We Have Till Monday

It was probably a dumb idea.

“We should get some rest,” I murmured drowsily.

We’d been dozing on and off for the past hour or two, the long and eventful day having caught up with me, but it was extremely difficult to fall asleep when curious fingers wandered my body. Not that I could claim innocence. Having Camden snuggled up in my arms under the covers was the sweetest torture.

“I’m resting,” he insisted. “My eyes are closed.”

Yeah, but both his hands were on my cock.

“What’re you thinkin’ about?” I asked.

His answer was so matter-of-fact. “Play-raping you in your sleep.”

“Jesus Christ.” I shouldn’t have asked.

“It could work if Daddy held you down once you woke up,” he reasoned. “Maybe he would stuff his big thing in your mouth to keep you quiet.”

A shudder ripped through me, but the scenario posed a problem because I couldn’t imagine ever struggling against such an act. Even pretending not to want it would feel too contrived.

Unable to help myself, I slipped a hand down to his bottom and brushed my fingers between his butt cheeks. “I happen to like being woken up by someone who just takes what he wants.”

He drew an unsteady breath. “Me too. That’s why I like the safewords, cuz anything goes until someone safewords. It’s always playtime that way. I-I could be preparing something in the kitchen, and Daddy just walks by and throws me down on the floor and fucks me because Daddy needs his baby boy right then and there. You know?”

I buried my face in the crook of his neck and wanted to scream out my frustrations. My body was suddenly a live wire, tense and ready to attack. I didn’t know what I craved more, for this aggressive little puppy to come at me and take what he wanted from me, or for me to fuck him into the mattress until he came on the sheets and had my come dripping out of his little asshole.

And it was a tight little asshole. I circled my middle finger around his smooth opening and dipped the fingertip inside.

He trembled and stroked my cock harder.

“Does Daddy let you play-rape him too?” I asked huskily.

“Sometimes.” His soft voice was shaky and brimming with need. “Rape is a stretch. He humors me sometimes, lets me fuck him when he’s resting on his stomach—or he pretends to sleep.” He swallowed hard and peered down between us, in the darkness under the duvet, and he tugged at himself. “He says it’s okay because he can’t feel much anyway, because my thing is little and cute. He’s not super-much into bottoming otherwise.”

I couldn’t handle another fucking word out of his filthy mouth.

“I think that’s enough, Camden.” I barely recognized my own voice. It was too dark, too gravelly. “All I wanna do is flip you over and fuck you into next week.”

“But, ohhhh,” he whined. “Can’t we, please? Just a little bit?”

I shook my head and swallowed dryly. Not a fucking chance. I wouldn’t be able to stop.

“We’re gonna wait.”

Three words I detested uttering.

Fuck.

Yeah.

My painfully hard cock disappeared into something wet, tight, and so warm.

I parted my legs a few inches by drawing up one knee a little, and I slipped my fingers into soft hair, guiding it over my cock. And the sensations that rushed through my body wrenched me out of my sleep.

I grunted and blinked sleepily.

“Fuck.” I stared through hooded eyes as August sucked me off.

He wasn’t supposed to stop, goddammit.

“Get back here,” I rasped.

Instead, he smiled slightly and picked up my clothes off the floor. “Come on, darlin’. Let’s go to bed.”

I was in bed. In Camden’s bed. He was asleep next to me.

Squinting at the Chewbacca alarm clock on the nightstand, I saw it was a little past midnight.

Too tired to function properly, I didn’t bother asking about their sleeping arrangements and just followed August out of Camden’s room. Across the hall was August’s own bedroom, though it was decorated for a couple. A king-size bed, nightstands with pictures of the two, and two open walk-in closets on either side of the dresser that held their flat-screen.

“I have so many questions about your dynamic,” I said through a yawn. “I’ll settle for asking how the barbecue went.”

When he draped my clothes over a chair in the corner, I noticed he’d brought my duffel from the guest room too.

“It went fine. Necessary evil, as Clara calls it,” he responded. “Ain’t enough to be a chef and have your own restaurant anymore. You gotta be approachable to guests—who’re called fans these days.” He shook his head to himself. “I had to sign three cookbooks.”

Oh no, three whole books.

It was endearing to see his evident aversion for social media and what he called “promotional hooplas.”

There was an old-school traditionalist lurking underneath August’s charisma and hospitality.

Sensing that he was exhausted and wanting the evening to end, I rolled down the bedspread so I could get him under the covers quickly. Then I tugged on his hand and pulled him toward me.