“Thank you. It’s nice to meet you, too.” He glances at me and I give him an assuring smile. Diego excuses himself and I press a kiss to Charlie’s cheek before doing the same. I want him and Rachel to have some time to talk on their own.
Half an hour later she plops herself down next to me at the bar looking over the kitchen sink. “I invited him to the wedding. He’s doing my makeup.”
I almost spit my drink out. “What?”
She laughs. “That boy is amazing, Paul. He’s intelligent, and funny, and sweet as hell, and he knows how to work a brush and do eyeliner better than anyone I’ve ever seen. I can tell that by looking at him. I asked who did his make up tonight and he said it was him. I’ve been scared to death about finding someone to do my makeup for the wedding. I don’t trust myself. He clearly has an eye for it and he was thrilled at the idea. So now we’re besties.”
I can’t help laughing.
Her voice softens. “I’ve been wondering, you think it’s possible that you’ve been bi or maybe pan this whole time, but you repressed it because of how we were raised?” She gazes at me, her eyes soft.
“I don’t know,” I tell her honestly. “It’s possible, I guess.” I run a hand across the back of my neck and let out a breath. Neither of us like to talk about our religious backgrounds. It’s a sore subject, and painful to think about what we went through because of our faith and how it let us down. Our therapist referred to it as religious trauma, and it sounded pretty spot on. “Sexuality is fluid, too, though, right, so…” I shrug.
“Well, whatever the reason, don’t you dare screw this up,” she tells me, pointing a finger in my direction. She gives me a smile.
I sigh. “I don’t even know what this is.”
“Maybe you should figure that out. What do you want it to be?”
I run a finger over my cup.
“Paul, does he know about Trey?”
I bite my lip.
“You have to tell him,” she says softly.
My stomach tightens and my chest constricts. I feel tears stinging at the corners of my eyes. “I could lose him.” My gaze meets hers. “If I say anything, I could lose whatever chance I have of anything more serious happening between us. I’m scared, Rach. He’s the best thing that’s happened to me in a long time. I don’t want him to hate me. I don’t want him to leave me.”
She reaches over and takes my hand. “That’s his choice to make, Paul. You have to respect him enough to let him decide that. And the longer you wait the more painful it will be.”
I nod because I know she’s right. But I just don’t know if I can do it. Telling Charlie what I’ve done, who I am, seeing the look on his face. It would destroy me.
CHARLIE
Paul has been super affectionate ever since we left the party. Not that I mind. He hasn’t stopped touching me since we got home. Hell, since we stepped outside the apartment door. He held my hand the entire way to the parking lot and in the truck on the way home. Now he’s standing with his arms around my waist in the bathroom as I remove my makeup, planting kisses on my neck and shoulders and nibbling on my ears, making me squirm.
I don’t know if I’ve ever sensed his need for me as much as I do now. Not a need for fucking per say, but a need for closeness and connection, like he’s reaching out to me, begging for me to see him. These touches are tender and filled with longing and affection, rather than just lust and passion. Like he misses me, not just my body. Like he’s afraid I’ll disappear at any moment and he can’t let go. It makes me wonder what happened at the party. He needs me, that I know.
I feel his nose nuzzling in my neck as his arms tighten around me and his palms rest on my chest. “Are you okay?” I ask him. He nods.
I turn and take his hand in mine, pulling him towards the bed. I lie down and pull him with me. He hovers over me and we kiss tenderly. Our clothes come off little by little. We’re not hurried or rushed. He grabs a condom and lube from the nightstand and stretches me slowly. His eyes stay fixed on me the entire time he’s thrusting, and I can’t help but feel like that means something. Like he’s trying to tell me something with his body instead of his words. Whatever it is, I wish he would just say it. The look in his eyes is so earnest, like he’s aching to say something but he’s so afraid. How can he not know he doesn't have to be afraid with me? After everything, I would never care for him less no matter what he told me.
He thrusts harder, sweat dripping down his forehead as he nails my prostate. “Toes,” I gasp. I start to stroke myself, desperate for release. “Please, Papa Bear.”
He takes my foot from where it’s resting over his shoulder. The second I feel his warm, wet tongue on my bare skin I’m gone. “Yes!” I cry. “Fuck, yes! Papa Bear!” My back arches and my neck muscles strain as I throw my head back, my eyes closing and my mouth falling open as my orgasm crashes into me, my release coating my hand. He’s right behind me, and I shake as I feel the warmth of his release through the condom before he buries his face in my neck and collapses on top of me.
I stroke my fingers through his sweat-slicked hair, feeling his chest rising and falling against me. “You sure you’re okay?” I ask. He seems distant somehow, even though he’s as close as he can possibly be. Sadness emanates from him in waves. What the hell happened at that party?
“Just tired,” he tells me. I know he’s not telling me the whole truth, but I don’t push it. He lifts himself up, presses a kiss to my lips and pulls out of me, before heading to the bathroom. We stay in my bed that night, and he clings to me like he never has before.
I wake that night to him crying out a name in his sleep. It’s a name I’ve never heard before, but I have a feeling I know who it belongs to. His voice is laced with grief and turmoil, and he tosses and turns as he repeats the name over and over. I turn on the bedside lamp and shake him. He starts and his eyes fly open. His breathing is heavy and tears slide down his cheeks.
“I'm sorry,” he says, as he sits and rests his back against the headboard, his knees pulled up to his chest. He’s shaking and I go to him, taking his large frame in my arms and resting my head on his shoulder, trying to calm him.
“You don’t have anything to be sorry for,” I assure him. “You’re allowed to have your demons, too.” He sobs, and I cling to him before I say, “Was Trey your son?”
He looks up, startled. “What?” Tears streak his cheeks and it guts me.
