Page 33 of Stolen Dreams

The hot spray wakes up my muscles as I go through my shower routine. Hair washed, I squirt bodywash in my palm, coat the other, and lather my chest and tattooed abs. As my hands drift lower, my mind wanders to more libidinous places.

I close my eyes as my slick palm strokes the length of my cock. Slow. Measured. Squeezing a little harder as I near the head. Root to tip, over and over, I pump my cock. An inferno blazes beneath my skin. Expanding. Pulsing. Begging for relief.

An image of Kaya flashes in my mind. Her coppery-brown eyes peeking up at me from beneath her lashes. A faint blush on her cheeks and neck.

“Fuck,” I growl out as my free hand slaps the glass and takes some of my weight.I’m going to hell.

I strengthen my grip, pulse my cock harder. Cling to the image of her and let it fuel my uninhibited thoughts. Of what it would feel like to trail my fingers over her golden-brown skin. How she would look beneath me, jaw slack and gaze wanton. What her breath would feel like on my skin as her moans fill the room. The way her body would quiver as we edge closer to climax.

My balls draw up as fire licks my veins. “Jesus. Fuck.” As my thumb strokes the head of my cock, I come undone, painting the glass. Legs shaking, I glance down at my swollen cock. “Definitely going to hell,” I mutter.

But oh, how glorious the trip would be.

After I finish in the shower, I towel off and pull on a pair of sweatpants. Poke my head inside Tucker’s room to see him still asleep. Once I rouse him, I jog down the stairs and get started on breakfast.

Tucker plods into the kitchen, hands rubbing his eyes, and takes a seat at the island.

Thinly sliced ham warms in the oven while I scramble eggs on the stove. When the eggs are only a little runny, I cut the heatand put a lid on the pan. I grab a couple croissants that I picked up from the bakery yesterday and slice them in half. Turning off the oven, I swap the ham for the croissants. While they warm, I slice some brie.

Across the bar, Tucker watches with complete fascination. “Will we make breakfasts like this?”

I pull the croissants from the oven and start assembling the breakfast sandwiches.

“Yep. We made an amazing list of fun foods.” I set his sandwich in front of him. “Can’t wait to make them all with you.”

Tucker presses down on his croissant and squishes his sandwich. “Me either.”

He devours his food in no time, hops off his stool and takes his plate to the sink. Before he runs off to get ready, I call after him.

“Hold on a minute, bud.” I rise from my stool and wipe my hands. “Follow me.” I lead him to the living room and fetch the bag on the couch. “Got something for you.”

“Really?” His excitement palpable as he bounces beside me.

I pull out the junior-sized chef’s coat, unfold it, and hold it up. “What do you think?” I point to the left breast where his name is stitched.

“Whoa!” He shuffles forward and gingerly takes the coat. “This is for me?”

“You know it.” I ruffle his hair.

Hazel, glassy eyes stare up at me with so much love, appreciation, and a hint of disbelief. “This is so dope.” He tries and fails to hide his sniffle. “Thanks, Dad.”

I bend and press a kiss to his head. “You’re welcome, T-Man. Now, go”—I pat his butt—“get ready.”

Tucker talks my ear off as we drive to the restaurant. He tells me all the food he plans to make and how he will be a chef one day. And while he chatters on, I tap the steering wheel over and over. Watch the odometer tick off tenths of a mile, one after another.

To say I’m nervous would be an understatement. Hell, I haven’t been this jittery in years. And it has nothing to do with teaching thirteen kids how to cook or use sharp knives.

No, this endless effervescence in the center of my chest is because I get to see her again.

Kaya.

Sure, I can lie to myself. Do my best to shove down this foreign, fizzy feeling beneath my diaphragm. Deny how I come alive whenever she is within reach. Argue that it’s only attraction and nothing more.

But deep down, I know it’s more than lust. Avoiding the truth is pointless.

For now, though, I need to focus on what is important and keep my thoughts to myself.

I steer the car into the lot and park on the side of the restaurant. Open the back door, grab my work backpack, and shoulder it. When Tucker joins me at the trunk of the car, he takes my hand and gives it a small squeeze.

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