Page 3

Dylan

The diner’s fluorescent lights hum overhead, casting a harsh glow across the table where Clay sits, his broad frame filling the booth like he owns it.

I can’t stop staring at him—those green eyes, sharp and unreadable, the faint bruise blooming along his jaw, the way his leather jacket stretches over his shoulders.

He’s different, harder-edged, but still Clay.

Still the guy who stole my heart at nineteen and then shattered it. The air between us crackles with tension, thick and heavy, like a storm about to break.

I used to call him Daddy… and it’s all coming back to me. Every touch. Every lick. Every rough fuck, every caring cuddle, and all those nights under the stars together.

Shit . I can’t do this. Can I?

My coffee’s gone cold, the bagel crumbs scattered on my plate forgotten, and Chris’s absence leaves me alone with Clay, no buffer to soften the weight of this moment.

Clay just said we’ve got serious talking to do, and the words hang there, daring me to respond.

I want to— God , I want to—but my throat’s tight, clogged with years of questions and hurt.

I force myself to breathe, to meet his gaze, but the longer I look, the more the old anger bubbles up, hot and sharp. It’s been simmering all this time, buried under city noise and new beginnings, but seeing him here, now, rips the lid off.

“Why?” The word slips out before I can stop it, raw and jagged.

His brow furrows, but I don’t give him a chance to ask what I mean.

“Why did you cut me off, Clay? When you went to prison, you just… vanished. No letters, no calls, nothing. I waited for you, you know that? I sat by the phone for weeks, thinking you’d reach out, explain, something.

And you didn’t. You left me with nothing but rumors and a hole where you used to be. ”

My voice cracks, and I hate it—hate how vulnerable I sound, how the hurt still feels fresh after all this time.

I clench my fists under the table, nails digging into my palms, trying to hold myself together.

Clay leans back slightly, his jaw tightening, and for a second, I think he’s going to brush it off, play it cool like he always did. But then he sighs, a low, rough sound, and runs a hand through his messy hair.

“Dylan,” he starts, his voice quieter now, laced with something I can’t quite name. “I’ll explain. I owe you that much. But not here , not now. Not with half the town’s ears perked up and Jenny pretending she’s not listening.”

I glance over Clay’s shoulder—sure enough, Jenny’s wiping the counter a little too slowly, her head tilted our way. Nosy as ever. I truly love Jenny, but she’s never quite learned how to keep her beak out of people’s business.

Anyway .

I turn back to Clay, ready to push harder, but before I can, he reaches across the table.

His hand covers mine, warm and calloused, and it’s like a jolt of electricity shoots straight through me.

My breath catches, my whole body waking up—skin tingling, heart pounding, a heat spreading low in my belly. His touch is firm but gentle, his thumb brushing lightly over my knuckles, and I can’t move, can’t think. It’s like every nerve in me remembers him, craves him, despite everything.

His eyes lock on mine, dark and intense, and I see it—the spark, the pull that’s always been there between us. I don’t know who moves first, but suddenly I’m leaning in, and he’s meeting me halfway.

Our lips crash together, and it’s magical—hot and urgent, like seven years apart never happened. His mouth is familiar but new, tasting faintly of coffee and the road, and I melt into it, my hands sliding up to grip his jacket.

Clay kisses me back with a hunger that matches mine, a low growl rumbling in his chest, and for a moment, the diner, the past, the anger—it all fades.

It’s just us, tangled up in something I thought I’d lost forever.

I can feel my body react as thighs tense and my cock hardens inside my briefs and comes alive in the kind of way that only certain men can provoke.

In different circumstances it would barely take a touch of Clay’s hands on my flesh to make me climax - and he knows it too.

But we’re at the diner. And fully clothed…

The bell jingles faintly, and then Chris’s voice cuts through the haze.

“Oh. Uh… wow. Okay,” Chris says, clearly picking up on the tension and energy that the kiss has created.

I pull back, breathless, my lips tingling, and Clay straightens, his hand slipping from mine.

Chris’s standing there, wide-eyed, his backpack slung over his shoulder like he’s not sure whether to stay or bolt.

The spell breaks, reality crashing back in, and I feel my face flush hot. Clay clears his throat, standing up, his height towering over the booth.

“I’ll be in touch,” Clay says, voice low, a promise wrapped in gravel. He lingers for a second, eyes flicking to my lips like he’s tempted to dive back in, then turns and heads for the door. The bell chimes again as he disappears into the night, leaving me reeling.

Chris slides back into the booth, smirking.

“Well, damn, Dylan. That was… intense. You okay?”

I nod, but I’m not sure I am. My heart’s still racing, my skin buzzing where he touched me, my dick throbbing. “Yeah. I just… I need to get home.”

Chris doesn’t push, just grabs his keys, and we settle the bill—Jenny’s grinning like she’s got the scoop of the year. And for a small town like this, she probably does too.

The drive back to my place is quiet, the town blurring past in a haze of streetlights and shadows. When Chris drops me off at my cozy little cottage on the edge of Willow Creek, I mumble a thanks and head inside, locking the door behind me.

The house is small but mine—wood floors creaking underfoot, a sagging couch piled with blankets, a tiny kitchen that smells faintly of lavender from the candle I lit earlier.

I kick off my boots, peel out of my jeans and sweater, and slip into my favorite pajamas: an oversized T-shirt and soft shorts. It’s late—past midnight now—but I’m too wired to sleep. I grab my laptop from the coffee table and settle onto the couch, pulling a throw blanket over my lap.

My novel’s open on the screen, the cursor blinking at the start of a new chapter. I’ve been stuck for days, the words refusing to come, but maybe tonight’s different.

Maybe that kiss shook something loose…

I type a few lines—something about a man running from his past, a man on a motorcycle chasing him down—but my focus drifts.

Clay.

He’s all I can think about.

The way he looked in that diner, rough and rugged, the leather clinging to his frame like a second skin. His hair, messy and windblown, begging for my fingers to run through it. Those eyes, green and piercing, stripping me bare with a glance.

He’s hotter than I remember—prison hardened him, filled him out, turned the young rebel I loved into a man who takes up too much space in my head.

That kiss… God, that kiss.

It was fire and memory and everything I’ve tried to forget, and now it’s replaying on a loop, stoking a heat I can’t ignore.

I set the laptop aside, the blanket slipping to the floor as I lean back, closing my eyes.

The cottage is quiet, just the tick of the clock and the distant chirp of crickets outside, but inside me, it’s a storm. All the old feelings rush back—love, longing, the ache of wanting him so bad it hurt.

I picture him again, the way he’d pull me close on his bike, his hands strong and sure, his voice rough in my ear.

My breath hitches, and my hand slides down, tracing the edge of my shirt, then lower. I shouldn’t, but I can’t stop. The memory of his lips on mine, the heat of his touch—it’s too much.

I slip my fingers beneath the waistband of my shorts, a soft gasp escaping as I find the spot that’s already aching for him.

My mind spins, painting him over me, his weight pressing me down, his breath hot against my neck.

I grab my hard, horny dick and begin to pull on it. Pumping it up and down, all I can picture is Clay…

Clay… all leather and danger, his hands roaming where mine are now, his voice whispering my name like a prayer.

I know how much Clay loved to please me, tease me, and work my cock until I couldn’t take any more. And I want that now. I want it more than anything in the whole damn world.

The tension builds fast, my body remembering every stolen moment we had, every time he made me feel like I was the only thing that mattered.

My hips shift, chasing the rhythm, and I bite my lip to stifle a moan as the heat coils tighter, sharper. It’s quick, intense, a release that crashes over me like a wave.

“Fuck…” I gasp, my legs stiffening and my crotch bucking until I’m done as I shot a heavy load of hot cum all over my shorts and onto my stomach too. “Jeez. Fuck. That was… hot.”

I slump back, chest heaving, the aftershocks tingling through me as I lazily wank my still hard cock to ensure that every last moment of pleasure is mine.

The room comes back into focus—the glow of my laptop, the soft shadows on the walls—and I feel a mix of satisfaction and guilt, like I’ve let him in too far already.

Clay is back in my life for five minutes, and I’m already falling apart.

What the hell am I doing?

I stand up, my dick still bouncing, my desire satisfied for now. It’s time for a shower, and then bed. Hopefully at least I’ll be able to sleep now.

Clay said he’d be in touch, and I know he meant it.

Whatever happens next, whatever he’s got to say, it’s going to change everything.

Again .

And I’m not sure I’m ready for it…