Dear Reader,
It was pointed out to me that there was some POV drift, and continuity issues in what I have posted. So I have made corrections to chapters five, six, seven, nine, ten, twelve, and thirteen. I hope that this won’t be an issue going forward. If you see something, do let me know at [email protected].
Thank you
The late August sun streamed through the cottage windows, casting long shadows across the floor. It was two days until classes started for Jake, a week until Duncan would have to leave for Alderton. The fragile peace of their "bunny week" was beginning to feel like a countdown.
Jake’s phone buzzed on the nightstand. He picked it up, reading the message from Duncan's mother, Ellie.
"She needs me to do some work at the main house," Jake said, scrolling through the text. "The guest room sink faucet is leaking again. She wants me to switch it out."
"I can help," Duncan said, stretching languidly on the bed, the sheets pooling around his hips.
Jake glanced over at him, a skeptical look on his face. "I kind of doubt you would be of useful help," he said, already reaching for his phone to look up a tutorial for the faucet model.
Duncan’s playful mood evaporated instantly. He propped himself up on his elbows, his bottom lip jutting out in a dramatic, exaggerated pout. "That seems like a mean thing to say," he whined. "True, but mean.”
Jake leaned over the bed, silencing Duncan's pout with a soft, lingering kiss. "You know the sooner I leave, the sooner I can be back?"
"That's a logic I can subscribe to," Duncan says, sitting up to capture Jake's lips for another kiss. He playfully nipped at Jake's bottom lip, a sharp, possessive bite that made him gasp.
Twenty minutes later, Jake arrived at the main house, letting himself in through the side entrance. He found Ellie in the kitchen, a space so vast and gleaming it looked like it had never been used.
"Ah, Jake, thank the stars you're here," she said, looking up from her tablet with a relieved smile. "Can you help me reset the wifi? I'm at a loss as to how, and don't have the access to YouTube at the moment."
"Sure, where's your router?" Jake asked, setting his tool bag by the door.
"My what now?" Ellie laughed, a light, musical sound. "I think it's in the back of the pantry," she said, pointing a perfectly manicured hand toward a door at the back of the enormous chef's kitchen.
Jake navigated the cavernous pantry, pushing aside gourmet olive oils and artisanal pasta until he found the small, blinking box tucked away on a shelf. He found the tiny reset button, pressed it with a pen, and waited for the lights to stabilize. A few minutes later, he returned to the kitchen, finding Ellie exactly where he'd left her, scrolling through her tablet.
"All set," Jake said. "Anything else besides the guest room faucet?"
"Graham, have you met my very handy Jake?" Ellie asked, her voice bright and perfectly pleasant, as if she were introducing two old friends.
Jake turned to see Graham Smythe walking into the kitchen, his expression already one of mild irritation. He stopped short when his eyes landed on Jake. The air in the room grew instantly cold. Jake had heard his voice through a phone speaker. Seeing him in person was something else entirely.
"Jacob," Graham said, his voice devoid of any warmth. He gave a curt, dismissive nod, his gaze sweeping over Jake's work clothes with open disdain. "I see you're making yourself useful.”
"Somebody has to," Jake said curtly, the words out before he could stop them. He held Graham's cold gaze for a split second before turning away. "If you'll excuse me, I need to tend to a faucet."
He didn't wait for a reply. He grabbed his tool bag and strode out of the kitchen, his footsteps echoing in the cavernous space. He could feel Graham Smythe's eyes on his back, a heavy, disapproving weight that made the muscles in his shoulders tighten. He found the guest room, a pristine space that looked like it had never been slept in, and knelt by the vanity, the familiar task a welcome escape from the suffocating tension of the kitchen.
"Hi honey, I'm home!" Jake announced, his voice echoing in the quiet cottage as he stepped inside, the scent of Graham's expensive cologne clinging to his clothes like a bad memory.
"I'm right where you left me," came a happy, muffled reply from upstairs.
A wave of relief washed over Jake. He pulled his t-shirt off in one fluid motion, dropping it on top of his tool bag by the door. He toed off his work boots, peeled off his socks, and shucked his jeans and underwear, leaving them in a trail on his way to the stairs. He was completely nude by the time he arrived upstairs, the frustration of his encounter with his father already melting away.
Duncan was lying on their bed, propped up against a mountain of pillows, a book resting on his chest. He looked up as Jake entered, a slow, warm smile spreading across his face.
"I see you received my psychic orders," Duncan said, his eyes roaming appreciatively over Jake's naked body.
Jake walked over to the bed, his movements losing their frustrated edge and becoming more fluid, more submissive. He crawled onto the mattress, settling at Duncan's feet and resting his cheek against Duncan's thigh. The contact was grounding, a silent reset.
"And how was your visit with my family?" Duncan asked, his hand coming to rest on Jake's head, his fingers gently combing through his hair.
"Jake encountered Duncan's father, one Graham D. Smythe Jr.," Jake said, his voice flat, as if reading from a case file. He lifted his head to look up at Duncan. "He's every bit the charming, powerless prick you led me to believe he was."
Duncan's fingers stilled. A slow, dangerous smile spread across his face. "Did he now?"
"Oh, yes," Jake confirmed, a flicker of his own defiance returning. "He seemed very interested in how useful I was being.”
"Since he has no use of his own, I can see where he'd be interested," Duncan said, his voice a low, dismissive rumble. He hooked an arm around Jake's waist and pulled, effortlessly hauling Jake's naked body fully onto the bed and on top of him.
He looked up into Jake's eyes, his own expression hardening with finality. "And that," he said, his voice dropping to a near-whisper, "ends any conversation we're going to have about one Graham D. Smythe Jr.”
"I'm willing to give it the old college try," Duncan laughed, the sound a little breathless as he leaned towards the nightstand, fumbling for the lube. He tossed the bottle to Jake, who caught it easily.
"This is your once-a-year shot, so make it count!" Duncan challenged, spreading his legs in a gesture of complete, trusting surrender.
Jake’s grin widened. He knelt between Duncan's thighs, popping the cap on the lube. "Oh, I'll make it count," he promised, his voice a low, dangerous purr. “You’ll be walking straight for a week!”
Then he proceeded to lube Duncan up slowly, first one, then two fingers, scissoring and stretching until Duncan was loosened enough to be receptive to four. Duncan's breath hitched, his body arching, a low moan escaping his lips. He was pliant, open, and completely at Jake's mercy.
Then, with a sudden burst of frenzy, Jake was inside his dominant partner. The sudden, full invasion made Duncan gasp, his hands flying to Jake's shoulders, his nails digging into the skin. But even in this moment of complete surrender, Jake felt the subtle shift in power. Despite the visual change in roles, he still felt Duncan making all the decisions. Every thrust, every gasp, every shudder felt like it was being directed, orchestrated by the careful eye of an observant director who was merely playing the part of the submissive. Jake was the actor, but Duncan was still holding the script.
They lay intertwined in the sweaty, post-coital bliss, the air in the room thick with the scent of sex and exhaustion. Jake’s head rested on Duncan's chest, the steady rhythm of his heartbeat a comforting thrum against his ear. The power dynamic had snapped back into place as if it had never been disturbed.
After a long moment, Jake shifted, propping his chin on Duncan's chest to look up at him. He asked casually, his voice soft in the quiet room, "Was that a reward, or a punishment?"
Duncan’s eyes opened slowly, a lazy, satisfied smile playing on his lips. He reached down, his fingers gently stroking Jake's sweat-damp hair.
"It was neither," he murmured, his voice a low, contented rumble. "It was a need.”
"I'm glad I was here to fulfill your need," Jake said, his voice sincere. "You've been creating and fulfilling my needs since that day at the coffee cart." He disentangled himself, the sudden cold air a shock against his sweat-slicked skin as he got out of the bed. "I need a shower, and then I'm supposed to meet my brothers so we can figure out what to do for Mom's birthday in a couple of weeks."
"Can I come? Can I come?" Duncan mock-begged, his voice filled with theatrical pleading. "I'll be quiet, I promise!"
"Not this time, Champ," Jake said, shaking his head with a small smile as he walked toward the bathroom. "This one's just for the Samuel boys.”
An hour later, Jake pulled his truck into the gravel parking lot of "The Hops & Barley Co." The brewery was a converted warehouse, all exposed brick and stainless steel tanks, smelling of yeast and malt. Inside, his three brothers were already waiting at a high-top table near the bar.
Ryan, the oldest at 25, carried the weight of world without being asked, looked and carried himself with confidence of someone much older than a quarter of a century. He was hunched over his textbook. He had the tired-but-focused air of a man juggling a call center job, night classes, a bitchy pregnant wife, an infant son, and grinding toward something better the slow, steady way.
Sean, at 24, was the opposite. He was leaning back in his chair, spinning a pint glass on the table, a loud, confident presence even when sitting still. He was the brewmaster, a talented guitarist and bassist, the one with the most personality in the room at any given moment.
And then there was Zach, who had his phone out, thumb scrolling rapidly through a social media feed, his expression completely bored by the family proceedings.
"Took you long enough," Sean called out as Jake sat down. "We were about to send a search party. Or just start drinking without you."
"Like we’d wait," Ryan muttered, “or search,” not looking up from his textbook.
"So," Sean said, ignoring him and grinning at Jake. "The big question. What are we getting Mom for her birthday? And don't say a gift card. That's your go-to, and it's weak."
Before Jake could answer, Ryan closed his textbook with a sharp snap. All trace of the tired student was gone, replaced by the focused, responsible older brother. He looked directly at Jake, his eyes clear and direct.
"So Jake, you bang boys now?"
Jake didn't even blink. He leaned back in his chair, matching his brother's serious tone. "Yup," he countered, his voice flat. "They don't get pregnant as easily.”
"Sick burn, bro," Zach says without looking up from his phone.
"The question remains," Sean said, ignoring the exchange and returning to the reason for the assembly. He leaned forward, his elbows on the table. "What do we get the woman who deserves everything, claims to want nothing, and would be embarrassed by the cost of a dollar store card?”
"I was thinking," Jake said, leaning forward. "She always wants pictures. I know a good portrait photographer. The four of us pose, then we make her the same cake we always made her as kids. We show up the night before her birthday, surprise her, she cries, we eat cake, and we all live to see another day."
He looked around the table, expecting resistance. Instead, there was a charged silence.
Ryan nodded slowly, a rare, genuine smile touching his lips. "That's... actually a really good idea, Jake."
Even Zach looked up from his phone, his expression unreadable but interested.
Sean stared at him for a long moment, a slow, impressed grin spreading across his face. "Wow, that fagdom is really paying off for you, Jake," he whistled, leaning back in his chair. "You're all sentimental and shit."
