Tom Webster tightened his grip on the steering wheel as the sun rose over Long Island, painting the suburban streets in gold. He was a man whose presence seemed to fill any space he entered—tall, dark-haired, with a neatly trimmed mustache and a thick sweep of chest hair that peeked occasionally from his dress shirts. His frame was still trim and athletic, evidence that he had never let life’s comforts dull his shape, even after twenty years of marriage and raising four children.
Tom had married Carol straight out of college, a young love accelerated by the surprise of pregnancy. That impulsive decision had led them here: a sprawling home in a manicured Long Island suburb, their lives outwardly perfect. Inside, however, Tom knew, the currents of desire and temptation ran quietly beneath the surface.
Their children were the living proof of those years:
Trevor, the eldest at eighteen, carried his father’s height but inherited his mother’s leaner frame. His hair was a sandy brown, tousled in a way that looked effortlessly deliberate, and his green eyes held the easy confidence of a young man who had always been admired. He had the strong jawline of his father and a smile that could make teachers forget the rules.
Madeline, sixteen, was sharp and fiercely independent, with dark curls like Tom’s and a wit that often outpaced her older brother.
Caleb, thirteen, was lanky, with an infectious grin and the mischievous glint of a boy who seemed to live for the next prank.
Lila, ten, the baby of the family, had her mother’s soft features, framed by golden waves that seemed to catch the sunlight in a halo when she laughed.
The Websters were taking Trevor on his first official college tour. UCLA was the destination, and the family was buzzing with excitement. The plane ride had been long, the rental car navigating Los Angeles traffic even longer, but as they finally approached the sprawling campus, the thrill of possibility tingled in the air.
Their tour guide, Gabe, was waiting outside Royce Hall when they arrived. At twenty-two, he had the casual confidence of someone who had lived on this campus long enough to know its secrets but young enough to radiate charm effortlessly. Tall and lean, Gabe’s blonde hair caught the sunlight in a way that made Tom’s chest tighten unexpectedly. He wore a simple T-shirt and jeans, sneakers slightly scuffed, white socks peeking out. There was an ease in his posture, the kind that suggested freedom and rebellion, tempered only by the careful attentiveness he showed to the students he guided.
As Gabe greeted them and led the Websters through the campus, Tom found his attention wandering more than once. He watched the way Gabe laughed with a group of students, the tilt of his head, the confident sweep of his long legs over the pavement. Every movement felt calculated, yet unstudied, and Tom felt a strange, unwelcome pull he hadn’t experienced in years—not toward anyone, certainly not someone half his age.
“Trevor, see the library?” Gabe’s voice cut through Tom’s thoughts. “That’s where a lot of the majors hang out. It’s huge—lots of study spaces, and they’ve got these amazing tech labs.”
Tom nodded, smiling faintly at his son, who hung on every word. But in the periphery, his eyes kept returning to Gabe, the tour guide, whose presence seemed to charge the very air around him. There was something in that casual, easy confidence that made Tom’s pulse quicken—a dangerous, exhilarating reminder that desire didn’t follow rules, no matter how orderly life appeared on the surface.
As they walked past the Rose Garden, Gabe gesturing to the iconic Royce Hall, Tom wondered what it meant that he was noticing every detail—the curve of Gabe’s shoulders, the soft way he adjusted the strap of his backpack, the brightness in his clear blue eyes when he smiled. He told himself it was fleeting, meaningless—but a spark had been lit.
And Trevor was still completely oblivious, dreaming only of dorm rooms and class schedules.
Tom adjusted the cuffs of his pale blue button-down shirt as he followed the tour group down the sunlit paths of UCLA. He had opted for chinos that morning, a soft, sandy taupe that complemented his brown suede shoes, polished but worn just enough to suggest casual refinement. His black cotton crew socks peeked occasionally as he shifted his stride, a small comfort amidst the excitement of college tours and Los Angeles heat.
Trevor walked ahead, backpack slung carelessly over one shoulder, absorbing every word Gabe said. Tom tried to focus on his son, reminding himself that this was all about guidance, opportunity, and planning for the future. And yet, every time Gabe turned his head to point something out—a sculpture, a shady bench under a eucalyptus tree, the curve of Royce Hall—Tom’s chest tightened. There was a natural grace to the tour guide, a relaxed confidence that seemed almost magnetic.
Gabe’s T-shirt clung lightly to his athletic frame, the faint outline of muscles visible as he gestured with his hands. His jeans fit perfectly, casual but flattering, sneakers scuffed in just the right places to make him seem approachable yet effortlessly attractive. Even the peek of white socks at his ankles struck Tom in ways he tried not to notice, though he failed.
“You see, a lot of the students here work in groups on the lawn,” Gabe said, pointing to a circle of undergraduates tossing frisbees and lounging on blankets. “It’s a great way to meet people outside of class, get involved in clubs. There’s a sense of community here—you’ll notice it immediately.”
Tom nodded, smiling faintly, watching Trevor’s eager expressions. But his attention flicked back to Gabe, whose voice carried easily over the chatter, rich and warm. There was an effortless charm there, a balance of professionalism and casual friendliness that Tom found increasingly difficult to ignore.
As they approached the quad near Powell Library, Gabe stopped to let the group gather. “And here,” he said, gesturing expansively, “is where the heart of campus really feels alive. It’s also where a lot of seniors come to relax before graduation—great place to people-watch, take in the energy, and maybe find inspiration for your own journey.”
Tom felt his throat tighten. There was something in the way Gabe’s eyes scanned the group, making brief, fleeting contact with him for just a second longer than necessary. Tom’s mind buzzed uncomfortably with questions he didn’t want to ask himself. He shifted on his suede shoes, smoothed down the front of his chinos, trying to ground himself in the familiar textures of his outfit, in the groundedness of his long, steady life.
Trevor, oblivious to the tension swirling nearby, leaned toward Gabe. “How’s campus life for seniors? Are the classes really as intense as people say?”
Gabe laughed softly, the sound carrying like music. “Yeah, it’s challenging, but rewarding. Seniors usually find a rhythm—they know what they’re good at, who they want to be, and the campus becomes a place to explore that fully.”
Tom swallowed, his hand brushing briefly against his shirt as he straightened, acutely aware of the warmth that Gabe seemed to radiate effortlessly. He forced himself to focus on Trevor, on the future his son was stepping into, but the pull of something reckless and forbidden hummed quietly beneath his calm suburban exterior.
As the group moved on toward the science buildings, Tom noticed the way Gabe’s stride seemed to echo his own pace, the gentle tilt of his head in sunlight, the easy sway of his hips under perfectly faded denim. It was disarming, and Tom hated how much it affected him.
Trevor chatted animatedly about dorms and clubs, unaware of the storm brewing just behind his carefully cultivated smile. Tom followed, chinos creasing at the knees, suede shoes silent on the concrete, the warmth in his chest refusing to cool.
The tour wound down near the Bruin statue, where Gabe motioned for everyone to gather for the final group photo. Trevor bounced on his heels, snapping selfies with classmates and strangers alike, oblivious to the subtle electricity sparking nearby. Tom, standing a little behind the group, adjusted the cuff of his button-down shirt again and glanced down at his chinos, then at his suede shoes, as if grounding himself in the familiar textures of his outfit could keep his thoughts in line.
Gabe was laughing with another family, leaning casually against a lamppost. The sunlight caught his blonde hair just so, illuminating the effortless curve of his jaw and the warm, mischievous glint in his blue eyes. Tom felt his pulse jump, the warmth spreading from his chest in a way that startled him.
As the families began to disperse, Gabe turned, scanning the crowd, and their eyes met. It was brief—just a second—but it lingered far longer in Tom’s mind. Gabe gave a small, polite smile, one that seemed to acknowledge something unspoken, before stepping closer to him.
“Everything okay?” Gabe asked quietly, his voice lower now, just for Tom. There was no hint of judgment, only curiosity, and the subtle thrill of forbidden familiarity.
Tom cleared his throat, forcing a casual smile. “Yes, everything’s fine. Just…taking it all in. It’s a beautiful campus.”
Gabe’s eyes flicked to Trevor, who was now off talking to another student, then back to Tom. “It is. Makes you wish you were back in school, doesn’t it?”
Tom laughed softly, a little too short, too sharp, and felt a heat rise to his neck. “It does…in some ways.” His hand brushed the seam of his chinos, suddenly conscious of the way his suede shoes shifted against the pavement, of the warmth of the sun on his skin, of Gabe’s presence just a little too close.
For a moment, neither spoke. The campus buzzed around them, students moving between classes, parents corralling children, but in that small space, the world seemed to shrink. Tom’s gaze caught the subtle angles of Gabe’s face, the casual confidence in his posture, and the way sunlight caught the edges of his T-shirt, outlining his lean frame.
Gabe tilted his head slightly, a faint, knowing smile playing at the corner of his lips. “Well…don’t want to keep you from your family,” he said softly, though his eyes didn’t move from Tom’s.
Tom’s chest tightened. “Of course. Yes…thank you for the tour. You were very helpful.” He cleared his throat, trying to mask the sudden, unwelcome flutter of excitement in his stomach.
For one last second, they lingered in that unspoken tension, a quiet acknowledgment of something dangerous, tempting, and impossible. Then Gabe stepped back, giving a polite nod, and Tom forced himself to turn toward Trevor, who waved eagerly from across the lawn.
As they walked away, Tom felt the pull of Gabe’s presence like a faint electric current still running along his spine. He reminded himself: this was absurd, reckless, and entirely forbidden. And yet, in the back of his mind, he couldn’t stop thinking about the curve of Gabe’s smile, the tilt of his head, the warmth in his voice.
Trevor chattered excitedly about dorm rooms and dining halls, completely unaware of the storm his father had just walked through—and Tom found himself smiling anyway, a small, secret smile, because some temptations were far too potent to ignore.
⸻
Back in their hotel room, Tom Webster paced lightly in his chinos and suede shoes, the soft cotton of his black crew socks brushing against the carpeted floor. He had changed only slightly from his touring outfit, leaving his button-down shirt untucked at the hem, sleeves rolled just above his wrists. The city lights of Los Angeles shimmered through the window, but nothing outside could compete with the heat thrumming in his chest.
He picked up the phone. “Hello, Carol?” His voice sounded steadier than he felt.
“Tom! How’s the tour?” Carol’s voice was warm, bubbling with excitement. “Trevor tell you he wants to eat at In-N-Out?”
Tom laughed, masking the tension he felt like a coil in his chest. “Yeah…he’s loving everything. Campus is amazing.” He forced himself to focus on mundane details: classrooms, dorms, the library. “We’re just heading back to the hotel. Trevor’s got plans tonight with some friends he met at the tour.”
“Good! You two get some rest—you’re going to need it for the drive back tomorrow.”
“Of course,” he said, nodding even though she couldn’t see him. He ended the call and set the phone down, his fingers brushing the smooth surface absently. Trevor was gone, off exploring the city with newfound friends, and the hotel room suddenly felt too quiet, too small. The memory of Gabe’s smile, his casual lean, the subtle tension of their private moment on campus, gnawed at him.
Tom tried to remind himself of the boundaries—marriage, children, responsibility—but the magnetic pull he felt toward Gabe was impossible to ignore. He ran a hand through his dark hair, sighed, and then made a decision that would shock even himself: he needed to see Gabe again.
The elevator ride down was long, the hum of the machinery echoing his thoughts. Outside, the Los Angeles night welcomed him with neon and music spilling from every corner. He found a local bar just a few blocks from the hotel—a cozy spot, dimly lit, with an inviting hum of conversation. He slid onto a stool at the far end, ordering a whiskey neat.
Minutes passed, each one stretching with anticipation. Then he saw him.
Gabe. Leaning casually against the bar, T-shirt fitted perfectly, jeans creased just enough to hint at his long legs, sneakers scuffed but effortlessly stylish. He laughed at something the bartender said, reaching up to push a stray lock of hair from his forehead, and Tom’s chest tightened. The world had narrowed to the space between them.
Gabe’s eyes caught his almost immediately. A flicker of recognition, of surprise, crossed his face—but it didn’t fade. Instead, it deepened, as if he had been hoping for this encounter as much as Tom had.
“Tom Webster?” Gabe said, his voice low, casual, yet threaded with an unmistakable undertone.
Tom nodded, swallowing hard. “Yes. And you’re…Gabe, right?”
Gabe smiled, the kind of smile that made Tom’s knees feel slightly weak. “Small world. I didn’t expect to run into you tonight.”
“Neither did I,” Tom admitted, his own grin breaking through, despite the awareness of how reckless this felt.
They talked, first casually about UCLA, the city, Trevor, but the undercurrent was undeniable. Every glance, every subtle lean toward one another, sparked a heat that Tom had thought long extinguished in his orderly suburban life. The bar’s dim light seemed to embrace them, allowing for shared glances and secret smiles, the world outside fading into irrelevance.
For Tom Webster, the line between right and wrong had never felt so blurred—or so dangerously thrilling.
⸻
After many, many drinks, Tom offered to walk Gabe home. They paused when they got to his apartment door. Gabe leaned against the doorway of his loft, a faint smile tugging at his lips. “Want to see my place?” he asked, his casual tone masking an unmistakable hint of invitation.
Tom swallowed hard. He ran a hand through his dark hair, adjusting the cuffs of his pale blue button-down shirt, feeling the familiar weight of his mustache brush against his lips as he exhaled. His chest hair peeked faintly from the top buttons, and his trim, athletic frame showed even through the fabric. He was wearing the same chinos from earlier, brown suede shoes, and black cotton crew socks.
“Yeah…yeah, I’d like that,” Tom replied, trying to keep his voice steady.
Gabe grinned, stepping aside. He was relaxed in a grey T-shirt that stretched lightly across his shoulders, dark jeans, sneakers scuffed at the toes, and white socks. Blonde hair fell in casual waves over his forehead, and his blue eyes seemed brighter in the apartment’s warm light. He gestured for Tom to follow.
The loft was airy and open, sunlight spilling through floor-to-ceiling windows. Eclectic furniture filled the space: mismatched chairs and couches, colorful rugs, and a low coffee table littered with books and vinyl records. Posters of old films and music legends covered the walls, giving the space a lived-in, artistic feel.
“Make yourself comfortable,” Gabe said, pulling a couple of beers from the small fridge. He handed one to Tom, who took it, brushing fingers against Gabe’s for a split second.
“Thanks,” Tom murmured, sitting on the floor on a soft rug, feeling the slight give beneath him. Gabe settled across from him, stretching his long legs, sneakers still on.
“I’ve been collecting vinyl since…forever,” Gabe said, leaning to pick a record. “This one’s one of my favorites—classic rock. You up for it?”
Tom nodded. “Sure. I haven’t really listened to records in…years.”
Gabe set the vinyl on the turntable, and the warm crackle of the music filled the loft. Tom took a slow sip of his beer, letting the sound wrap around them.
“So…you’re gay?” Tom asked, a little hesitantly, but with genuine curiosity.
Gabe shrugged, smiling faintly. “Yeah. Always have been. Doesn’t change much day to day, except the dating scene can be…weird.”
Tom leaned back on his hands, absorbing the openness in Gabe’s voice. “I guess…how does it feel, being…like that? To be attracted to men?”
Gabe tilted his head, studying him. “It’s just…who I am. Nothing dramatic, really. It’s more about finding someone you click with. I’ve had crushes, flings…stuff that mattered and stuff that didn’t. You know?”
Tom nodded, feeling a pang of longing he hadn’t expected. “I…don’t know what it’s like, honestly. I’m married—been married for twenty years. Four kids. Life is…settled.” His hand brushed over his chest, brushing against the coarse hair there, a subconscious gesture. “My wife Carol…she’s amazing, really. We’ve built a life, but sometimes…” He trailed off.
Gabe leaned a little closer, curiosity lighting his eyes. “Sometimes what?”
“Sometimes I wonder what it’d feel like to be…someone else. To be drawn to someone in a way I can’t explain.” Tom sipped his beer, suddenly aware of the proximity, the heat of Gabe’s shoulder just a few inches away.
Gabe smiled softly. “That’s…honest. I like that.”
They talked for hours, the conversation flowing easily, bouncing from music to life choices, art, family. At some point, Tom kicked off his suede shoes, stretching his toes inside his black socks, feeling the soft rug beneath. Gabe mirrored him, removing his sneakers and letting his white socks slide across the floor. The two pairs of socked feet brushed lightly as they shifted closer, a subtle, electric grazing that made Tom’s pulse race. The smell of warm socks, faintly musky, only heightened the intimacy of the moment.
“Ever…kissed a boy?” Tom asked, voice low, almost unsure if he wanted an answer.
Gabe’s lips curved into a gentle, teasing smile. “Yeah. A few times. Why do you ask?”
Tom hesitated, fingers grazing Gabe’s arm lightly as he shifted closer. “I…want to know what it feels like.” His voice was barely above a whisper.
Gabe leaned in slowly, giving Tom time to pull back if he wanted. When he didn’t, Gabe’s lips brushed his, soft at first, testing the boundaries. Tom’s hand lifted, fingertips grazing Gabe’s jawline, the brush of his chest hair against Gabe’s forearm sending a shiver through both of them.
The kiss deepened just slightly, lingering on the edge of something more, heavy with anticipation and the thrill of the forbidden. The record continued to play, low crackle mixing with the music, the room alive with the warmth of bodies close but not yet crossing the line into the explicit.
Tom’s heart raced. This was dangerous, reckless, thrilling—and utterly consuming.
The kiss ended with a breathless pause, both men holding each other’s gaze, aware of the tension, aware of the pull that neither could—or wanted to—ignore.
The loft was alive with the crackle of vinyl and the low hum of the city outside. Tom sat cross-legged on the rug, his chinos riding up slightly to reveal the black crew socks covering his ankles. His toes flexed unconsciously against the soft fabric of the rug, a subtle sign of his unease—or was it anticipation? Gabe lounged across from him, legs stretched out, white socks peeking from the cuffs of his jeans, sneakers discarded carelessly by the door. The air between them was thick, charged with something neither of them could ignore.
Gabe leaned forward, his T-shirt riding up just enough to reveal a sliver of his toned stomach. "You ever think about what you’re missing?" he asked, his voice low, almost a purr.
Tom’s throat tightened. "Missing?"
"Yeah," Gabe said, tilting his head, his blonde hair catching the light. "Like…what it’d feel like to let go. To really let go."
Tom’s pulse quickened, his fingers brushing over the coarse chest hair peeking from his button-down. "I don’t know if I can."
Gabe’s blue eyes locked onto his, unflinching. "What’s stopping you?"
"Everything. My life. My family."
Gabe smirked, a teasing glint in his eyes. "But right now, it’s just you and me. No one else."
Tom swallowed hard, his gaze dropping to Gabe’s lips, then down to the curve of his neck, the faint hint of muscle under his T-shirt. "What are you saying?"
"I’m saying," Gabe began, shifting closer, his voice dropping to a whisper, "that you can let yourself feel this. Just for tonight." His hand reached out, fingertips brushing against Tom’s thigh, sending a jolt of electricity through him.
Tom’s breath hitched, his body betraying him as he leaned into the touch. "Fuck, Gabe…"
"That’s the idea," Gabe murmured, his lips curving into a sly smile. He moved in closer, their knees brushing, the warmth of his body radiating against Tom’s. "Tell me what you want."
Tom hesitated, his mind racing. "I want…I want to know what it feels like. To be with you."
Gabe’s hand slid up Tom’s thigh, fingers trailing lightly over the fabric of his chinos. "Then let me show you."
Before Tom could respond, Gabe closed the distance between them, his lips crashing against Tom’s in a searing kiss. It was hungry, desperate, the kind of kiss that made Tom’s head spin. He felt Gabe’s tongue slide against his, hot and insistent, and he moaned into it, his hands gripping Gabe’s shoulders for balance.
"Fuck," Tom gasped when they finally broke apart, his chest heaving. "That’s…"
"Good?" Gabe teased, his hands sliding under Tom’s shirt, fingertips grazing the coarse hair on his chest.
"So fucking good," Tom admitted, his voice trembling. He reached for Gabe’s shirt, tugging it over his head in one swift motion. The sight of Gabe’s bare chest—lean, defined, with a light dusting of blonde hair—made Tom’s breath catch. His hands roamed over the smooth skin, tracing the lines of muscle, feeling the heat beneath his palms.
Gabe leaned in again, kissing him deeply, his hands working to unbutton Tom’s shirt. When it fell open, Gabe’s hands slid over Tom’s chest, fingers tangling in the thick hair there. "You’re fucking beautiful," he whispered against Tom’s lips.
Tom shuddered, his cock straining against the confines of his chinos. "Gabe…"
"Tell me what you want," Gabe urged, his voice low and rough. "Be specific."
Tom’s mind raced, but the words spilled out before he could stop them. "I want you to fuck me. I want to feel your cock inside me."
Gabe’s eyes darkened with desire. "Fuck, Tom…" He leaned in, capturing Tom’s lips in another bruising kiss as his hands worked to undo Tom’s belt. "I’ve wanted this since I saw you on campus."
Tom let out a shaky breath as Gabe yanked his chinos down, exposing his hard cock to the cool air. Gabe’s hand wrapped around him, stroking slowly, and Tom groaned, his hips bucking into the touch.
"You like that?" Gabe asked, his breath hot against Tom’s ear.
"Fuck yes," Tom gasped, his hands fumbling with the button on Gabe’s jeans. He needed more—needed to feel Gabe’s skin against his own.
Gabe helped him, shoving his jeans down just enough to free his cock. It was thick and hard, the tip already glistening with pre-cum. Tom’s mouth watered at the sight.
"Suck me," Gabe commanded, his voice rough with need.
Tom didn’t hesitate. He dropped to his knees on the rug, taking Gabe’s cock into his mouth in one smooth motion. The taste of him was intoxicating—salty, musky, and utterly masculine. Tom moaned around him, his tongue swirling around the tip as he took him deeper.
"Fuck, Tom," Gabe groaned, his hands tangling in Tom’s dark hair. "Your mouth feels so fucking good."
Tom hollowed his cheeks, sucking harder as he worked Gabe’s cock with his hand. The sounds Gabe made—low, guttural moans—only spurred him on. He wanted to make him lose control.
When Gabe pulled him back up, Tom’s lips were swollen, his breathing ragged. "Turn around," Gabe ordered, his voice thick with desire.
Tom obeyed, bending over the arm of the couch, his ass exposed to Gabe’s hungry gaze. He heard the sound of a bottle opening, then felt the cool slick of lube against his entrance.
"Relax," Gabe murmured, pressing a finger against him. Slowly, he pushed inside, stretching Tom open.
Tom hissed at the intrusion, but it quickly turned into a moan as Gabe worked him open with skilled fingers. "Fuck…that feels…"
"Good?" Gabe teased, adding a second finger.
"So fucking good," Tom gasped, his hands clutching at the couch cushions.
When Gabe finally replaced his fingers with the head of his cock, Tom nearly came undone. He felt every inch as Gabe pushed inside him, stretching him open in the best possible way.
"Goddamn, Tom," Gabe groaned, his hands gripping Tom’s hips. "You feel so fucking tight."
"Fuck me," Tom begged, his voice breaking. "Please…just fuck me."
Gabe didn’t need to be told twice. He started slow, thrusting deep and steady, each movement sending waves of pleasure through Tom’s body. But soon, he picked up the pace, slamming into Tom with a force that had him seeing stars.
The room was filled with the sound of skin slapping against skin, their mingled moans echoing off the walls. Tom could feel the heat building inside him, coiling tighter and tighter with each thrust.
"Gabe…I’m close," he panted, his knuckles white where they gripped the couch.
"Cum for me," Gabe growled, his pace never faltering.
With a shout, Tom came, his cock pulsing as ropes of cum splattered against the couch cushions. Gabe followed soon after, burying himself deep inside Tom as he emptied himself with a guttural groan.
For a moment, they stayed like that—panting, trembling, both lost in the aftermath of their passion. Then Gabe pulled out slowly, eliciting a soft whimper from Tom.
"Fuck," Gabe muttered, collapsing onto the rug beside him. "That was…"
"Incredible," Tom finished, still trying to catch his breath.
Gabe turned to him, a lazy smile spreading across his face. "We should do that again sometime."
Tom hesitated, his mind swirling with a mix of guilt and exhilaration. He glanced at Gabe, whose blonde hair was damp with sweat, his chest still rising and falling as he caught his breath. The sight of him—so young, so confident, so utterly unapologetic—sent a fresh jolt of desire through Tom’s body. But the weight of what they had just done lingered in the air, heavy and undeniable.
"You’re thinking too hard," Gabe murmured, his voice soft but insistent. He reached over, his fingers brushing lightly against Tom’s arm. "Don’t. Not tonight."
Tom let out a shaky laugh, running a hand through his dark hair. "It’s not that easy," he admitted, his voice low. "I’ve got a whole life back home. A wife. Kids. This…this is messing with my head."
Gabe shifted closer, his blue eyes locking onto Tom’s with an intensity that made it impossible to look away. "I get it," he said, his tone gentle but firm. "But right now, you’re here with me. And I’m telling you it’s okay to let go. Even if it’s just for tonight."
Tom’s chest tightened as he listened to Gabe’s words, the warmth of his body so close, so inviting. He wanted to believe him, to shut off the part of his brain that was screaming reminders of everything he stood to lose. But the pull of Gabe—his scent, his touch, the way he looked at Tom like he was something precious—was impossible to resist.
"What if I can’t stop?" Tom asked quietly, his voice barely above a whisper. "What if I want more than just tonight?"
Gabe’s lips curved into a slow, knowing smile. "Then we’ll figure it out," he said simply. His hand slid up Tom’s chest, fingers tangling in the coarse hair there. "But for now, just let me take care of you. Let me show you how good it can feel."
Tom felt the last of his resistance crumble under Gabe’s touch. He nodded, his breath hitching as Gabe leaned in again, their lips brushing in a kiss that was softer this time, tender but no less electric. And for the first time in years, Tom let himself stop thinking—and just feel.
