Page 8 of The Forbidden Summer
“I’ve been thinking about spending more time here, actually,” he admits, taking me by surprise. “Maybe an extra trip during the year, now that I’m retired with nothing to do.”
I raise an eyebrow, trying to mask the sudden surge of emotions that fill me. Spending more time here? With him? The thought makes my heart beat a little faster.
"That sounds nice," I say carefully. “I’m almost finished with school. I could join you. Maybe ride out the winters here together.” It was easy to picture us cozied up just like this in front of a warm fire, talking long into the night.
“Van,” Père hedges, looking conflicted. “You can’t put your life on hold for me. You have a whole world to conquer before you waste away in this cabin.”
My breath stutters in my lungs. “But…” It feels like he’s talking about moving on without me, coming here, to our sacred place, alone. A wave of loneliness crashes down on me, threatening to drown me. Why can’t it always be like this? Just me and Père shut away from the world.
“It’s just a thought, anyhow. No need to get worked up tonight. I’m heading to bed,” he announces, sitting forward to stretch his arms above his head.
“Père?” When he turns to me, I add, “Wherever you go, just don’t leave me behind, alright?”
I’m not talking about bed, and he knows it. I don’t want him moving on without me, no matter where he has in mind.
He pauses, his gaze softening as if he understood exactly what I meant. His expression is quiet, thoughtful. “You don’t have to worry about that.” His voice is filled with a sincerity that makes my chest tighten. “I’ve never thought of leaving you behind. You’re my everything.”
Warmth floods through me at his words, a quiet reassurance that settles deep in my bones. The uncertainty that’s been gnawing at me for the past few moments eases.
“I guess I just… don’t want things to change, y’know? Not with you. Not with us.”
The corner of his mouth tugs up into a knowing smile, the kind he always gives when he’s trying to reassure me without saying too much. “Some things don’t change, no matter what.” He leans closer, his voice dropping to a whisper. “I’m not going anywhere, son. Not without you.”
Van
The summer sun beats down relentlessly on my face and back as I work. My shirt is long gone, soaked through with sweat and itchy from woodchips. Père had helped me roll some fallen trees surrounding the cabin into the clearing where I was chopping them into manageable-sized pieces. Some of it would be used for the woodstove and the fire pit, and some for carving my sculptures.
The heat of the sun is nothing compared to the heat radiating off Père’s body, his shirt long gone, his chest covered in a light sheen of sweat.
My mind wanders as I take another swing.Damn it, I’ve never been this distracted before. I swing the axe again, missing the log completely.
“That's the third time, son. You chopping wood or just playin' with it?” Père’s voice carries across the clearing, teasing me, and I can’t help but feel heat rise to my face.
I’d be finished already if he wasn’t so damn distracting with his shirt off. Hard pecs capped with dark brown nipples, dark chest hair salted with a few grays, and a flat stomach that narrows down to tapered hips. His well-worn cargo shorts hug his generous ass, and the work boots and shorts combo is a favorite of mine.
Damn, my grandaddy is hot.
I raise the axe again, trying my best to focus. “Maybe I'm just testing the wood's durability,” I mutter under my breath, missing the log completely once more.
Père snorts from across the clearing. “If you're testing the wood, you're doing a damn poor job of it.”
I shoot him a mock glare, wiping sweat from my brow. “Well, it's hard to concentrate when I keep getting distracted by your...chiseled physique.”
Père raises an eyebrow and smirks. “Is that so? Should I put my shirt back on?”
“Don’t you dare,” I warn, laughing playfully.
He reaches for a cold bottle of water on the worktable and when he guzzles it, his Adam’s apple bobs repeatedly, in sync with the throbbing in my dick. Droplets of water escape his lips, streaming down his throat and chest, and I grip the axe tighter to keep from touching myself.
This is straight-up lumberjack porn, live and in person, just feet away, and I can’t reach out and touch him, or myself. It’s pure torture.
“I can’t wait to see what you make from those,” Père calls, crumpling the empty bottle in his strong grip.
Something phallic-shaped, no doubt, considering the course my thoughts are on.
He reaches for another bottle and brings it to me. “Here, take a break and cool off.”
I guzzle the water much like he had, and when I lower my head, I realize Père’s staring. I wipe my mouth, catching his gaze, and feel my heart start to pound.
