Page 175 of Bad for Me

"Fuck it," I say, surging forward. Henry meets me halfway, cupping both sides of my face and crashing our mouths together. The kiss leaves my lips raw and bruised, and I gasp as he trails nips and kisses down my throat.

We move without thinking. Henry grips my thighs and lifts me effortlessly, my legs wrapping around his waist. I absentmindedly grab the coconut oil off the island as he carries me to the table and sits me down, keeping his mouth fused to mine until he's settled between my thighs and we're writhing and dry humping each other. My hands push under his shirt, raking my nails against his sides.

"I want you," he growls against my neck. "I need you."

Yanking at his belt, I pull him in closer and slip my hand in the back of his pants, teasing the crack of his ass. At the same time, he opens the fly of my jeans and palms my achingly hard cock. It twitches in his hold, already leaking pre-cum. Feeling frenzied, I unbuckle his pants with my free hand, pushing them down so they fall around his ankles. I press our cocks together, and we stroke them in tandem.

"Fuck, I love everything about you. I can't stand this," I say, my emotions and my arousal overriding my better judgment.

"God, me either. I don't want to let you go." He sounds anguished. "Ian, I need you inside me."

I roughly push him back, tearing my shirt over my head and dropping my jeans. He follows suit, bending over the table and presenting that perfect ass to me. I reach for the jar of coconut oil, scooping some out with my fingers and pushing it into his ass with two fingers. His back arches and he hisses, but he thrusts back, fucking himself on my fingers. I add a third, trying to take the time to stretch and prime him properly, but he's not having it.

"Now, Ian," he barks.

With a large handful of rapidly melting coconut oil, I quickly lube up my cock and line up to his entrance. I'm too worked up to hesitate or go slow and gentle, but the way he pushes back wouldn't allow for it, anyway. I surge into him mercilessly, pulling back and pounding into him with quick, rough thrusts.

Grunting, I flatten his chest against the table and grip onto those delectable love-handles to use as God intended. “God Fucking Damnit, I want to live inside this ass. You feel so good.”

"Nmmmmfffff. Oh God, Ian, right there. Harder, baby! Oh fuck, oh fuck?—"

We're grunting and panting like animals. The room fills with the sounds of me rutting into him like some kind of beast, filthy words falling from my mouth.

"That's right, Daddy. You take it so good?—"

And that's how Mike finds us.

With our pants down around our feet, his father bent over the kitchen table, and my cock buried in his ass.

11

HENRY

The lookon my son's face when he catches us will forever live rent free in my head.

Michael freezes, shocked, like he might have walked into the wrong house. But then the realization of what he’s seeing quickly catches up to him and he looks horrified. Possibly a little green, which I can relate to. There's also a slight edge of exasperation that I don't understand, but I'll certainly never have the balls to ask about.

Because they've officially crawled into my stomach to live with the guilt and self-hatred that are warring within me.

I wonder how quickly I can get him into therapy. Not quick enough, probably.

With a flurry of curses, Ian and I scramble to pull up our pants and get as far apart from each other as possible. As if we could pretend that Michael didn't just see his best friend fucking his dad.

Michael's wide stare moves from me to Ian, never quite meeting our eyes, before taking in the discarded food in the kitchen, and the half-empty jar of coconut oil laying on its side on the floor.

"Michael—"

He holds a hand up to cut me off, still not looking at me, before backing out of the room. Both Ian and I take a step forward, but Michael stops us.

"Don't." His hands run through his hair and he grabs his duffle bag from next to the door where he must have dropped in when he came in. "I need a minute. Or maybe many minutes, I don't know yet. But just… Don't."

Relieved that he isn't running out the door, I watch him retreat up the stairs. My heart lurches, and both Ian and I flinch when his bedroom door slams.

We don't look at each other, or try to talk; keeping our distance, as if the space and silence between us could fix what we’ve done.

On autopilot, I start cleaning up the kitchen. The forgotten sandwich and all the leftover ingredients dumped right in the trash, and I scrub the pan so furiously I'm pretty sure I ruin the non-stick surface. When I turn back around, the table has been cleaned. The jar of coconut oil is sitting in the trash can, and there's the distinctive smell of disinfectant cleaner lingering in the air.

I want to go upstairs and scrub myself clean, but I pull on my shirt and sit at the end of the couch instead. My eyes squeeze shut, trying to rid myself of every flash of memory of all the kisses and touches that have happened on this couch, on the stairs, in the laundry room. Nearly every room of this house is tainted by my shame, and I want to crumble with the weight of it.

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