Page 3

chapter three

Mom and Dad are sitting at the table when I get home. Neither of them has touched their food, so I know I’m walking into the lion’s den, because Dad never misses a chance to stuff his face. Normally, after my conversion therapy sessions, I head upstairs and change into comfy clothes, but my father’s glare is keeping me locked in place. It’s the same angry look he gets anytime I act a bit too effeminate, or when he catches me staring at a guy.

“I’m not hungry. If it’s okay, I think I’m going to skip dinner tonight. Pastor Brooks and I—” I attempt to say, only to be cut off by Dad shaking his head and pointing at the seat. Sighing, I take my place on the other side of the table. “What did I do this time?”

“Was that sass I just heard coming out of your mouth, young man?”

“No, sir—”

“Because,” he interrupts, “the only thing I hate worse than a sodomite is a sassy sodomite. I’ve warned you about using that tone with me.”

I bite my tongue to stop myself from telling him to go straight to Hell, forcing an apologetic nod. “I’m sorry, sir.” I don’t mean the words, obviously, but living in this home is a requirement for my master plan of winning the heart of Miles Brooks. “I can do better, I promise. I want to be good, sir. I want to be a good Christian boy.”

“Yeah, well, want in one hand, shit in the other, and see which one fills up first.” He pinches the bridge of his nose and sighs. “Where did I go wrong with you, Darren? I’ve tried and tried to raise you up to be a strong, virile young man, but it’s just one disappointment after another with you. Those stupid dolls you used to hide under your mattress. The times I caught you dancing in your bedroom. That fag college you attended. I should have put my foot down the first time I caught a whiff of your homosexuality, but I didn’t.” His eyes narrow. “I’m putting it down now. After what I found in your room earlier, you’ve left me no choice.”

I swallow. “What do you mean?” If he looked under the loose floorboard in the closet and found my dildo, I know I’m fucked—and not in the fun way. He reaches down and grabs something out of his lap and lifts it.

He’s holding my Born This Way shirt. Fuck.

“Lady Gaga? Really, Darren? You know what I’ve told you about queer enablers. You know what the Lord thinks about her and her kind.” He grinds his teeth, his eyes narrowing. “And, you know what God calls us to do with sinners.”

“Love thy neighbor?” I say before I can stop myself.

“What the hell did you just say to me? Love thy neighbor?” He uses his foot to shove his chair away from the table and slams the shirt down. “Who told you that? Huh? Was it that lesbo down at the Pick-n-Save? That communist Mexican cartel member downtown?”

I furrow my brows together. “Rivers Rivera? He’s not a member of the cartel, he’s our mayor.”

“Oh, you bet your frilly little ass, he’s a part of their gang. I know their type. Anarchists, all of them. I bet he ain’t even got a green card—him or his little queer son. Now, answer the question. Who’s been filling your head with that crap?”

I blink at him. “Jesus.”

He points an accusatory finger at me. “Don’t you dare take the Lord’s name in vain in this house, young man.”

I shake my head. “No, sir. I meant, Jesus is the one who said it. ‘Love thy neighbor’ is from the book of Mark.”

“Don’t be ridiculous. Jesus wasn’t a commie. He was a true-blue American.”

“He was from Israel.”

Dad rolls his eyes. “You know what the hell I mean. He wasn’t some bleeding-heart liberal. He was a man’s man. Jesus don’t like woke, boy, and neither do I.”

“Jesus fed the poor and healed the sick,” I say sheepishly, aware that it might earn me a black eye, but I’m at the end of my rope with Dad anyway. After experiencing four years of freedom, having to come back and listen to his hate has been unbearable. He spouts bigoted talking points like they’re scripture, and all I can do is bite my tongue and bide my time. It’s getting harder to do both. “He was the epitome of wokeness.”

Dad looks at Mom and cackles. My mother, who seems to be relieved that he’s aiming his hatred at me instead of her tonight, mirrors the action, leaning back in her chair and laughing loudly. For the first time in years, Dad takes my mother’s hand and gives it a quick squeeze. I can count on one hand the number of kind exchanges my mother and father have shared through my childhood. Each time, I walked away from the exchange feeling sick to my stomach. Kindness doesn’t suit my father.

They hold hands for a few moments before Dad finally shoves her hand away and turns his attention back to me. “I don’t want this queer shit in my house. Do you understand me? You’re going to take it outside and bury it. After that, we’re setting up a dating profile for you. We’re going to find you a girlfriend, come Hell or high water.”

My father has been pushing me to date a woman ever since I moved home. He’s floated the idea of dating apps before, but Father Daddy always talks him down from the ledge, telling him it could disrupt our (nonexistent) conversion therapy progress. The first time he had to put Dad in his place, Miles didn’t really seem worried about potentially hurting our (again, nonexistent) progress on my journey back to heterosexuality, per se. If anything, he seemed jealous. His jaw was clenched, working back and forth, the sound of his grinding teeth audible from a few feet away. I was surprised he didn’t pull out his cock and piss on me to mark his scent. That night, after I snuck into his bedroom and we cuddled up close in his bed, he told me I wasn’t ever allowed to create a dating profile, because God had already hand selected someone for me. He didn’t say who that person was, but in his inebriated state, I think we both knew who he meant.

“But Pastor Brooks said—”

Dad slams the side of his fist against the table, making Mom and me jump. “I’m starting to think Pastor Brooks ain’t never going to heal you. In fact, I’m starting to think maybe he doesn’t even want to heal you. I see the way he looks at you sometimes. It ain’t right. I think he might be a little light in the loafers too.”

I dig my nails into my thigh under the table. I may not be an actual hitman like my boss, but if my father doesn’t shut his mouth when he’s talking shit about Miles, I might promote myself to the role.

“Pastor Brooks is happily married,” I say, making my voice as small and submissive as I can manage.

“That don’t mean he ain’t still sticking it where the sun don’t shine. That poor wife of his, probably having to bear the brunt of his betrayal.”

Better than bearing the brunt of his fist, I guess, but I don’t think that’s a topic Dad’s going to want to broach, considering everything he’s put Mom and me through over the years. I give my father a polite nod and excuse myself from the table, promising to get rid of my Gaga shirt.

I bury Gaga beneath an old tree by the fence, hoping maybe in her infinite wonder, she might spread some of her sparkle amongst the soil, giving birth to a new tree. A tree to stand proudly, more fabulous than any tree to ever come before. Or maybe she’ll just wind up as worm food, if worms eat poly-cotton blend.

Once Mom and Dad are asleep, I sneak across the street and climb onto my best friend’s roof. There’s a trick to Miles’ attic window. To open it from the outside, you have to tug it to the right, then lift as hard as you can. Well, as hard as I can, at least. I’m not really a fitness model or anything, so it might not be as difficult for other guys as it is for me, but that’s hardly the point. Either way, I’m always huffing and puffing and panting by the time I’ve finally gotten it open.

Once I’m inside, I stick to the walls like a shadow, the attic dark, almost pitch black. My phone screen works as a light source, but with boxes stacked to the ceiling, it still feels like I’m starring in an episode of Hoarders.

Miles’ house is over a hundred years old, built in the early nineteen hundreds. The floorboards creak and groan with each step I take, but he doesn’t question the sound anymore. In the attic, there’s a small gap in the floorboards beneath the chimney’s bricks that the room is built around. That’s my destination.

It’s also my creation.

Allow me to explain.

Last month, Miles took his wife on vacation, leaving me all alone without our nightly cuddles for six days straight. Oh, sure, he apologized until he was blue in the face beforehand, but that didn’t stop the asshole from sending me endless selfies of him and Mallory sightseeing in San Antonio. In one of the pictures, she had her arm around his waist, hugging Miles like she had all right to do so. I mean, yeah, she’s his wife, but he’s mine. My Miles. My Father Daddy. Needless to say, I was furious, so I broke into his house just to feel some form of connection with him. After masturbating to the scent of dried sweat in a pair of his dirty underwear, I went snooping in his closet. While I didn’t find anything sordid, I did see a crack of light flickering in from above. He’d left the light on when he grabbed a suitcase for their trip. Once I found the right floorboard in the attic, I went to work. The boards were nailed snugly, and it took me ages to get three of them loose enough to lift and drop through, whenever the desire to see him became unbearable. Up until then, I’d been throwing rocks at his window to let him know I was there, and then he’d have to rush downstairs, risking waking Mallory.

After making my makeshift trapdoor, I drilled small holes in his bedroom wall so I could observe him from the closet. The dark paint on his walls masks the holes, and I’m able to use them every night to make sure he’s ready for me. Tonight is no different.

As I gaze in through the peepholes, I catch sight of him. He’s across the room staring vacantly at his phone. While glazed over eyes are an indication that his nightly sleeping pills have kicked in, there’s another telltale sign I wait for. Father Daddy taps his screen a few times, and then I hear the sound of Miles’ beautiful voice.

“Dare-bear,” he murmurs. I know exactly which photo he’s looking at, because it’s the same one he stares vacantly at every night as I enter his room. We took the photo a few months ago while he was preaching to residents of Tallulah outside the Pick-n-Save. In the picture, we’re both drenched with sweat, and our shirts cling to every nook and crook of our bodies. My nipple ring is fully visible in the image. A few times, in his nightly drugged state, Miles has told me he wants to take the barbell between his teeth and tug. Obviously, I haven’t allowed it, because I’m not going to fuck him while he’s drugged. The mental image did become my go-to jerk off fantasy for a few weeks, though.

The empty space beside him in bed is calling my name, so I grab the doorknob and twist. Mallory no longer shares his bedroom, thankfully. She sleeps downstairs in the guest room, leaving our love nest untouched. I know this all sounds terribly problematic, what with the breaking and entering and sleeping with a man who is clearly under the influence of a night-time sleep aid, but he’s the one who started this. He’s the one who downloaded Grindr to ensure I was still on the straight and narrow, messaged me demanding I come to his house right that second, and proceeded to slam his lips against mine the moment he let me in. It was the single greatest moment of my life. I’d waited all my life for that kiss. We spent all night together, cuddled up close, me telling him how much I’ve always loved him, him telling me these feelings were new, but they were strong as steel.

The next day at church, he acted like nothing happened. He pretended he didn’t remember a single second of our night together. I figured he was just trying to keep our relationship hidden from the rest of the congregants, but then he didn’t mention it during our conversion therapy session either.

Over the next two weeks, we continued our act, sharing what I assumed were secret glances when we saw each other at church. Two weeks after our whirlwind romance began, it ended just as quickly. After fucking me into the mattress, Miles asked me to stay the night. It was the first time he offered, and I wasn’t going to miss my chance to fall asleep in his arms. After spending six glorious hours cuddling against him, I woke up to find him staring at me in horror. He was yelling and hissing at me like I was a goddamn deviant, accusing me of molestation. Molestation!

I told him over and over that he invited me to stay the night, but he just stared at me, the words not registering. It wasn’t until I pulled out my phone and showed him the least lascivious selfie I could find—one we took in his bed, fully clothed, making silly faces—that he finally sighed.

Then he broke my heart.

When he told me he’d been taking a new sleeping medication that had a temporary memory loss side effect, my heart cracked right down the middle. He remembered nothing of our tryst, and I had to play it off like it never happened. Like I’d never admitted my feelings for him, and that he hadn’t admitted his feelings for me. In the end, I lied to save his heart from aching like mine, telling him he’d asked me to stay the night to console him because of his marital woes. He then spent thirty minutes recounting the time he took his pill, drove down to the McDonalds on Highway 80, broke in, cooked himself a Big Mac, and drove back home. I began hiding his car keys every night, tucking them away in various places as I leave for the night, before the pill wears off. I won’t allow him to inadvertently kill himself over a fucking Big Mac of all things.

Glancing through the peephole, I take a deep breath, preparing myself for my favorite part of the day. I exit the closet, my eyes lock on his, and my heart races as a smile stretches across his face.

“Darren? What are you doing here?” He blinks, closing his eyes a little tighter each time until he’s finally just sitting on his bed with eyes slammed shut. He does this every night, and it’s always my least favorite part of our nightly visits. He looks scared and confused, and more than a little disoriented. Part of me thinks I should just stay away from him while he’s in this condition, but I’ve tried it before. He just blows up my phone until I finally answer his call, then pleads for me to come over. He tried to break into my home once, nearly cracking his skull as he climbed onto the roof over the garage so he could crawl through my window.

“You’re okay,” I whisper, because that usually does the trick. Sure enough, he blinks a few more times before every trace of worry and confusion falls like a stage curtain. “I’m right here, baby.”

“Dare-bear,” he practically purrs, dropping his phone and holding his arms out invitingly. As I shuffle over, I kick off my shoes and climb in beside him. “You look sad. What’s wrong?”

“Nothing.” I shrug, but I’m pretty sure my sniffle gives me away. “Everything.” I look up at him and force a smile. “It’s better now. I’ve got everything handled.”

His sleepy eyes widen. “Yeah?” Pulling me even closer, he presses a soft kiss to my head. “Did your dad say something to you again?” His grip tightens around my hip, almost painfully so, but that’s okay. I think I kind of like the pain. “Did he touch you?”

“He didn’t hit me or anything. He found something I hid in my closet, and he laid into me pretty bad. I had a Lady Gaga shirt hidden behind my other clothes on the rack, and he went snooping through my stuff and found it.”

“He doesn’t have any right going through your things.”

“I know,” I agree. “But he did, and I can’t rewind time. It’s handled though. I buried it out back.”

“Wouldn’t that be great,” Miles whispers, his voice near, though the words sound distant. It’s like he’s speaking them to someone else, but we’re all alone in the room. “Wouldn’t it be wonderful to rewind your life to a fixed point and undo the things you regret most.”

“I guess,” I say, shrugging. “But I don’t think I’d waste my do-over on a t-shirt selection.” I bite my lip, staring at him as I build up my courage. “I’d rewind to the day I left for college.”

“Why?”

“I wrote you a letter before I left,” I admit, knowing he won’t remember this in the morning. “I told you about my feelings, and that I wanted you to come with me.”

He looks at me with a mixture of curiosity and something else I can’t quite place. Anger? No. Never. Not directed at me, at least. Could it be regret? Probably not. I’ve been studying every expression Miles has for the past twenty-plus years, and I’ve never seen this one. Finally, he asks, “Why didn’t you send it?”

I take a deep breath, trying to steady my emotions. “I was scared. Scared you didn’t feel the same way. Scared you’d tell my mom and dad.”

His hand grips mine. “I would never betray your trust like that, Dare. Especially with something like this. I know your father, and I know he’s a monster. Do you think I’d do something to put your safety at risk?” He pulls me closer. “At least I know now.”

“Yeah,” I say, laughing bitterly. “You know now, but you won’t remember it tomorrow.”

He cocks his head to the side. “You sound sad. Please don’t be sad.” His lips press firmly on my cheek like he’s trying to seal his plea with a kiss. “I don’t ever want to see you upset.”

I shake my head, not wanting to fall into a troubled headspace. The time I have with Miles each night is the best part of my day, and I won’t waste it feeling sorry for myself.

“Will you read to me?” I ask, resting my head on his chest. He reads to me every night, proudly narrating his books, telling the stories with pride and passion and so much heart.

Miles reaches over my side of the bed, and I don’t miss the sharp intake of breath when his half-hard cock drags across my stomach, shielded only by his underwear. He rolls his hips forward, seeking friction, but I place my hand on his arm and shake my head. He closes his eyes and sighs before grabbing the book and returning to his original position in bed, right next to me. I lean against him like a pillow and wrap an arm around his waist.

We’ve been making our way through his backlog, devouring six of his books in only a few months. The one he’s reading now is his latest release. It’s about a pastor who falls in love with a member of his church. The story is about a man and woman, but he’s mucked up a few pronouns along the way, and he must have missed them during his editing stage. Whether that was a simple slip of the keystroke or if he’s subconsciously writing gay romance, I’m not entirely sure. The man and woman, Charlie and Kelly, have gone on several pastor/parishioner outings, helping to feed the homeless, rescuing wayward kittens stuck in tall trees. They’re a true tour de force when they’re together, and it makes my heart long for something I don’t know that I’ll ever get. A happy life with my precious pastor.

Catching me by surprise, Miles weaves a scene where Charlie and Kelly are protesting a Lady Gaga concert. He looks up from the book and scowls at me.

“What?” I ask.

“As much as I dislike your father, I can’t say I disagree with his dislike for her. She’s filled with demons, Dare, and you’re wearing a shirt with her likeness. One of those demons could latch onto you. It could infect you with its filth.” Suddenly, he whirls me around until I’m resting on his lap. “Those demons will drag you straight to Hell. You’d be on the other side of eternity without me. Is that what you want? To spend forever without me?”

I don’t have the heart to tell him I no longer believe in eternity, so I simply shake my head. “No, Daddy.”

He guides my head to his chest and runs his fingers through my hair. “Good boy. I’ll buy you a different shirt to make up for it. Something that isn’t so sinful. I can get you a picture with someone Christlike on it.”

I roll my eyes, but my face is buried in his chest, so it’s not like he can see. “But I’m a Little Monster, Daddy. Gaga is my queen.”

“That sounds a lot like idolization, Dare. You know what the Bible says about false idols. God won’t be mocked.”

“It makes me feel more like myself. It makes me feel like the man I was when I was away at school.”

“You were living in sin.”

I pull away from him and arch a brow. “Do you really want to talk about sin right now? Because I’m pretty sure your cock is about an inch away from penetrating me through your underwear.”

He grinds against me. “Is not.”

“For fuck’s sake,” I groan.

A growl rattles in his throat, and then the motherfucker spanks me, making me cry out in surprise. It doesn’t hurt, but I wasn’t expecting it. As he holds one hand over my mouth, he uses the other to caress the place he just spanked me. “Watch your dirty mouth. You’re getting really lax with your language lately. I let the hells and damns slide, but I will not abide the f-word. And don’t scream, you’ll wake . . .” He winces like the realization of what we’re doing is finally settling in. Though Miles hasn’t fucked me in weeks, he has fucked me before, and I guess that makes him a cheater. It’s probably something he worries about—breaking his wife’s heart—but I can’t find one iota of a fuck to give about Mal. Hate her. Hate her forever.

I cup his cheek. “I’ll be quiet as a church mouse,” I promise. “You surprised me. I wasn’t expecting to be spanked.”

He looks down at where his hand is resting on my hip, the tips of his fingers touching my cheek through my shorts. “I’m not going to apologize for spanking you—because that word is filthy, and it doesn’t belong in your mouth—but I’m sorry for startling you. I’ll warn you next time.” He blinks slowly, like he might fall asleep soon. “What were we talking about?”

“You said you were going to buy me a shirt with someone Christlike on it to make up for the one my dad made me bury. Please, don’t.”

“Christlike,” he repeats. “Candace Cameron Bure.”

“Huh?”

“Television’s Candace Cameron Bure.”

“Oh, hell no.” I blurt, only to squeak when he pops my thigh again. “What the hell was that for, Miles?” I hiss.

“You said hell .”

“You said you were overlooking hell and damn .”

“I did,” he agrees. “But I won’t anymore. And don’t think I didn’t catch you using it a second ago too.” He gives me another pop to the butt.

“You also promised you would warn me before spanking me. Thou shalt not lie. It’s rude, Daddy.”

His sleepy eyes widen. “I’m sorry. I thought I did warn you.” He blinks a few times, probably trying to shake the fog free in his mind. “What were we talking about?”

“T-shirts and Candace Cameron, apparently.”

“Oh. Oh, yeah. I’m sure there are plenty of Full House t-shirts out there. We could get you one with DJ Tanner on the front. It may still be idolatry, but I’m sure God would prefer you idolize a strong, Christian woman like Candace Cameron Bure instead of a half-dressed heathen.”

I poke him in the chest and shake my head. “Two things. One: I’m not going to stand by and let you slut shame someone because their clothing doesn’t fit your personal vision of chastity. Number two: I would rather have a shrapnel enema than wear anything with Candace’s face on it. She’s a monster who will stop at nothing to erase queer voices.”

He shrugs. “She loves the sinner and hates the sin. There’s nothing wrong with it, Dare.”

“There is, actually. There’s everything wrong with it,” I spit back. “Every word of it. It’s patronizing, it’s hateful, and she can shove her love where the sun never shines.”

Miles chuckles, his eyes twinkling with amusement. “You’re adorable like this. All flustered and red in the face.” His voice is warm, almost teasing, as he traces the curve of my jaw. “Your cheeks are such a gorgeous shade of pink, and your eyes get all wide and sparkly. It’s like watching a shooting star coming right at me.” His genuine affection leaves me feeling breathless, and I slide even closer against him, resting my head on his shoulder.

“I’m sorry I cursed.”

“I’m sorry you had to bury your shirt.” The words are enough to calm my emotionally battered soul, and we rest this way for a while, my hands exploring him as he explores me. I don’t rub too far down his back, because I made a promise to him that I would never take advantage of him while he was under the influence. Was he drugged at the time? Yes. Did he forget the promise in less than four hours? Also yes. I know he wants more than I’m willing to give, and my abstinence hasn’t deterred him. His hands travel where they damn-well please, and I don’t stop him until his hand caresses my package.

“No, baby,” I whisper, kissing his forehead. “We’re not doing that tonight.”

He narrows his eyes. “The Lord came to me in a vision, Darren. He said He wants us to consummate our relationship. Who are you to question what He says?”

I tap the tip of his nose with my finger. “There’s my little narcissist.”

“I’m not narcissistic. I’m ordained by God. There’s a difference.”

“You could have your own book in the Bible, and I still wouldn’t sleep with you. Not unless you’re sober.” I pull back and stare into his eyes.

He quirks a smile. “I’ve got books. I’ve got plenty of them.”

“I know. You just read one to me. I loved every single word.”

His eyes widen, and there’s a subtle hint of pride swirling in them. Pride may be a sin, but if that’s the case, I hope Miles Brooks never stops sinning, because his books are beautiful, and he deserves to take pride in his talent. He has a rogue eyebrow hair that’s getting a little too long for my liking, so I pluck it, giggling when he hisses. “Good Lord, Dare. Warn a guy next time. You really like them, though? They’re nothing special—just silly stories I tell to pass the time.”

I press my hand over his heart. “They mean something to me, and they mean something to you. It’s okay to be proud of yourself.”

His grip tightens on my hip, and then he pulls me closer. As he holds me, his face pressed into my neck, he whispers, “They’re my way of escaping. When I’m at my computer, I can live any love story I want to live. I can fall in love with someone I actually want to fall in love with.” His grip tightens, almost crushing me in his arms. If this is the way I’m meant to die—my body pulverized and squashed into broken shards of bone in a sack of skin—I’m okay with it. “I can make myself so much more than I really am.”

“You don’t need to be any more than you already are. You’re perfect this way.”

He cups my cheek as his lips approach. I know I should push him away, but I don’t. I allow myself this moment. The connection is gentle, his teeth lightly teasing my lower lip with a nibble here and there. It isn’t long before his tongue is in my mouth, but I don’t let it stay there long. After five seconds of sheer perfection, I pull away. Although I don’t touch him, I watch as Miles pushes his underwear down. His cock is throbbing, the tip red and angry and ready to be devoured. As much as I want to devour him, I refrain. I could take my pleasure if I wanted to. We could fuck like bunnies until the bed breaks, but I would feel like a monster after. His body isn’t mine to touch.

“Let me see yours,” he says, his voice low and rough like he’s been swallowing gravel.

“Miles, I shouldn’t—”

“Let,” he says firmly, pausing for emphasis, “me see it, Darren.”

Does it make my cock jump? Absolutely. I guess showing him my body in his altered state isn’t nearly as problematic as letting him fuck me, but it still feels icky. “Miles. Baby.”

He shakes his head. “I want to see it again. I want to remember it this time. Why can’t I ever remember?” He blinks up at me, his eyes looking a little sad, and that makes me sad too. I cup his cheek. “When you come over, it takes a minute, but I can remember some stuff. Not all of it. Not even a lot of it. But I know who you are to me. I know how I feel.” He closes his eyes and sighs. “Maybe I know it when I’m awake, too, but I’m just too scared to admit it. I wish I was a braver man, Darren. I wish I could just . . .”

Okay, yeah. I refuse to allow that look of disappointment settle on his face any longer than it has to. With shaking hands, I slide down my shorts and underwear. Miles’ eyes widen as he resumes stroking himself, his pre-cum serving as lubricant. There’s a sound of slick friction bouncing off the walls, making his entire bedroom sound like Sodom and Gomorrah. His hand reaches for me, fingers curling around my cock. I try to pull away, but my trigger is quicker than my self-control, and the next thing I know, I’m firing jets of cum into the air. It lands everywhere. My cheek. My chest. And then, Miles’ mouth as he opens it and places himself in the line of fire.

“Oh, God, Miles. No. Baby, you shouldn’t—” My words end in a whine as I watch my cum coat his tongue. The sound of his moans are almost too much to bear, but I bear them anyway, because they’re the sexiest sounds I’ve ever heard. It isn’t long before Miles rises to his knees, aims his cock at my softening penis, and roars.

“Mine!”

His cum feels like molten steel as it strikes my dick. I count four loads before I finally stop counting and look up at him. He’s got his eyes locked on mine, and there’s so much fucking love in them, it leaves me breathless.

“Yours,” I whisper as the final shot shoots out. “I always have been.”