Wesley

Most nights, I can’t wait to get home from work and get into the garage. The rest of the world melts away when I take random pieces of wood, which individually serve no purpose, and combine them together to make something that has a purpose. Individually, they’re…nothing. Scraps. Unwanted garbage. But, together, they can be molded into something valuable. It makes me feel…valuable, too.

I was once a piece of scrap. Unwanted. Alone. Getting passed from foster house to foster house where no one really cared about me. I didn’t have a purpose. No connection with another human. Until Anna, a feisty, too-brave, twelve-year-old little girl stepped in to save me from a bunch of bullies. Not until her brother befriended me. Not until her parents welcomed me into the fold despite my background and bad choices.

Building furniture is therapeutic for me. I feel…peace. The garage, full of tools and wood and sawdust, is my happy place. I know how to fit the pieces together, how to shape them and sand them to create something useful and beautiful. Turning my passion into a job is my dream, and I’m determined to make it happen. I’ll happily spend every spare moment to build up my inventory.

Except for tonight.

Tonight, I have butterfingers, dropping the box of nails so that they scatter everywhere. I trip over cords, I cut the wood the wrong length, and I get multiple splinters.

You’d think I’d be used to splinters by now, working with wood all the time. But splinters are assholes. Little poky pieces of wood that stab into your skin or under your fingernails and make every nerve ending flare with pain when touched.

Stupid assholes, those splinters.

Staining a dresser isn’t a sexy job. But it is when Anna does it. Her glossy brown hair piled up on top of her head in a messy bun makes my fingers itch to touch the soft locks. The slim line of her neck makes my lips tingle, wanting nothing more than to lick the delicate skin there. She bends to reach the bottom, and her body rocks with the smooth strokes of the paint brush. My cock is throbbing, and I’m dying to pull her pants down and bury myself inside.

I didn’t have sex for twenty-eight years, and now that I have, it’s all I can think about.

“Shit!” I yelp as I get my fourth splinter for the night. It’s in the thumb of my right hand, and I’ll be useless until I can get it out. I rub my fingers back and forth over the stinging spot to try to find it.

“Here, let me help.” Anna motions for me to sit on the table in front of her. She takes my big, calloused hand in her soft, slender one and holds my thumb up to the light, tweezers at the ready. After the first splinter she got, she bought a set of tweezers to keep here at all times.

Her pretty face inspects my finger, finds the offending sliver of wood, and gently removes it. “There.”

“Thank you.”

She steps in between my legs and leans into me. My nose goes straight to her hair, and the combination of her peach scent and sweet body nestled against me calms my frazzled nerve endings.

“You okay?”

I wrap my arms around her, not caring if John pokes his head in here tonight. Hiding the way I feel is torture, and it’s only the first week.

I grunt in response, unsure of how to answer.

“You seem…tense. Distracted.”

Her fingers find the hem of my shirt and play with the skin just above the waistband of my jeans. My abs flex underneath her touch, and I hum at the contact. My dick strains against my pants, trying to get closer to her fingers.

“I think I can help you with that.” She toys with the button on my fly, and I grab her hand.

“What are you doing?”

She looks up at me through her lashes and palms my dick through my pants. “I’m helping you with your distraction.”

“But John is just inside. We can’t—”

“John hasn’t come out to the garage once in the months I’ve been helping you. I think we’re safe.”

I hesitate.

She squeezes my erection and licks her lips.

“Fuck.” I close my eyes, as if in pain.

“I want to, Wes. Please?”

Fucking hell, Anna is begging to suck my dick—and that alone has me on the verge of coming. There is absolutely no way I can say no, not even due to the fact that John is in the house and could come in here at any moment.

I release her hand, and she smiles in triumph.

She plants a kiss on my lips. “Think you can be quiet?”

I bark out a laugh and nod. She’s the one who’s not able to keep quiet.

Her fingers deftly unbutton my pants, pull down my zipper, and tentatively reach in to pull my straining flesh out. I slide down from the table, situate my pants so that they aren’t strangling my balls, and lean against the edge.

She fetches a stool and takes a seat in front of me. “I’ve thought about doing this all day.”

My cock jumps as she holds it in her hands like a joystick. She pulls it toward her and inspects.

The sound of my breathing fills the garage, and I work to keep quiet. “You have?”

She nods, her face inching closer to me. I grip the edge of the table and try to relax my muscles.

She licks her lips and then places a kiss on the tip, looking up at me with a sweet smile.

Fuck.

“Tell me what you want.” Her wet tongue delivers a swipe to the underside of my cockhead, in my most sensitive spot.

“I want anything you do, Anna.”

She licks me again, a longer swipe this time, starting at the base and sliding a slippery trail all the way to the tip. I bite back a groan.

“I know you have fantasies, Wes. Tell me what you want.”

Oh fuck.

“I—”

She circles my head with her pointed tongue and then licks the drop of pre-cum gathered at my opening. I hiss, muscles coiled.

“Tell me.”

God, she’s so fucking sexy right now, her tongue torturing me, her chocolate-brown eyes heavy-lidded with lust. She’s a siren. And she wants to shatter my control.

She likes it when I lose control.

“I want—”

Wet heat engulfs my head, and I could explode right now. She moans around me, closing her eyes, as if she likes this, too. Then, she stares right up at me, her eyes wide and her lips stretched tight around my dick, and starts to bob.

“Yes, that’s it. I want to see your lips around me.”

The sight of my dick disappearing into her mouth and coming out shiny makes my balls draw up tight.

“Fuck, Anna. That feels so good.”

Strands of hair slip free from her ponytail, and I smooth them away from her face. Then, I can’t stop touching her face, her soft cheeks that hollow out with every suck, her swollen lips, her eyebrows. Her hands leave the base of my cock and hold on to my wrists, and my control snaps.

I stand, hold her face in my hands, then start inching in and out of her mouth, hips thrusting. I accidentally hit the back of her throat, making her gag, and quickly pull out.

“Shit, I’m sorry.”

Her hands stay on my wrists. “No, don’t you dare stop. Keep going, Wes. I love it.”

“You sure? I don’t want to hurt you.”

“I’m sure. Please.” She opens her mouth wide, relaxing her jaw, and nods for me to continue.

Heart pounding, I guide myself back in, careful not to go too deep this time, and rock in and out of her mouth.

It doesn’t take long before I feel the tingles start, and I speed up, my cock swelling even more. Anna can feel it; her eyes widen, and she groans, the sound muffled around me.

I make a move to pull out, figuring I’ll just come on the floor then clean it up, but Anna grabs the base of my cock and starts jacking me into her mouth.

“I’m going to come, Anna,” I warn.

She nods, tightening her grip.

It’s like, somehow, she knows this is what I want most of all—to come inside her mouth. I grunt and stop holding it back, watching in fascination as my cock jerks and her mouth works to swallow me.

It’s a messy thing. Cum dribbles down her chin. Her eyes water, and she pants, taking huge gulps of air in between swallows.

“Oh fuck, Anna.”

She lets me slide in and out, licking me clean until I’m spent. Then, she smiles up at me, proud and a bit shy. I wipe away the cum off her face. Then, I haul her up to me and kiss her.

“You’re incredible. Thank you.”

“My pleasure,” she chirps before sauntering back to the dresser, picking up the stain, and resuming her job like she didn’t just give me the best blow job of my life.

I chuckle, then tuck myself back in. I take a look at my half-finished project. I see exactly where I left off, grab the nail gun, and get back to work.

I don’t drop a single thing the rest of the night.

Anna

You know that saying, Time flies when you’re having fun? Well, I think it should say, Time flies when you’re having hot sex with Wesley Scott.

A month goes by in a blur of work, running, and Wes. The typical day goes like this: wake up in Wes’s arms, go running together, work at the bookstore, eat dinner with John and Wes, help Wes in the garage, and go home and wait for Wes to come over and fuck me senseless all night. Sometimes, it’s fast and rough; other times, it’s slow and sweet. I love seeing him lose control, and he loves seeing my sexual side. I’m not sure where John thinks he stays every night, but I’m afraid to bring it up because I love having him with me.

I have happy hour with Chris and Desirae on Friday nights. Wes has brunch with Tae, John, and Neil on Saturdays, and we have Sunday dinner at my parents’ pretty much every week.

So, my life has a new routine.

And it feels good.

Happy.

Wes is taking great steps with his business. He’s sold four pieces of furniture by displaying them in our bookstore, and he’s gotten several orders from the flyers we put out. He was so happy when the pieces sold, almost shocked that it’d happened, as if he’d expected the pieces to sit around and collect dust for years.

My dad asked me to help him with social media, but really, Reanell is the brains of that operation. She created a website and then started a Facebook page for Scott’s Custom Craftsmanship—the name Wes chose for his business. Every week, she posts a before picture of the raw material needed and an after picture of the finished piece of furniture. People get a kick out of seeing those pictures.

There’s just one niggling thought in the back of my mind.

I haven’t told him about the abortion yet. He’s seen my tattoo, but he hasn’t asked me about it. When we lie in bed, naked, together, he likes to trail his fingers over my skin, and when he reaches my tattoo, he softly traces the lines with his fingers. Somehow, he understands that the lines are important to me and knows they aren’t something I talk about easily. I love that he hasn’t pushed.

Will he still love me when he learns the darkest part of me? I can’t bear to find out, but until he knows everything, I’m afraid to trust the future. I’m afraid this tentative chance at happiness is just a farce, and our bubble could burst at any moment.