Page 21 of Bedtime Stories
Chapter
Nine
OREN
I’m dreaming. I know I am, because there’s no way Keane would really be kissing me in the dark woods, pressing me up against a tree with his hands braced on either side of my head. His mouth is warm, insistent, tasting of smoke from the campfire.
His low voice teases my ear.“You’re mine this weekend, kiddo. No wandering.”
In the dream, I’m not shy. Not hiding. Keane’s big hand wraps around my wrists and pins them over my head, the other sliding down to the buckle of my overalls. He tugs it open, the straps falling uselessly at my sides, and I gasp when his knuckles brush my chest.
“Perfect boy,” he murmurs, and I shiver as if the words alone could undo me.
The dream shifts, turning playful. We’re lying in the tent, only this time there’s no space between us. We’re sharing the same sleeping bag. His arm is heavy around my waist, his breath soft against the back of my neck. Every brush of his body makes me hotter, tighter, needier.
I squirm in my sleep, desperate for more of him, pressing back into the hardness I feel behind me. Keane tugs me until Iroll, facing him. He kisses me—deep, greedy kisses that leave me panting. His thigh presses between mine, and I grind down on it helplessly, chasing the friction. His hand cups me through my underwear, firm, claiming, as if I belong to him.
I’m moaning into his mouth, my body hot and desperate, rocking against him until everything tightens, snaps?—
And that’s when I hear it. A groan. Low, guttural, so real it yanks me from the dream.
My eyes fly open. I’m not in Keane’s arms, not really—but his hand is fisted tight in the sleeping bag, his jaw clenched, chest heaving. I know that sound came from him.
Heat rushes through me, shame mixing with a secret, wicked thrill. Mortified, I freeze. My underwear is wet, sticky, clinging to me in a way that feels both disgusting and… intoxicating. I should get up, change, but the thought of him seeing, of having to explain—no. No way.
So I curl around Quackers, pressing him against my sensitive cock, squeeze my thighs together, and pretend. Pretend I’m still asleep. Pretend I don’t know how close I came to giving myself away. Pretend I didn’t hear my Daddy groan because of me.
But I’m wide awake now, trembling with the memory of his dream-touch. And worse, wanting it again.
I squeeze Quackers tighter, praying Keane didn’t really groan, praying it was just my dream bleeding into waking.
Except then his hand shifts. Warm and heavy, it lands across my hip as if it belongs there.
I go rigid, not breathing, not even blinking.
He doesn’t pull away. Doesn’t even stir as if he meant to move. His palm is big, fingers curved just enough to make me feel contained. Claimed.
My sticky underwear feels unbearable now, heat prickling over every inch of me. And then, because the universe hates me,I wiggle. Just a little, just enough that his thumb grazes the hem of my shirt.
Keane makes another sound—half-asleep, half-something else—and tightens his grip, tugging me an inch closer until my back is flush against his chest.
My pulse hammers in my ears. I should say something. I should pull away.
Instead, I let myself melt for one stolen second and pretend this is happening. Pretend he’s holding me because he wants to, not because sleep made him reckless. His breath stirs against my hair, and I wish I was more like Lane, or Timmy. The kind of boys that seduce their Daddies without being asked instead of waiting and hoping to be wanted.
Why am I like this? Why can’t I just reach for what I want?
The first thingI notice when I wake again is that Keane’s not touching me anymore. His arm is back on his own side of the sleeping bag, his breathing slow and even as though he’s been up for hours.
The second thing I notice is that my underwear is still damp, gross and clingy against my skin. I don’t move. Don’t breathe too hard. Just stare at the tent ceiling hoping I can will myself invisible.
“Morning, kiddo.” His voice is warm, rough with sleep. Too warm. Too knowing.
“Morning,” I croak, hoping that if I sound casual enough, he won’t ask. Won’t notice.
But Keane’s a lawyer. He lives to notice.
“You sleep okay?” he asks, rolling onto his side to face me.
