His Dad Will Do

His father is my Daddy now.

They say revenge is a dish best served cold and I guess that’s apt, because I am freezing. I’m standing on the front steps of my cheating bastard of an ex-boyfriend’s childhood home and I’m here for one reason.

I’m here to seduce my ex’s father. Lance says that his dad only bangs twinks who are way younger than him. And I can’t think of a better FU response to what Lance did to me than to be the latest twink in his dad’s bed.

They say revenge is a dish best served cold and I guess that’s apt, because I am fucking freezing.

The mesh shirt and tight jeans I’m wearing are supposed to leave little to the imagination, but a blast of frigid air blows a scuffle of dead, brown leaves across my shoes and my balls shrink up into my stomach.

My nipples are hard, but again, from the cold, not so much from anticipation or arousal. I’m standing on the front steps of my ex-boyfriend’s dad’s house and I’m here for a reason.

I’m here to seduce him. Because Lance always bitches about how his dad only fucks twinks way younger than him, and I can’t think of a better “fuck you” response to what Lance did to me than to be the latest twink in his dad’s bed.

I’m wearing a coat, of course, because it’s December in Connecticut. But the coat is this long, black velvet thing that’s like a cross between an old-fashioned smoking jacket and a trench coat. The kind of coat I wear to the clubs to look hot in, not to stay warm in. And anyway, doing up the buttons will only cover up my chest and I’m supposed to be looking irresistibly sexy.

Even though I’m rethinking whether this was the best or worst idea I’ve ever had.

It’s definitely the ballsiest, despite the current state of my balls. So before the rest of my nerve freezes over and falls off like my dick is about to, I ring Logan Reynolds’s doorbell.

It’s just past eight o’clock on a Friday evening and Logan is home, thank god. Warm light spills from the huge living room windows. He’s alone, too, it seems like. There’s no extra car parked in the driveway in front of the closed two-car garage or on the street in front of the large house.

Because that would just be the icing on the humiliation cake—if I’ve taken a Metro-North train all the way to Westport, Connecticut to seduce my ex-boyfriend’s father and said father already has a Grindr hookup in his bed.

The front door is mostly glass, so I see Logan cross the open floor plan of the living room and kitchen to answer. Between the brightness of the interior lights on his side and the moonless night outside, I don’t think he can tell who’s standing on the other side of his door, and I know he’s not expecting me. So his surprised expression when he pulls the door open isn’t..well, surprising. He fills the doorway, his broad shoulders almost brushing the frame, and my dick gives an interested twitch, despite the cold.

“Silas? Are you all right?”

Now that I’m actually here, I’m not exactly sure what to say, despite all my anticipation and planning. I look down at his feet, which are bare, despite the winter chill, and then up at his face under the fall of my bangs. It’s a look that used to work on his son, the rat bastard, and I’m hoping like son, like father. “Um…” I start, like an idiot.

“Of course not, what was I thinking?” Logan swings the door wide. “Come in, son.”

The house is blessedly warm, thanks in part to the fire in the double-sided gas fireplace that divides the living room from the dining room. I shrug my coat off and shake my hands out, opening and closing my fists to bring the blood back into my fingertips.

Logan takes my coat and tosses it on a peg in the entryway, then tilts his head to look at my face. Chloe says I’ve got “come hither” eyes—whatever the fuck that means—but Lance also once said they were the first thing he noticed about me, so I use them to the fullest extent on his dad. They’re green, with flecks of gold in them, and I’ve smudged the barest hint of eyeliner around them to really make them pop. My lashes are long and thick and I legit bat them at Logan, whose own eyes narrow at me.

He’s in his late forties, twenty-five years older than me, and he is rocking that silver fox look like nobody’s business. His expression shutters, like the stone-faced lawyer he is. But he also looks down at my chest. At the piercings in my nipples visible through the mesh shirt, and then briefly lower, before he drags his eyes back up to my face.

“No,” he says, and the firm tone of his voice makes my dick twitch.

“You don’t even know what I came here for.”

His eyes flick up and down my body again and he crosses his arms over his chest. “I’m not blind, Silas. And I said no the last time, remember?”

The last time is totally why I came here tonight.

Even if, to be honest, I don’t remember a lot of it.

I remember attending the annual holiday party at Logan’s law firm. Logan had invited me and Lance because a lot of his clients are Broadway producers and he knows about my dream to someday have a musical produced on Broadway. I remember agreeing to meet Lance there instead of arriving with him. Because Lance said he had to work up until the party started to get ahead on a project.

Well, he got head, all right. By a cater-waiter in an empty office at his dad’s law firm. Where I caught him when I was coming back to the party from the john.

The next thing I remember is getting super drunk and Logan pouring me into a taxi. He got in next to me and rode the entire way from his office in midtown Manhattan to Chloe’s apartment in Brooklyn after I screamed in the middle of Seventh Avenue that I was never going back to the condo that Lance and I have been sharing for the last year.

“I remember your dick didn’t say no the last time,” I say. I step closer to him. Close enough that my chest almost touches his. He’s a few inches taller than me, and I have to tilt my head up to meet his gaze. He’s just standing there, his face impassive, his eyes boring into mine.

To his credit, he doesn’t deny what happened. How when the cab swung around a corner a little too fast and I fell against him, he put his arm around me. How when I laid my head in his lap—initially to block out the endless streams of light shining through the cab windows because they were making me dizzy in my drunken state and I was trying not to puke—his erection rose under his black wool suit pants.

How he spread his thighs wider when I nuzzled my face into his crotch. How he stroked my back while I exhaled a steady stream of hot breath against his hardening dick.

Until the taxi reached Chloe’s apartment building and Logan lifted me off his lap, leaned forward and murmured to the cabbie that he’d be right back. He hustled me up the walk and propped me up against the brick front of her building, then turned me over to Chloe when she answered the bell, with a terse, “His boyfriend cheated on him and he’s exceedingly drunk. He needs someone to take care of him tonight.”

Instead, he says now, “Well then, it’s lucky for both of us that my dick doesn’t make my decisions.”

“Is it?” I lift one hand and drag it down my own chest until I reach my crotch. “What if we both got lucky tonight?”

I cup my hardening dick in my hand, through my jeans, and the back of my hand brushes against the soft lounge pants that Logan’s wearing. There’s an answering hardness under his pants, but he still hasn’t moved closer to me.

Or farther away.

“Silas.” Logan’s voice is low and rough. He swallows and I track the movement of his throat under the scruff of his close-shaved beard. “You were drunk.”

“So drunk,” I agree. I stroke my cock through my jeans, which causes the back of my hand to rub against his cock, too. “Didn’t change what I wanted then. And I’m not drunk now.”

“You just caught your boyfriend cheating on you, Silas. Less than a week ago. You need time to get over him.”

I slow the movement of my hand. Dragging it gently, so very slowly, along the ridge of my erection. Barely brushing over his at the same time. His cock twitches and strains toward mine.

“You know what? I don’t think I do.” I don’t want to talk about Lance, because if I do, I’m likely to say things about him that will ruin any chance I have of getting what I came here for.

Logan’s hands clench into fists at his sides. He’s got broad hands with big knuckles, the kind of hands you’d expect to see on, like, a construction worker or a gardener. Not a corporate lawyer at a white-shoe law firm with a prime address in midtown Manhattan. I imagine Logan’s hand holding the fat Mont Blanc fountain pen I’ve seen him use when I’ve stayed over here with Lance. Then I imagine his hand wrapped around my cock and shiver.

One hand opens and lifts a little, like he’s about to touch me, but then he drops it again and wipes his palm on the side of his lounge pants. “Silas. Even if I did have a natural reaction to you in the taxi, you were dating my son.”

His hand closes into another fist, then opens again. “What kind of asshole would I be if I took advantage of you?”

I shift a tiny bit forward, so that line of my jeans-covered cock brushes against his jutting out under his loose pants. “I’m not dating your son anymore. We’re completely over. I’m a free agent.”

I don’t know if that’s the right analogy—I’m not into sports, like at all—but whatever works, right?

Logan’s eyes drill into mine. I feel like a witness on the stand in a trial for everything that matters to me. “And you wouldn’t be taking advantage of me. You’d just be giving me what I’m asking for.”

I reach for Logan’s hand and lift it to my chest, pressing his palm over my right nipple. I sway forward so he can feel my nipple ring against his palm and my dick against his.

“What are you asking me for, Silas?”

“Isn’t it obvious?” I give a tiny thrust of my hips. Logan’s hand tightens over my pec. I’m asking him to fuck me. And suck me and let me suck him and do all kinds of other dirty things to me.