan, and set him in the middle of the bed, his head on the pillows. When he did, his eyes caught on the envelope with his name on it on the bedside table, and a twitch landed in his chest. “Let me get something to clean you up with.”
Dylan’s eyes softened, crinkled around the edges. “You’re sweet. No one has ever offered to do that for me before. I don’t mind, though. Sex is supposed to be messy. I like it that way.”
When Clay turned away from him, Dylan exclaimed, “Holy shit. Your tattoo.”
He’d forgotten that Dylan hadn’t seen his back, didn’t know about the full piece he had there.
“A phoenix?” Dylan asked.
“Yes.” But it wasn’t something he wanted to talk about. He wanted to climb into bed with Dylan and hold him. The thought sent a spike of fear through him, so he said, “I should, um…go clean up and get rid of the condom.”
“There’s a trash can by my bed.”
“I—”
“Please, Sad Eyes. I know I shouldn’t ask you this, but please don’t go yet.”
Clay sighed, pulled the condom off his softening cock, and tossed it in the trash. “Yes, you should ask me that. You have every right to ask me that.” Dylan deserved it. He deserved better. And if Clay were being honest with himself, he’d admit he wanted to comfort Dylan…or hell, maybe it was him who needed Dylan to comfort him.
Whatever the reason, he got into bed with him. Dylan wrapped his naked body around Clay’s—arm over his chest, leg over his hips, as though he couldn’t handle the thought of any space between them, as though he would crawl inside Clay if he could, and Clay realized he might want Dylan to do just that.
They didn’t speak as Clay let his fingers ride the curves of Dylan’s spine. The little shit fell asleep in what felt like ten seconds flat. Clay couldn’t sleep, though, so he held him, thought about what they’d done, how much he’d wanted it, how much he needed it again.
And Gordon, Christ, how could he not think of Gordon? It was the first time he’d slept with someone in the home they’d shared. The first time he’d slept with someone he cared about since Gordon.
And Mike… Dylan was Mike’s son. He’d broken Mike, hurt him beyond repair, and now he was fucking Mike’s son.
April… His chest ached at the thought of April.
What the fuck was wrong with him? He’d lost and hurt so many people he’d loved. He had no business risking Dylan that way.
Hours passed. He didn’t know how many, but he knew morning was close, dawn right around the corner. His eyes stung from lying there awake all night.
Clay closed his eyes, took a couple of deep breaths, then opened them and looked at the envelope. His insides shook as he kissed Dylan on the head, managed to wrangle himself out from under Dylan, who’d wrapped around him like an octopus. Clay kissed him again, grabbed the envelope, and walked out.
He found another pair of sweats in his bedroom, his sight snagging on the photo of Gordon on the bedside table.
It’s okay, Clay. You know I want you to be happy. You have feelings for that boy.
Clay fought to tune Gordon out before walking over and laying the image facedown so he didn’t have to see Gordon’s face. He couldn’t right then.
He tugged a black tee over his head, pulled on socks and shoes. Dakota ignored him, likely upset she’d been locked out of Dylan’s room.
With a sigh, he picked up the letter again and went outside. He turned on the floodlights, carried one of the plastic chairs to the pond, and sat. He looked out over the dark water, the moon dancing in its reflection.
He loved his home. He couldn’t imagine living anywhere different. It was one of the few places he truly felt at peace.
And he was stalling, wasn’t he?
He owed Dylan this…maybe owed it to Mike too.
Guilt burned through him like hot grease popping against his skin as he opened the envelope, pulled out the letter, and read.
Clay,
If I know you, it took Dylan a while to get you to read this. You could always be so damned stubborn, not that I blame you where this is concerned. I’m sure you have a lot of feelings involving me, all of which you have the right to feel.
But the truth is, realizing you’re dying does something to a person. It makes you see the world and yourself in ways you never allowed yourself to do before.
When I look back on my life, my biggest regret is you.
You were the best friend a person could have. You would have done anything for me, and you helped me through some of the hardest times in my life. You made me feel like someone cared about me when I couldn’t see it…and then I hurt you in ways I’ll never be able to forgive myself for.
It wasn’t your fault. You’ve probably been telling yourself it was ever since it happened, because that’s the kind of guy you are. And I know I told you the same, I know I said awful things to you that I’ll have to live and die with. Things I’ll always regret. But it wasn’t your fault. There was nothing you could have done to change what happened, or how she felt. I know you didn’t betray me that day. I knew it even then. Pain can do funny things to a person.