Page 85 of The Mayor and the Mystery Man

“Speaking of being close,” Dusty humped against my finger. Goosebumps flashed down his skin. “Your finger’s about to get the job done.”

I pulled out and replaced it with my thick cock. Dusty balled the comforter in his fist.

“You okay, baby?”

“Fucking great. Just trying to stay quiet.”

Me, too. Lord, my body got set on fire as I sank into that warm ass, past his tight ring of muscle. My hands cascaded over his smooth back. I slipped fingers through his soft blond curls, savoring this beautiful man under me. I pulled him by the hair; he arched his back to meet me.

“God. Fuck. Leo.” Dusty panted, tiny groans escaping his lips.

My twins didn’t need to hear the sounds of skin slapping and grown men grunting. I fucked him slowly, which brought its own form of torturous pleasure. Time slowed down. I felt every inch of me plunging inside him, every jump of his heartbeat.

“Feels so good,” he muttered. His ass tightened around me. We’d fucked enough for me to know what that meant.

“Come for me,” I growled into his ear. “Stroke yourself.”

Dusty balanced on one hand as he jerked his dick, and I resisted the urge to jackhammer him. His hole clenched on my cock as he shot his load into the sheets. I grunted into his hair and filled his ass with my release.

We collapsed onto the bed, laughing and catching our breaths. Dusty’s engorged, spent cock hung flopped on his stomach. I gave it a final lick, tasting his final drops.

“Good morning,” he said. “Does that count as stretching?”

I was smiling so big I thought my cheeks were going to break off.

“You seem happy.” Dusty circled a finger through my chest hair.

“I get to kiss you and have sex with you for the rest of my life. I’m the happiest guy on earth.”

I’d wondered if my inability to commit to other guys because of Dusty was a made-up excuse my mind had concocted. It was not. Sex with Dusty was one million percent better than any Milkman hookup.

Dusty pecked me on the lips then pushed me off. “Let’s get ready for real. We have some zombies to slay.”

“Dad!” Lucy called up. “Ari spilled the orange juice, and we can’t find the sponge!”

I sighed. A dad’s job was never done. “I’ll wash up first.”

* * *

I finished gettingready and pinned my race bib to my shirt that said Humans > Zombies. Vernita emailed me the latest polling. I was in a dead heat with Rita. We texted about last-minute ideas to help move the needle, but we both agreed it was going to come down to the final debate on Sunday evening.

I found the kids and Dusty in Lucy’s room with Dusty’s back turned to her as she drew something on the back of his shirt. Ari painted on his face. Dusty turned, and streaks of fake blood drifted across his shirt and cheeks.

“What’s that?” I asked in horror.

“It’s for the Zombie 5k,” Dusty said. “We were talking, and I wanted to do something fun. Lucy and Ari said people get really into it.”

“You’re going to be a zombie?”

He shook his head no. “I’m going to look like I was attacked by zombies, so that way the zombies think I’m one of them and leave me alone.”

“People get really into it, Dad,” Lucy said. “Do you remember last year when that lady ran with a fake arm dangling from her side?”

“Janey Tarberg.” The same librarian who flashed me at Applefest back in the day. She had a mighty spirit, that one.

There were some people who really got into the spirit of Halloween. It was the one time of year when they could express their obsession with morbidity out loud—a pride month for blood and guts.

“Oh, can you put some fake blood on my hands?” Dusty asked. “I want it to look like a zombie came up to me, but I punched them and said, ‘Drop dead, bitch. Again.’”

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