“What, no,” Ilan interrupted. “Come inside.”
Fredric gave Bas the command, then released the harness and looped the leash around his wrist before reaching for Ilan. “I was a little worried when you didn’t answer.”
Ilan dragged a hand down his face, then became very aware of his stench. “I was out on the kayak. I smell fucking rank.”
Fredric laughed, taking a step back, and the way his fingers dragged over Ilan’s skin made him shiver, which was…new. “Why don’t you shower, and Bas and I can wander around?”
Ilan had nothing to hide, not from anyone, but especially not from Fredric. “Kitchen’s straight ahead, living room to the right, my bedroom is down the hall on the left. Make yourself at home.”
He knew there were probably a hundred other things he should have mentioned. Low tables, area rugs, and he was pretty sure there were at least two pairs of shoes lying somewhere. But Fredric headed off to the kitchen, so he hurried to his room and closed the door.
As he sagged against the wood, he realized his breath was hitching in his chest like he’d run a mile, and he wondered when Fredric had begun to make him nervous. He’d known this man for most of his life—first as his best friend’s dad, then as one of the few people he trusted most in the world. Fredric had been the second person to know about his parents’ deaths and the first person to hold him together so he could cry and shake apart.
He’d seen Ilan at his best and his worst.
So why the hell were his palms sweating?
He didn’t have time for another existential crisis, so he grabbed clothes and a fresh towel, then hurried into the bathroom. He stepped under the cold spray, hating every second until it warmed up, and then he grabbed the soap and began to lather way the remnants of the murky water and sweat from his skin.
As the heat increased, Ilan dropped his head forward and let the water beat down on his sore muscles. He’d pay for the hours in the kayak, but in the best way. He’d lost himself in the rhythm of the current as he wandered farther and farther away from his house, and in the process, he felt more centered than ever.
At least, he had until he opened the door and Fredric was there.
In a sudden rush, the older man’s face came to life behind his closed lids, and he felt his dick harden. Opening up his eyes, he stared at his erection like it had betrayed him. This had never happened before.
Or well, it had once. Maybe twice…a handful of times at most, but that had been when he was a horny teenager. And he chalked it up to the fact that Fredric was kind, and he was tender, and he was so good looking it made Ilan ache. He’d never told Julian—hell, he’d never told anyone. And eventually those urges died out when he jerked off his first boy in the band room after school.
By the time he was old enough to not feel so dirty about thinking his best friend’s dad was hot, he was steadily hooking up with his bio 101 lab partner for the first two years of college. She gave him regular blowjobs, and Fredric had settled comfortably into the man he saw for holidays and family vacations Julian dragged him to.
And yes, he supposed it was impossible to ignore the fact that Fredric was somehow even better looking now than he had been in his early thirties. He was only human after all—and one who very much liked sex. But he’d never given his attraction any real thought, and he never meant to.
He breathed out and closed his eyes, but instead of Fredric fading, his image grew stronger. Ilan could hear the deep rumble of his laugh, and feel the soft press of his fingers, and the way they danced across his skin, touching all his curves and lines.
His hand moved without his permission, the soap making the way slick as he gave himself a single tug. His head bowed forward even farther, and his shoulders hunched. For a desperate second, he reached for any other image of any other man. And then the Fredric in his head smiled, and his eyes crinkled in the corners.
Ilan couldn’t stop himself from picturing Fredric kneeling over him. His large, delicate hands caressing his skin, then drifting down to pin him by the hips. He pictured Fredric kissing him with sweeping, wet thrusts of his tongue, his full lips devouring him. He pictured Fredric with his head tipped back and his mouth parted and a groan ripping from his chest as his cock thrust alongside Ilan’s.
He only barely managed to stop himself from shouting as he came, and his knees went weak from the force of his orgasm. He braced himself on the wall, his fingers digging into the rough grout, and he let himself feel the last vestiges of pleasure being washed away by shame.
Fredric would be mortified if he knew, and Julian would kill him. So would Corinne, though she’d make it slow, tying him to a rock to let birds peck him to death.
And he’d deserve it, because what the fuck was he doing?
He was too far beyond teenage hormones to be able to blame that on lack of control, and now he had to go out there and face the man himself. He said a quiet prayer that he wouldn’t be obvious as he reached a shaking hand for his shampoo. Lathering up his hair up, he hurried through the rest of his routine because he’d taken too damn long already.
Stepping out, he let the cool air bring him back down to earth, but he was still all nerves as he dried off and slipped into his jeans and t-shirt. He didn’t bother with his hair, running a quick comb through it, then he walked into the kitchen and found Fredric at the counter, smiling over a mug of tea.
Ilan’s heart picked up speed again, and his mouth went dry. “I…” he started, and his hoarse voice was going to give him away. He could still see the Fredric of his mind in the throes of passion, hear the imagined groans ripping from his chest. He cleared his throat and moved to the fridge. “Sorry, allergies. I’m going to throw some lunch together. Are you hungry?”
“That would be great. I’m still figuring out how to do more than the six meals I learned how to make twenty years ago,” Fredric said.
Ilan shook his head with a grin. “Missing that chef?”
Fredric chuckled, still grinning when Ilan turned around, arms full of sandwich ingredients. “More like full of regret that I didn’t try harder to keep up with everything my therapist taught me.”
“Bullshit.” Ilan laid everything down, then grabbed a cutting board before leaning in toward the older man. “You worked your ass off. And yes, I know I wasn’t even there…”
“And if you had been,” Fredric reminded him, “you’d have been a tiny child.”
As though Ilan needed more reminders that this was his best friend’s father. “The point is, your life was what it was then—and it is what it is now. I can teach you a few things if you want, though. I’m not a five-star chef, but I know my way around a roast.”
Fredric sighed, but he was still smiling. “It’s hard to say no when I’m so damn tired of spaghetti and lemon chicken.”
Ilan rolled his eyes and smacked Fredric on the side of the arm. “Next week. Clear your schedule, and we’ll get some flavor in that diet. This’ll be good for you anyway, because eventually you’re going to have to impress a date. Which, by the way, I want to know how it went.”
At that, Fredric went impossibly still, and Ilan felt that previous worry creep up his spine. “It was…fine. We got to the end of the date at least.”