Unraveling Malcolm by R. Cayden

Author:R. Cayden [Cayden, R.]
Language: eng
Format: epub
Published: 2019-09-09T04:00:00+00:00

Chapter Twenty

Malcolm

The next day, I stood on the porch to my parents’ house. It was a brick Tudor home, with high peaks to the roof and a big arch at the entrance. As always, the landscaping was immaculate out front, with seasonal flowers dotted among hardy shrubs and bushes. Sighing, I smoothed down the front of my shirt and mentally prepared myself for another family dinner.

I had never been very good at lying to my parents. I always fidgeted and averted my eyes the second I even considered telling a fib. But after the weekend I had, there was no way I could unload the truth on them. They were liberal people, working in the arts and the academy, and they never had a problem with my sexuality. But there was a lot of distance between supporting me when I started dating guys and standing by their only son after he spent a weekend trespassing and exploring kinky group sex.

I rubbed my backside, still sore and warm from the pounding I received. Every time I felt another tender ache, I remembered Gunner, sweating and thrusting above me, and I thought of Maddox, fisting his cock beside the bed.

I remembered it, and I wanted it again.

My mother opened the door, her lips pursed tight. “Why on earth are you standing there?” she declared. “Come in, come in.” You would think she would dress casually for dinner with her husband and son, but in a pair of wide-leg pants and a smart, floral blouse, she looked ready to walk into a meeting at the museum.

“Thank you, Mother,” I said, kissing her on the cheek and handing off the bouquet I brought every week. “What’s for dinner this evening?”

She waved her hand in the air dismissively and started to walk toward the sitting room, her heels clicking on the hardwood floors. “I’m not sure, dear. You’d have to ask the chef,” she said over her shoulder.

Like everything else in their house, dinner was always strangely impersonal. They hired someone to make the food, and they hired someone to clean the rooms, and you absolutely never even considered touching the pricey contemporary art that hung on the walls or the rare vases that sat on the decorative tables. It made for a beautiful life, and I appreciated all of the privileges I had been afforded, but it also drained a lot of joy from the luxuries.

I thought again of Maddox’s house. It wasn’t nearly as fancy, and he clearly cared more about poking around in the mud or in his workshop than he did about tidying the place up. But it was warm and welcoming.

It felt like someone actually lived there.

“Malcolm,” my father said, rising to his feet. He wore an Oxford shirt, tucked into his khakis, just like always. “I was just finishing my notes on this article,” he said, removing his glasses and putting them on the pile of papers and books by the couch.

“Still working on the history of the Panama Canal?” I asked.

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