Page 20 of Thankful For Him

“I know where everything is, besides,” she adds, gnawing her lip and letting her hand slide across my cock once she sets the tray down. “You might have burnt something in there.”

I shrug, but welcome her hands on me and hold them there a little longer until she shakes her head.

“I’ll find you something of Dad’s,” she says absently, getting up and we both stop and look at each other.

“How long have we got?” I ask her, knowing neither of us can tell.

“Here?” she asks. “Today?” she adds, sounding confused.

“Sorry, I shouldn’t have said it like that,” I comfort her, getting up again and holding her, kissing her.

“My bags in the truck,” I remind her, but she’s already off to find me something to cover up with.

“Here,” she says heartily, tossing me a sweater and some gray sweats.

“Dad’s old but very clean ‘cabin clothes’, he won’t mind.”

He won’t, but I do.

It hurts Misty I can tell, but I make my way out to the SUV, butt naked and fetch my own gear.

Once I’ve slipped into some of my own casual clothes. Denim, a shirt, and some woolly socks, I find her in the kitchen, busy getting dinner ready.

“I understand,” she says softly. “I get it, don’t worry about it.”Chapter FifteenMistyIt’s only a little after ten, and as usual, I overreacted.

Glad I didn’t dream it though, I welcome the morning alone with Zak, but still can’t help walking on eggshells as he struts around butt naked.

It’s making me crazy hot again, but what if Dad turns up?

What about when Dad does turn up?

All this plays through my mind on top of the usual stuff we tell ourselves when we have a big day ahead of things to do on occasions like Thanksgiving.

“That’s if he does come back,” Zak says, finally breaking the tense silence we share after our quick breakfast of coffee and bagels.

I’m forcing stuffing into the bird, watching the clock now as I realize it might not be ready in time.

What does this thing weigh? Fifty pounds?

Jesus. Feels like it.

I feel Zak’s hands on my hips, pulling me back towards him as he rests his chin on the top of my head.

“Let’s just see how it pans out,” he says, giving voice to the gnawing feeling I have growing inside me.

“It might be smart to keep a little space between us with your Dad around, but he’s not here right now and I’m sorry if I made you feel awkward,” he says honestly.

I turn around, and although I’m disappointed he’s dressed now, and my hands are covered in stuffing, I hug him as he lifts me up, settling my rump on the counter as he kisses me.

“I’ll help you stuff more than this turkey in a minute,” he warns me, and I hop down, getting back to business.

“I’ll need you to lift it into the oven, it weighs a ton,” I remark, letting him take the whole tray which he lifts like it weighs nothing as I watch his fine ass flex through his jeans and his torso bulge with tension as he eases it into the oven.

“There are yams and some other vegetables, gizzard gravy and we should be done,” I announce proudly, drying my hands as he turns around, eager to hold me again.

“What happened to keeping our distance?” I ask, and he crushes his face into a knot, groaning.

“Okay. Maybe this is gonna be harder than I thought,” he confesses, noticing my gaze dropping to his crotch.

“And not the only thing that’s too hard,” I smile, but we both feel it.

We both know it.

“After Thanksgiving,” I suggest. “We’ll tell him then?”

Zak nods stiffly in silent reply and we both pretend for as long as we can that we can make it.

That we can last hours, maybe days in front of my Dad without launching ourselves at each other, sharing the love between us that’s been unleashed.

Uncontainable.

“Did you say gizzard gravy?” he asks, breaking the spell after a moment’s silence and I nod.

“Sure. You remember, probably know it as ‘Homestyle’ or ‘old fashioned’ gravy, but it’s made from these,” I announce, slopping a two pound bag of gizzards onto the counter.

“Don’t worry,” I add. “We don’t do it with the livers… that would be gross,” I quip, and noticing the green look on his face I start to laugh.

“I thought you knew, that’s how we always do it,” I tell him, but he only makes another face.

“I’ll get those yams ready,” he offers and sets about scrubbing and preparing them after trimming the long ends.

Zak and I work well as a team in the tiny kitchen.

Like the bedroom, his huge frame fills most of the space; but he seems to have a delicate touch with food and an eye for detail as much as he does with everything else he’s so good at.

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