Taming Tyler

Chapter Thirteen

Tyler

‘ I totally forgot how great it feels to hold a pole in my hands ,’ said the little naughty fisherman.

“Huh?” Mitch hums from where he’s crouching on the sandy bank of the stream, the sun catching the silvery specks in his hair. Shit, I need to stop saying shit like this out loud.

“Nothing,” I snigger, squinting against the sun. It’s fucking ruthless today and the stupid oversize flannel shirt that Mitch made me wear scratches against the sunburn on my shoulders. It smells good, though, and when Mitch handed it to me earlier, I just wanted to inhale it, lick it, gobble it up. Pine, cedar, sandalwood, oak chipper. I have no fucking clue what I’m talking about, but that shit that Mitch puts on his face and lingers in his clothes smells fucking yummy. Like ‘ Daddy on a Can .’ Like I said—yum. It nearly made me forget I was bummed about the fact that I couldn’t wear my Daddy’s Taking Me to the Bait Shop crop top. Well, I’ll wear it tomorrow.

“That’s what I thought,” he grunts, picking out a silver fly from his incredible collection, inspecting it closely, that hot as fuck frown between his brows. That frown that makes me wanna drop to my knees and just whimper, yes Daddy, no Daddy, whatever you want, Daddy. “Eyes on the water,” he nods at the stream without even looking at me and I nearly swallow my tongue. I swear Mitch has eyes in the back of his head.

“I was,” I pipe up. I so wasn’t. I was ogling Mitch, wondering what it would feel like if I were that fly, his calloused fingers brushing against me, his hands maneuvering me just the way he wanted me. Wants me.

“Are we gonna argue about everything today, kid?” he grits.

“No, Daddy,” I say in my most submissive voice ever. Yes, I have a submissive voice. It’s the voice that usually gets me whatever the fuck I want—at least until they figure out that I’m too much of a hot mess. Then I’m kicked to the curb.

“Will you quit the ‘Daddy stuff?’” Mitch bites out. His deep baritone makes me feel like saluting him.

“Yes Da—yes, Mitch,” I bat my eyelashes like a good boy. Mitch mumbles something I can’t make out before he gets up. Coming to stand next to me, he quickly inspects my posture, that frown back.

“Stand up straight or you’ll be sorry later,” he winks at me. What the hell?

“Yes, Mitch,” I nearly whisper, wondering what kind of sorry he’s talking about. Mitch must read my mind because he quickly bites out, “Mind on the water and out of the gutter, kid,” squishing all my dreams.

We stand like this for a while, a cool breeze blowing past us from time to time, Mitch occasionally adjusting my grip on the fishing pole. The sun licks along my chest and stomach where I left the shirt open just to mess with him. And it’s just like old times, only it’s not. It’s so not. Everything is changing and I can’t wrap my mind around it.

I woke up early this morning, and it felt like I’d fallen asleep inside one of Cal’s large ovens at the bakery. My throat was parched and I couldn’t move, no matter how hard I tried. Spoiler: I didn’t try that hard as soon as I found out why I couldn’t move. I was in a sandwich. A big ol’ sweaty, musky, Daddy sandwich, Mitch glued to my front, his hairy chest tickling my nose, his nipples just there, right in front of me, ready to breakfast on. Cal was snoring in the spot between my shoulder blades, his moist, warm breath doing all sorts of weird shit to my chest. It felt like fucking heaven. Like it was the place I was always meant to be. I don’t know if it was remnants of yet another weird dream, but the words sweet boy played on repeat in my head as I watched Mitch slowly wake up.

If I’d expected the Daddies—yeah, sorry, can’t help myself—to be weird over breakfast, I was sorely mistaken. Cal went on and on about a local farmer’s market he wanted to visit, stacking up on delicacies before going home, while Mitch had already made plans for him and me to go fishing down by the stream. It felt good being included in his plans so easily. Too good.

I wake from my stupor when something tugs on my line, the pole coming alive between my fingers. Snicker.

“Pull ’im in!” Mitch shouts as he drops his own pole and comes up behind me, wrapping his arms around me and keeping me settled.

“Mitch?” I squeal.

“You’ve got this. Pull ’im in. Nice and steady.” He tightens his arms around my midsection, and I do as I’m told. I pull the motherfucker in. I notice the vibrant colors immediately as soon as the fish breaks through the surface of the water. It’s a rainbow trout, and it’s huge. Beautiful. My heart skips a beat, a giddiness growing in my chest.

“Look at him!” I yell. “Look at this guy, Mitch!”

“I know,” Mitch hums against my neck. “Now bring ’im in.”

And I do as I’m told. I bring him in. I bring several more in over the next couple of hours. Mitch does, too. Eventually we just grin at each other stupidly, our faces sun-kissed and sweaty, my heart the happiest it has been in ages. I soak it up. All of it. Mitch being all proud of me. I just gobble it up like one of those kids who aren’t allowed sugar and nearly O.D. on it at a birthday party.

As the sun gets too punishing and Cal shoots Mitch a text that lunch is ready, we start packing up. And I don’t know if it’s because my mind is miles away in happy-go-lucky land or if I’m just tired, but I somehow end up getting tangled up in my line. Before I know it, the hook gets caught in a battle with my right nipple piercing, and when I try to yank it away, it digs into my skin. My muffled whimper, followed by my ‘ motherfucking fuck truck, ’ has Mitch on his feet from where he was packing up his fishing gear on the ground in no time.

“What’s wrong? What happened?” he breathes right in front of me, his gaze searching my face, his eyes overflowing with worry. For me. I nearly forget myself and lean in to brush a kiss against his scruff, but then his eyes drop to my chest. “Oh shit, baby,” he blurts. “Hold still.” Baby. Baby. He carefully reaches out and trails the tip of his fingers along my skin, coming to a stop where the hook has penetrated it. “You’re bleeding,” he rasps, looking up into my eyes.

“I’m fine,” I whisper. He shakes his head. It’s barely noticeable. Then his gaze drops back down to my chest. Ever so carefully, he removes the hook from my pec as I hold my breath. It stings and I know the old Ty would’ve laid it on thick, squealing and whimpering for extra attention. But I realize I don’t need to act up for extra attention. Not with Mitch. I already have it. Undivided.

“You okay?” he grunts, his thick fingers struggling not to break the skin any further.

“Uh-huh,” I murmur, mesmerized. It feels like hours, the air between us heavy with Mitch’s musky scent and my… pheromones running wild. Finally, he gets the hook out, and a brief sting of regret courses through me. Then, the pad of his right thumb connects with my bruised skin, swiping at the tiny droplets of blood.

“You’re hurt,” he says, his voice all thick, as he inspects his thumb, a small nerve tick-tick-ticking away under his left eye.

“I’m okay,” I say, holding my breath. Slowly, he brings his thumb to his lips and before I can stop my jaw from dropping to the sandy ground, he sucks it into his mouth. His thumb. Not my jaw, obviously. That would be kind of weird. And strangely hot, too. A whine spills from my lips, intermingling with Mitch’s low hum, and I want nothing more than to jump into his arms, wrap my skinny-ass legs around his waist, and just bury my face in his neck. Climb him like a motherfucking redwood. Live there forever and ever with the squirrels until I forget my name and all my past trespasses.

Pulling his thumb from his mouth with a pop, Mitch’s cheeks flush first a bright pink before it spills over into a full-blown crimson red. His eyes are glazed over and there’s no mistaking the sentiment lingering in the two pools of blue. Lust. Pure, unfiltered lust. Mitch wants me. He wants me, wants me. Like a man wants another man. The same way that I want him. And as forbidden as it is and as wrong as it should feel, my stupid heart and my stupid dick are already plotting to take over my brain and my moral compass. I can feel it brewing inside me. I can—

“We better go,” Mitch croaks, his eyes looking to the ground. “Cal’s waiting for us,” he mumbles. Shit. “You okay?” he repeats softly.

“Yeah, I’m good,” I lie. I lie like my life fucking depends upon it because I’m so not okay. I’m confused. And flushed. And horny. “I’m fine,” I say, my shorts on fire by now and I can’t tell if it’s because of the lies I’m telling or from my dick thinking it’s a volcano.

“Cool,” Mitch nods, also lying through his teeth because nothing is cool. Because lusting after your ex-stepdad—your married ex-stepdad—who looks like he wants to throw you over his shoulder right now, is so not cool. It might be in those cheesy romance novels that you can pick up at the airport, but in real life, it’s just truly fucked up. I’m so screwed.