Page 33 of Resisting You

Frey felt like crying. And he kind of felt like laughing. Maybe screaming into the void a little. God, he was a mess. But at least he had his friends, and for that moment, it was enough.

Dallas, Lane, and Briar left just after dinner, and Frey put Rex in bed, reading him three stories before he finally agreed to lie down. He crouched beside his son, brushing his hair back and thinking how glad he was that he didn’t have any genetics from his shit-for-brains ex. He would have loved Rex no matter what, but right then, he was glad they had no connection.

Rex waved at him. ‘Briar has another dad.’

Frey nodded. For a while, Rex had been excited to make a friend who only had one dad, but that dynamic was changing, and he’d been waiting for Rex to ask about it. ‘Bowen,’ he said, using the name sign Rex had given him.

Rex’s brow furrowed. ‘Can we go to their wedding?’

Frey laughed and rolled his eyes up toward the ceiling for a second. ‘Yes,’ he answered. ‘But they’re not getting married for a long, long time. Lane hasn’t even proposed yet.’

Rex made an irritated noise, then touched his throat. ‘Sound?’

Frey nodded, lifting Rex’s hand to his own throat, and copied the noise. Rex was only just now becoming aware of sound itself—and what it meant and that other people had access to it. He seemed more curious than anything, and he still hadn’t asked for speech therapy, which was fine by him. Frey was taking Oz’s advice and letting Rex lead his own journey with language.

Rex cocked his head to the side. ‘You smell.’

Frey’s eyes widened. ‘Wow. Okay. Thank you.’

His son burst into giggles and rolled toward him, wrapping his tiny arm around his neck and snuggling in. Frey could have stayed there all night, but he’d just broken Rex of the habit of crawling into bed with him, and as much as he missed it sometimes, he knew he’d appreciate it when—if—he ever got into another relationship.

He pulled back after a long beat and stared into his son’s sleepy eyes. ‘Good night.’

‘Shower,’ Rex signed.

Frey scoffed. ‘Yes, Dad.’

Rex giggled again, softer and sleepier this time, and Frey watched his eyes get heavy before finally standing up and leaving, closing the door almost all the way behind him. His everything ached, and he had this strange stormy feeling in his gut he couldn’t get rid of.

He knew what it was, of course. It was hurricane Renato refusing to leave. Frey couldn’t stand the man, but goddamn was he good with his hands. And with his mouth. And his body.

His smell was overwhelmingly good, even with the cloying scent of antiseptic and hospital-starched scrubs. Frey could have buried his face in Renato’s neck and come there just breathing him in.

Well…maybe that was a weird thing to think.

He shook himself out of it and told himself he wasn’t going to let Renato live in his head any more than he already was. Enough was enough. He was going to shower and cover himself in his own lilac-scented soap, then crawl into bed and put on some porn with a guy who looked nothing like Renato at all and forget it ever happened.

Which was easier said than done. He managed the shower, but as he passed soapy hands over his dick, he was thrown almost violently back into the memory of what it felt like to have Renato touching him. His cock plumped, throbbing, aching to be stroked, but he wrenched his hand away and pressed it to the tiles.

“Don’t,” he said to himself. “Not him. Anyone but him.”

Frey washed up as quickly as he could, but as he stepped out of the shower and grabbed his towel, he caught a glimpse of himself in the mirror. He looked…wrecked still. His eyes had dark shadows, and his lips were parted, and he was breathing heavily because he was still fucking hard, and God, he couldn’t stop thinking about what it felt like when Renato had growled in his ear and all but threw him over the edge of pleasure.

He let the towel fall to the counter, his free hand cupping his balls. He rolled them in his palm, eyes closed, pretending like it wasn’t him touching them.

“Take what you want. Get yourself off on my hand.”

The echo of those words had his skin hot like fire, and he curled his fingers around his cock and began to stroke himself. “Fuck,” he gasped. “Fuck, fuck. Ren?—”

The door flew open. Frey reacted on instinct, grabbing the towel and shoving it in front of himself as he turned to see his son staring at him with narrow, confused eyes. He looked down at where Frey was covering himself, then back up into his face.

‘Look, your penis.’ Rex pointed as though Frey needed him to emphasize what he’d seen.

Frey wanted to bury himself under the tiles of his home.

‘Why?’

God, how did he get out of this one? ‘Why what?’ he signed with one hand, playing ignorant.

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