Page 8 of Pink Cheeks (DKAG Summer Shorts #2)
DOUG
The way the boy was sprawled across my hotel bed, damp and sleep-warm, made my dick hard every time. My hand still buzzed from where I’d pressed it into the nape of his neck and made him count how many spurts from his last orgasm. He’d hit four before he collapsed in my arms.
“Next time, I wanna hit ten.”
I laughed. “Yeah, you and me both.”
The wedding was two days ago, and Kip had taken it on himself to fill every daylight hour with some local adventure, no matter how little sleep I left him at night.
He’d gotten us lost on the Road to Hana, found the only karaoke bar on the island, and last night, after too much sugarcane rum, sweet-talked the concierge into letting us swim in the closed pool at midnight.
But every morning he was in my bed, so that’s all that mattered.
I propped myself up on an elbow. “I made you a promise last night.”
Kip’s grin sharpened, feline. “You did.”
“Want to renegotiate?” I drawled.
He peeked between two fingers. “I’m not scared of you.”
“Not what you said an hour ago.”
He sat up and let the sheets fall to his waist. “Yeah, well, the threat of public exposure does things to my adrenaline levels.” He arched his back in a stretch, already tan from four days in the sun, and I let myself look.
“Get dressed, brat,” I said, tossing a pair of his trunks from the chair. “We’re gonna be late.”
“For what, brunch? You can’t make me.”
“Sure can.” I kept my face neutral, knowing it’d only make him work harder.
“Fine…but only because I’m hungry.” He yanked on some shorts and reached for a tank top and shorts. “And you’re sexy as fuck.”
We walked the winding garden paths to the ocean. By the time we hit the open-air restaurant, it was almost empty, so we took a table at the edge, and I ordered for us both.
“So, what’s next on the itinerary today or is it a secret?”
“Depends.” I shrugged. “You planning to behave today?”
“I can be good if you ask nicely.”
I smiled, small and careful. “I know you can. But I like you better when you’re not.”
The waiter brought us fruit and pancakes and something called a Loco Moco.
Kip poked at the egg, then at me. “Is it weird that I don’t want to go back home?” he said, voice low and almost shy.
I set down my fork. “Not at all.”
“Like, I’m not saying I’m in love with you or anything, but—” He stopped himself, eyes wide.
“I wouldn’t be mad if you were.”
He huffed. “Well, don’t get all cocky about it.”
“I won’t if you don’t.” I grinned at him.
He ate in silence for a while. The air was hot and sweet, flowers blooming in every corner, and I let myself imagine more of this—lazy mornings, bickering over coffee, the secret language we’d built up in four fast, hungry days.
“You ever done this before?” Kip finally asked.
“Done what?”
He shrugged. “Flown to paradise. Fucked a guy silly. Made a long weekend into a relationship or whatever.”
I considered the question. “Nope, never.”
He grinned, his teeth white against chapped lips. “Yeah, me either.” He took a long, slow sip of his juice, then said, “So what happens when we go home?”
“You come see me in San Francisco,” I said. “Or I come get you.”
He cocked his head. “That’s a drive.”
“I don’t mind.”
He pushed his plate away, eyes bright and flinty. “You always get what you want, don’t you?”
“Not always,” I said. “But I get what matters.”
His face went soft. “I matter?”
I reached across and caught his hand. “Kip?”
He looked up.
“I mean it.”
He squeezed my fingers then pulled away, his face red again.
We spent the rest of the day winding down the coast, stopping at every roadside stand and scenic overlook, taking pictures of each other pretending not to care.
In the botanical garden, Kip dared me to pick a forbidden fruit.
When I told him no, he waited until I turned and then snagged one and stuffed it in my backpack anyway.
That night, after another round in the ocean, he knelt between my knees on the sand and said I wasn’t getting rid of him that easily.
I believed him and was grateful for it.
On our last morning, Kip’s phone blew up with notifications. I sat on the bed and watched him pace, fielding calls from his sister, his boss, someone named “Golden Child” in his contacts who left a series of increasingly frantic voicemails.
He came back, dropped the phone on the table, and frowned.
“What is it?” I asked.
He sighed dramatically. “I don’t want to leave you.”
“You’re not. We’re in this together, sweetheart.”
A month later, he moved into my condo with two suitcases and a box of vinyl records.
He played loud music when I worked late, left his socks everywhere, and charmed my friends within an inch of their lives.
We rarely fought, but he did act out for punishments now and then.
And every night he curled up against me and I held him until his breathing evened out.
One night, after a scene that left us both shaken and glassy-eyed, Kip lay sprawled on the carpet. “I used to think guys like you weren’t real.”
I sat beside him, tracing a bruise on his thigh. “Guys like what?”
He didn’t look up, but his mouth curved in a smile. “Guys who do what they say. Who don’t make you chase all the time.”
“Lucky for you, I like a little chase now and then.”
He hummed and rolled onto his side to face me. “You know I’m still gonna be a brat.”
“I’m counting on it.”
He snorted. “You’re a glutton for punishment.”
“Maybe.” I caught his jaw and kissed him, slow and careful and so goddamn sure. “But you’re worth it.”
He didn’t argue. Just dragged me down with him and let me prove it, again and again, until the sun threatened the edges of our window and the only sound was the thud of our hearts and his soft, sated laugh.
Maybe I’d never believed in happily ever afters but I believed in what I had with Kip.
I believed in the way he kept showing up, every day, every night, daring me to want more.
I believed in the hard, bright line of want that never faded and the simple fact of holding on when you finally found the thing that fit.
And if that meant I had to chase him to the ends of the earth—or at least the roof on a Friday night—well, I’d keep up. That’s what a Daddy did.
That’s what I’d always do for my boy.