Page 14 of The Forbidden Summer
Reaching a hand beneath me, I fist my weeping cock and grind against the cool sheets, thrusting into my calloused palm. The lazy strokes build a heat in my groin that melts away my guilt, just for a moment, long enough to find release. My mind flashes back to earlier, to Van shirtless, chopping wood. His burgeoning muscles flexing beneath creamy skin. His pouty lip caught between his teeth as he concentrated hard on not missing the log.
Because he was distracted… watching me instead.
I imagine I can feel the heat of his gaze on my skin now, as he indulged in a fantasy about me, chopping wood, stripping from the relentless heat, wiping sweat off my body like I was putting on a show for him. If I know Van, and I do, that’s exactly what he was picturing.
My balls draw up tight, and my gut tightens with a spasm asmy orgasm crests, rolling through me like a tidal wave. I spill into my fist, trying to catch most of it so I don’t have to sleep in a wet spot.
As I wipe my hand dry on my discarded shirt, shame coils around my conscience like a Boa Constrictor, squeezing any joy I just found through release right out of my head.
I’m a disgrace. I don’t deserve him.
Van
The boat rocks gently beneath us, each stroke of the oars pulling us farther from shore. The lake’s smooth as glass, save for the soft ripple trailing behind us. Late afternoon light glints off the water, painting gold across Père’s cheekbones and catching in his lashes. He squints toward the horizon like it’s easier than looking at me.
I should be watching where I’m rowing, but…well, I’m not.
“You always this quiet on boats,” I ask, “or is it just the company?”
He shifts, barely. His knee bumps mine, then retreats. “Just thinking.”
“Dangerous habit.”
“You should try it sometime.”
I grin, but he doesn’t see it. Or he does and pretends not to. I let the oars rest in their locks, letting us drift.
“You know,” I say lightly, “this is kind of romantic. If you ignore the mosquitoes.”
His jaw tightens, just a flicker. “You say that like it’s a joke.”
“Isn’t it?”
I meet his eyes then. He doesn’t look away this time, but he doesn’t answer either. The space between us stretches, thin and vibrating like a wire pulled taut.
It would be easy to say something—something honest, or stupid, or both. But I don’t. He doesn’t either.
The boat creaks. A bird calls somewhere near the reeds.
He clears his throat. “You going to row us back, or are we just going to drift until nightfall?”
I pick up the oars again, the moment dissolving like mist. “Guess we’ll see.”
I keep rowing, making sure to flex my barely-there muscles, because I like the way he watches when he thinks I’m not paying attention.
Père mutters something under his breath—French, probably something rude. Definitely something I want to hear again.
I cock my head. “Was that a curse or a compliment?”
“Yes,” he says, still not looking at me.
I row for a while, staying quiet. Nothing but silence and side glances. Père doesn’t speak, and I don’t push it. But the quiet feels charged, like the air before a storm.
Eventually, I let the oars rest again, and we drift. The sun’s lower now, skimming the edge of the trees. The lake’s gone a dark, silvery blue, and everything feels closer. Smaller.
Père leans back, arms braced behind him. His fingers trail the surface of the water, slowly. Thoughtful. I watch the way his throat moves when he swallows.
“How come you seem so tense?” I ask, trying to keep it light. Teasing.
