Intoxicating, page 8
They fell silent as Wyatt gave in and ate the sections of orange. Once finished, he started to fidget, clearly uncomfortable in the quiet. “I’m fine now. You can go.”
Dismissed. Linc didn’t think so. “I’ll go when I’m ready…when I think you’re ready.”
He peeled open the two sides of Wyatt’s unzipped hoodie like he was unwrapping a present, running his fingers across his flat belly, noting the smattering of moles dotting his fair skin like constellations.
Linc relished Wyatt’s sharp intake of breath, but then his hands captured Linc’s wrists. “I said I’m fine,” Wyatt muttered, not escaping Linc’s arms but tensing within them.
“Stop,” Linc warned.
“I don’t want to do this with you.” Wyatt’s voice was small but angry.
Wyatt wasn’t used to discipline, didn’t know the effects what they’d done could have, but Linc did. He couldn’t just leave Wyatt alone. He didn’t want to.
“Look, just because you think you’re fine, it doesn’t mean you are.” Wyatt’s nails dug half-moons into Linc’s wrists at those words. Maybe that wasn’t the right thing to say. Linc had no idea what the right words were. He didn’t do feelings or relationships or long-term, especially not with inexperienced kids like Wyatt—beautiful, broken Wyatt. Linc easily slipped his wrists from Wyatt’s grasp, tilting his chin upward. “I’m not ready to let you go just yet.”
“What about what I want? Does that matter?” The rawness in Wyatt’s words was a sucker punch to the gut.
“Do you even know what you want?”
Wyatt deflated, the fight draining from his body, his head falling back against Linc’s shoulder. “I know nobody ever really cares what I want.”
Jesus. “Turn around.”
Wyatt ignored him, staring down at Linc’s hands.
“Turn around and look at me. Now.”
Wyatt begrudgingly turned until he was straddling Linc’s lap, dragging his eyes upward. This close, he could see the smattering of freckles across his nose and that his sea-glass eyes were ringed with gold.
“I care,” he finally said. It wasn’t a lie. Linc really cared about Wyatt, wanted him to have a life out from under his father. The life he deserved. “What do you want?”
Wyatt looked startled at Linc’s question, his full lips pulling down at the corners. “It doesn’t matter.”
“It matters to me.” Linc didn’t know why it mattered or why Wyatt should care that it mattered to Linc. It shouldn’t. But he needed Wyatt to know that under different circumstances, he’d want this. Them. Whatever they fucking were. “I care about what you want. So, what do you want, sweet boy?”
Wyatt opened his mouth, like he was about to confess a secret, and Linc saw the exact moment the boy chickened out. Instead, he cupped Linc’s face, running his tongue over Linc’s lower lip. “What if I said all I want is you?”
Linc wondered what shameful, secret desire Wyatt hid, but he let it go. They barely knew each other, even though it didn’t feel that way to Linc. Instead, he addressed Wyatt’s words. “I want you, too. Just because we can’t keep doing this doesn’t mean I don’t want to keep doing this,” Linc insisted, pressing his lips to Wyatt’s forehead, his cheeks, his chin, before finally pressing a kiss to his pouty, unrelenting mouth. “There are so many things I want to do to you that it would take me the next five and a half months just to list them, but we both know if your father found out, it would be a nightmare—for both of us—and I can’t afford to lose this assignment.”
Wyatt’s face was a storm cloud, his mood darkening. “Because of your family?”
Linc frowned. How did Wyatt know that? “Yes, because of my family.”
“How does your wife feel about you fucking men?” Wyatt asked, tone icy.
Linc’s brain froze. “My…what?”
Wyatt looked at him then. His eyes were glinting with anger, his jaw thrust forward. “Don’t lie. I heard you on the phone with your wife talking about your kid.”
Linc tried to think back to the numerous calls he’d had but couldn’t pinpoint one that would have given Wyatt the idea that Linc was married…to a woman…and had a kid?
He should let him believe it. It would be easier if Wyatt thought Linc was a liar and a cheater. Maybe he’d hate Linc enough to dismiss him from his mind entirely and never look back. But Linc just couldn’t have him thinking that way. He hated dishonesty. “I’m not married, and I definitely don’t have a kid.”
Wyatt searched Linc’s face like the truth was written on his forehead. “You told her you were doing everything you could, and you said your kid would try to dress himself. I’m guessing he’s pretty young. You don’t have to lie… This isn’t a thing, remember?”
Understanding dawned, and Linc dropped his face into the crook of Wyatt’s shoulder, placing a kiss there before he lifted his head to meet Wyatt’s accusatory gaze. “I was talking to my sister, Ellie, about my father.”
Wyatt frowned, his expression leery. “Your dad was trying to dress himself? That’s not even a good lie.”
Linc shook his head. He didn’t want to talk about this—not with Wyatt, not with anybody—but he needed Wyatt to understand why this couldn’t keep happening, no matter how much Linc wanted it. Wyatt needed to know what was at stake.
“My father has a disease called Korsakoff Syndrome, which has caused severe and permanent dementia. He lives with Ellie in Orlando, but he’s getting so bad she’s having a hard time on her own, and we need to put him in a home where people can care for him.”
Wyatt’s mouth formed a perfect O, his hands splaying over Linc’s t-shirt. “There’s nothing anybody can do for him? No treatment?”
Linc’s chest suddenly felt tight, a lump forming in his throat. He locked it down. He didn’t have time to get emotional. It solved nothing. He was a Marine. Marines sucked it the fuck up and did what needed to be done. “No. By the time my sister found him, he was too far gone,” he forced himself to say.
“Found him?” Wyatt asked.
“Yeah. It’s a long story. My father has a lot of problems. Alcohol was the biggest, and now, it will ultimately be what kills him.”
The silence stretched between them, like a rope pulled taut, until finally, Wyatt said, “You don’t really want to talk about this, do you?”
Pressure exploded behind Linc’s ribs, the sorrow he’d kept at bay threatening to overwhelm him. He gave a stilted shake of his head, fighting to find his control once more. Wyatt’s hands slid lower, fingering the hem of Linc’s t-shirt, silently asking permission.
“Go ahead.”
Wyatt peeled Linc’s shirt off and tossed it aside, splaying his hands over Linc’s now bare skin, his look filled with wonder. He leaned forward, dragging his lips along Linc’s collarbone. His dick took notice, and Wyatt was hard again, too. Linc closed his eyes, cupping Wyatt’s ass and yanking him flush against him until they both groaned.
Wyatt rocked against him as he dipped his head to tongue at the hard peak of Linc’s nipple, biting down until Linc hissed. Wyatt’s thumbs teased over Linc’s hip bones as he turned his attention to Linc’s other nipple. Linc squeezed the globes of Wyatt’s ass, grinding their cocks together through the thin layers of fabric.
Wyatt lifted his head, eyes molten as he brushed his lips across Linc’s cheek to his ear. “I want more, Daddy.”
Fuck. The boy was perfect, so perfect. His perfect boy. “You’re relentless,” he growled, teeth grazing Wyatt’s shoulder. “What do you want?”
Wyatt made a half-bitten-off sound, cheeks flushing. “I want to make you come. Please.”
“I don’t know. Do you think you deserve that?”
Once again, Wyatt hit him with the full force of those puppy eyes. “Please, Daddy. I’ll make it so good for you.”
Linc’s dick throbbed. Jesus, this fucking kid. “I don’t know. You didn’t finish your granola bar. You’ve been kind of a brat.”
Wyatt dropped his head then looked up at him through his lashes, his tone almost a whine. “Please? I won’t even come, I promise. Let me make you feel good.”
Well, that was an offer Linc hadn’t seen coming. He had already spanked him for disobeying him about his breakfast. “Take my cock out.”
Wyatt hurried to do as he was told, sliding out of Linc’s lap and kneeling between his splayed knees before hooking his fingers in Linc’s pants. He lifted his hips just enough for Wyatt to push them out of the way and free his already leaking erection.
Wyatt didn’t put his mouth on Linc’s cock, instead pressing his face against his groin and inhaling, like the scent of Linc alone was enough to get him off. Fuck. Wyatt trailed his tongue along the seam where Linc’s thigh and pelvis met, fingers digging into the grooves of Linc’s hip bones. It occurred to Linc then—Wyatt was waiting for permission.
Linc glanced at the clock sitting on the bedside table. It was one in the afternoon. They shouldn’t be doing this in the middle of the day. They shouldn’t be fucking doing this at all. Somehow, that made it easier for him to say, “Do it. Suck me. Make me come.”
Wyatt didn’t hesitate. He fisted the base of Linc’s cock and sucked him into the back of his throat like a goddamn porn star. “Jesus, kid,” he muttered, his abs flexing, body curling inward against his will.
There was no finesse, but what he lacked in technique he made up for with enthusiasm and a nonexistent gag reflex. Wyatt pulled off, eyes wet and lips cherry red as he trailed his mouth along the underside of Linc’s straining cock, giving him ‘fuck me’ eyes as he dipped his tongue into the slit before sucking him down once more.
Linc couldn’t help but arch his hips, couldn’t help the way he fisted his hands in Wyatt’s curls, fucking up into the hot suction of the boy’s perfect mouth, driving his cock into his throat and holding him there until tears trailed down his face. “Good boy.”
Linc released him, and Wyatt pulled in a few ragged breaths before taking Linc into his mouth once more. He forced Wyatt to take it slow, holding him steady and fucking into his mouth with short, shallow thrusts. Wyatt’s greedy little sucking noises had Linc’s balls pulling tight against his body.
He could see Wyatt’s hard-on tenting those ridiculously tight pants, but Wyatt didn’t try to touch himself. Linc was his sole focus. As soon as Linc released him, Wyatt sucked him back down, his head bobbing as he worked Linc over with a single-minded intensity that had Linc squeezing his eyes shut. “I want you to swallow it all. Every fucking drop.”
Wyatt took Linc down his throat, the muscles there convulsing in ways that had Linc’s vision whiting out. He pinned him in place, driving his cock into Wyatt’s mouth again and again before he came hard, spilling himself so deep Wyatt had no choice but to swallow or choke. He took it all, his wide green eyes locking on Linc’s as he pulled off with a pop, licking every drop off his lips before giving him a huge smile.
“Come here.” Wyatt climbed back up in Linc’s lap, and he captured the boy’s mouth in a filthy kiss, wanting to taste himself on his tongue. “You did good, sweet boy.” He shoved his hand into Wyatt’s pants, taking his cock and working it over at a punishing pace. “Come,” he growled against the boy’s lips.
Wyatt tensed, a surprised cry escaping as he did as Linc commanded, a full-body shudder rolling over him.
They sat there in each other’s arms, trying to catch their breath, Wyatt’s forehead on Linc’s shoulder. After a moment, Wyatt slipped out of Linc’s grasp, flopping onto his back beside him. The intimate bubble they’d existed in for the last few minutes seemed to pop, leaving only awkward silence and something else… Something that felt a lot like loss or regret.
Time to get back to the real world.
“Is Graciela coming today?” he finally asked.
Wyatt shrugged. “She’s not scheduled to come, but that never stopped her before. She’s here a lot less now that you’re here, and when she is here, it’s to talk to you, not me.”
Link huffed a laugh. “Are you jealous of my time with her?”
“Maybe, yeah,” Wyatt grumbled.
“Well, don’t be. Tomorrow, you are a free man, and you’ll return to your old life and your old friends and I’ll just be another of your father’s employees.”
Wyatt audibly swallowed, voice tight. “Sure.”
“This can’t happen again,” Linc said, more to himself than Wyatt.
Wyatt sat up, throwing a hurt look over his shoulder. “I heard you the first ten times. I’m going to take a shower. Maybe you shouldn’t be here when I get back.”
“Yeah, kid. Whatever you want.”
“What I want. Right.”
Wyatt lay upside down on his bed, his feet resting against the wall, watching the glowing red light of his ankle monitor blink on and off the way he’d done a thousand times over the last one hundred and eighty days. In just six short hours, he’d be free from this gilded prison. The thought should have pleased him, but it caused a pit in his stomach, growing wider with each passing minute. Wyatt hoped it swallowed him whole.
Somewhere in the kitchen, Linc was running the blender, making one of his disgusting green smoothies, while Graciela pretended to vacuum for the fourth time that week, and music blared from the recessed house speakers. Wyatt was on overload. There was a pressure building inside him, threatening to rip him in half. He had spent so much time trapped in this apartment, he wasn’t sure he could cope with the outside world. If coping had been one of his strengths, he wouldn’t have ended up on house arrest in the first place.
He didn’t know how to be a functioning person. He just wasn’t good at it. He’d spent twenty-two years living a life where somebody—his father—made every decision for him, where there was always somebody to do everything for him. He had never once had to worry about paying a bill or changing a tire or even doing his own laundry. Once the cops removed his ankle monitor, none of that would change. Graciela would keep doing the chores, and his father’s business manager would keep paying his bills, and his father would keep telling him what he would do with his life. Just like before. The thought had Wyatt spiraling. Every single day, the same. Nothing changing. Wyatt never allowed to be a whole person, never allowed to be himself, whoever that was.
His nails dug half-moons into his palms, pain converting his panic into endorphins, giving him just a few seconds of peace. He needed to stop feeling sorry for himself. People would kill to have his life. Nobody cared about the poor little rich boy and his rich boy problems. Not even the rich boy’s parents.
He swung himself into a sitting position, his gaze drawn to his vanity. He hadn’t dabbled with his makeup in days, not since Charlie’s callback. He glanced at the door. It wasn’t like Linc would barge in. He’d been doing his best to pretend Wyatt didn’t exist since he’d taken Wyatt at his word and left while he was in the shower yesterday. The deputy wouldn’t be there for hours to take the monitor off. There was no reason he couldn’t play for a while.
Fuck it.
He sat in the chair, opening drawers and extracting palettes of richly hued powders and creams and setting them out. Warmth and anticipation rushed over him, soothing his frazzled nerves. Time disappeared when he had the brushes in his hand. Makeup took precision and skill and artistry. There was depth and dimension, blending shades to camouflage any perceived imperfections and highlight desirable assets. When he was doing makeup—his or somebody else’s—his mind just quieted and the rest of the world fell away.
He could do a full face in an hour or less, but he wasn’t in a hurry. He started with a primer, ensuring his foundation would glide on like silk. He built from there, layering and contouring until he was somebody else, somebody confident and capable. Somebody who handled their shit, who wasn’t afraid to be himself. His smoky purple eyeshadow made his pale green irises look almost supernatural, and he cat-eyed his liner until it was sharp enough to slit a man’s throat.
Makeup was a mask to hide behind, but it also made him feel like a superhero in disguise. He’d managed a lot of anonymous hookups in darkened clubs, and nobody had ever figured out who he was behind all the paint. Or maybe, they just hadn’t cared. He finished his look with a matte mauve lipstick Charlie had gotten him for his birthday, then realized there was nothing more he could do other than wipe it off and start over. That thought depressed him even more.
He wished he could take pictures, could show off his skills on Instagram like other artists, could create tutorials on YouTube and help people understand that anybody could wear makeup, anybody could be beautiful, more confident, feel better about themselves. That’s what he wanted… That’s all he’d ever wanted from the time he’d sat at his mother’s vanity and tried on her red lip gloss. But no matter what Linc said, it didn’t matter what Wyatt wanted. He raised his phone to take a selfie to send to Charlie, the flash going off just as the door opened behind him.
“I’ve got a surprise for yo—What the fuck?”
Wyatt froze, his arm raised, and his eyes locked on his father’s reflection in the mirror. After a minute, his body came back online, and he jumped to his feet, his brain cycling through a hundred different ways to defuse the situation. Somehow, he landed on snarky indifference. “Don’t have a fucking coronary, Dad. It’s just—” His father’s fist connected with his diaphragm, and his words died on a ragged gasp, his breath forced from his lungs, like he’d plummeted from a ten-story building. His chest was on fire, his lungs paralyzed, but it didn’t stop him from trying to suck much-needed air back into his body. His phone slipped from his fingers, and he clawed at his chest as if he could will his lungs to come back online.
He should have seen the blow coming. It was his father’s favorite strike zone. No visible bruises but all the trauma. His panic came rocketing back. In some dark corner of his mind, he understood his body wouldn’t allow him to stand there and suffocate, that his lungs would eventually cooperate and allow him to breathe, but it wasn’t helping just then. It would serve his father right if he died like this, right in front of him. Good luck explaining the fist-sized bruise on your dead son’s chest, Monty.
