Page 49 of A Much Younger Man
Chapter Twelve
I pickedup my goddamn spoon, all right.
I was thinking with my dick. Or maybe I wasn’t thinking at all. It was as if a chyron behind my closed eyelids scrolled the words,Beck likes older partners. You’re well and truly older. Ergo…
Not a ringing endorsement, I know, but I wasn’t that confident.
My boyfriends had all pretty much dropped into my lap, either at school or at work. We’d been equal partners, knew the same jokes, listened to the same music, had all the pop culture references in common. All that, plus chemistry, brought us together, but mutual affection never lasted.
It seemed I was all spark and no fire.
With someone Beck’s agesparkwas all that mattered—at least, I kept telling myself that while he made yummy noises around my spoon.
Beck’s lips were a religious experience for me as was the way he closed his eyes to savor food. Instead of letting him dab with a napkin, I leaned in and licked away any stray bits with my tongue. Eating and kissing became one and the same thing.
I felt his smile when we kissed, and the tension in my gut grew into a cataclysm in my balls and cock. I brushed his lower lip with my thumb.
“I could come just from watching your mouth when you eat.”
Face flushed, eyes bright as stars he said, “I could come from you feeding me.”
Like puzzle pieces, I thought as I captured his hand and laced our fingers together.
He took in a deep breath, and I let out a sigh. We smiled at the same time. He was starshine, and I was utterly content to reflect all that bright beauty back to him until I positively glowed.
We ate our entire meal holding hands like middle schoolers—no words, no drama—with only companionship and fierce affection to guide us.
I wanted to lead, but that role had been taken from me the second I’d seen him licking an ice cream cone on the beach. I was way out of my depth. I got the feeling he knew it. I got the feeling I amused him, and he liked that—in the same way all the greatfataleslike the affect they have on others.
I was his to play with, to enjoy. I was his, and the tiny satisfied smile I’d seen playing over his mouth all night told me he wanted me, and he was going to take me however he liked.
It was kind of freeing now that I acknowledged it.
“What now?” It felt unbelievably stupid to ask. “Um. Dessert? I have ice cream.”
“Maybe later.” He cupped the side of my face with calloused fingers. “Have you been practicing your guitar?”
The segue caught me off guard as if the ground had moved beneath my feet.
A flush rode high on his cheekbones. Maybe he needed to slow things down. I was overwhelmed by his nearness. By his interest. By everything about him. It was probably good I let him set the pace.
“I’m shit at it,” I whined.
That got me a smug smile. “Everyone has to start somewhere.”
“I might have reached the age where I only like doing things I’m good at. Like that old dog we were talking about.”
“So?” There was no pity in him. “Get good.”
“Must I?”
“Depends on what you want.” He swiveled on the stool again. “Do you want to play guitar?”
“I don’t want tonotplay guitar,” I equivocated.
He snorted and pushed me toward the living room. “Go. Get your instrument.”
“Let me just clean up here first.” I stalled by rinsing the dishes and putting them into the dishwasher. “Did you feed Callie?”
