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flushed, his hands kneading Wyatt’s thighs as he begged to taste him.
Wyatt’s finger spreading pre-cum became Oak’s tongue in his fantasy. Now, instead of kneading, his hands were trapped behind his back and Oak’s naked body kneeled poised for Wyatt’s dick. His dick would be hard and impatient, but Wyatt would make him wait for it, spending the minutes it took Wyatt’s cock to wake up again, in endless foreplay.
Oak liked begging? Then Wyatt would make him beg and see how he liked having the tables turned on him.
The cries that echoed through his living room became Oak’s, instead of his own. Wyatt’s hips lifted to his fist, pre-cum having smoothed over his palm to ease the way, yet left it still rough enough to feel every callus from years of holding a gun.
He shouted, cum spurting onto his belly and chest as orgasm took over. He looked down at himself, finally feeling some of the pent up tension leave him. Except that’s when the dread hit.
Before, wanting Oak had been an undefined mess of confusion walled away. Now, after imagining himself with the other man, he’d blown a fucking hole in that wall.
Chapter Five
    Oak approached Saturday with sourness. He felt like the conversation the night before had been something of a break through. At least the captain hadn’t hung up on him. On the contrary, Oak had been the one to disconnect first, after wrangling the admission that Wyatt was attracted to him.
    Sure, there’d been that moment on Tuesday where he’d felt the other man’s interest, but nerves and taboo could’ve played into that moment just as easily. A kiss was a kiss. A grope was a grope. It felt good no matter who delivered it and though he’d hoped that’s what the rise between Peterman’s thighs was all about, he’d been hesitant to attach more meaning to it. Then he’d played it for all it was worth to get Peterman to admit he was gay.
    Thank God, because a little curiosity was very different from out-and-out interest. Oak was betting on it.
Unfortunately, so was his mom and the guy she was setting him up with. What kind of dweeb was named Owen Murphy, anyway? Probably some round-gut who was too out of shape to tie his own shoes. Thinning hair and watery eyes. Yeah, that’s what an Owen looked like.
Oak watched through the patio doors as he checked the ribs on the grill, while his dad and Peterman laughed in the kitchen.
“This is going to fucking suck,” Oak muttered.
He plastered a smile on his face and stepped back into the house.
“How’re they coming?” his dad asked.
“Fine. I’ll start saucing in about thirty minutes,” he told them.
“Right about the time Owen is supposed to get here.” His dad clapped Peterman on the back. “Hope you don’t mind younger men. I think you’ve got about eight years on him.” Oak tried to catch Peterman’s eye, but failed.
Peterman smiled warmly at John. “I’m sure it’s fine.”
“If you two wind up getting married, I’m going to say I told you so,” Sheila chimed in. “It’s a blind setup, Sheila. The chances of that are slim to none,” Peterman told her.
“Well, there aren’t many of you running around out there. You might have to take the best guy available,” she said.
Peterman coughed through a laugh. “There are more of my kind running around than you think.”
“But none great enough to catch your eye,” she challenged.
Oak stared at his profile, willing Peterman to look his way, give him any kind of sign that he was thinking about him while discussing his dating prospects. Peterman gave him nothing.
The doorbell rang.
“Goodie,” Oak muttered. “He’s early.”
He wanted to get a good look at this guy before any of the others did. He stormed through the room, edging out his dad on the way to the front door.
His dad held his hands up in mock surrender and backed away, amusement dancing in his eyes. “Okay, okay, it’s yours. I didn’t realize you were so protective of Wyatt.”
Oak didn’t bother to