Page 24 of The Forbidden Summer
I exhale slowly, my gaze dropping to the letters laid out on the table, then back to him. “You’re not afraid, are you?”
Van shakes his head, his expression open and vulnerable in a way I don’t often see. “Not with you, Cap. Not with you.”
It’s a dangerous thing, this kind of certainty. But damn if it doesn’t make my chest feel lighter.
I reach over, pushing the letters aside to make room, and then take his hand in mine. It’s a small thing, but it feels like a promise in itself. “Alright,” I say, my voice more confident. “Let’s live our story out loud. Together.”
At least for this summer. In the relative privacy of the lake. After that, well… we’ll see what the future holds.
Van
Every evening, I curl up in Père’s warm embrace, the solid feel of his arms around me grounding me in a way nothing else can. He leans back against the couch, his voice a seductive purr that melts everything inside me, as he reads me another letter from the stack. It’s become our routine, our little ritual. Each letter feels like a window into the past, a window into the lives of Harold and Elliot, but more than that, it feels like we’re sharing something sacred. A connection that goes beyond time, beyond the ink on the page.
The letters are faded, the words delicate, but Père reads each one as though it’s a treasure. His fingers brush over the paper asif he’s touching the hearts of the men who wrote them. And with every word, I feel him drawing me closer, not just to their story but to our own.
I rest my head against his chest, the steady rhythm of his heartbeat soothing me as he reads on. Sometimes, his voice cracks when he reaches particularly emotional parts, and I feel it deep in my own chest. Sometimes, we pause, the silence wrapping around us like a blanket, and I let myself imagine those two lovers—Harold and Elliot—lost to time, but not forgotten. And then I think about us, about our own story. How we’re creating something, too, something daring and real and all our own.
And as he continues to read, I let the words of the past mingle with the feelings stirring in me now—feelings for him, for the love we’re building, and for the truth that we’re not just reading a story, we’re living one.
Harold recalls the first time he made love to Elliot, in the room just down the hall. His words paint a clear picture of the overwhelming desire he felt for Elliot, the uncertainty of his first illicit touch of his cousin.
It feels inappropriate for me to be turned on by the story, but I am. I’m rock hard, and now my mind is wandering. If only Père would touch me like that. I brush my fingers over his bare thigh, flirting with the hem of his boxer shorts.
He continues to read as if he can’t feel my touch.
I tease the coarse hair on his thigh with soft breaths, daring to softly lick his skin before blowing over it.
His muscle twitches, his only reaction to my feeble attempt at seduction.
As Père continues to read, my attempts grow bolder.
Lifting the thin cotton over his thigh, I blow warm air intohis boxers. His lips tug into a reluctant smile, but he doesn’t stop reading.
Scooting my head from his thigh to his groin, I lift the hem of his tank top and poke my tongue into the soft warmth of Père’s belly button. He chuckles and tugs his shirt back down.
I think he wants this, he just hasn’t given himself permission to accept it yet. Like Harold and Elliot, describing the forbidden thrill of their first touch, first kiss, the way it sent him over the edge with desire for a man he shouldn’t want.
Père’s breath hitches, but he doesn't pull away. His body’s reaction betrays the calm exterior he's trying so hard to maintain. I feel the heat between us building, the tension thick in the air, and I know he wants this. He wants me, even if he's telling himself he shouldn’t.
His hands twitch at his sides, and for a moment, I think he might reach out, but instead, he rubs the back of his neck as if trying to will away the longing I see in his eyes. “You’re playing with fire,” he mutters, voice rough, barely louder than a whisper.
I sit up, just a breath away, my fingers tracing the line of his jaw. “Maybe I like fire.”
Père shifts slightly, his breath coming a little faster now, like he’s trying to steady himself. His gaze flickers to my lips, then back to my eyes, like he’s battling with something deep inside him. “You know this isn't... This isn't simple,” he says, his voice strained, as though each word is a fight.
I smile softly, leaning in just enough that my lips brush against his ear, my breath hot against his skin. “I know. But sometimes the most complicated things are the ones worth having.”
He swallows hard, hard enough that I can hear it, his chestrising and falling with each breath. He closes his eyes for a beat, as if trying to block out the overwhelming desire that’s building between us. His hand hovers near mine, hesitant, unsure. The tension is so thick, I swear I can feel it crackling in the air. It’s like the force of his restraint is pressing down on me.
“Van…” His voice is barely a whisper, almost a plea. “We can’t just pretend this isn’t... dangerous.”
I pause, just long enough to savor the moment, before I slide my hand down to his, gently interlacing our fingers. “I’m not pretending anything. I’m here. Right here with you. And I’m not going anywhere.”
There’s a moment of soundlessness, and for a heartbeat, it feels like time itself has frozen. The world outside doesn’t exist. It’s just us. Just the raw, unspoken truth between us.
Père exhales, his chest rising with the breath he’s holding in, and when he opens his eyes again, they’re darker, intent on mine. “I don’t know how much longer I can keep holding back,” he admits softly.
God, I hope not much longer. I’m dying to taste his kiss.
