Taming Tyler

Chapter Twenty-Three

Callum

W atching Mitch fuck Ty last night was mind-blowing. It’s one of those moments that if someone had told me a few months ago that I would let my husband fuck another guy in front of me, I would’ve laughed at them. Just like I never thought I would fuck anyone other than Mitch ever again. But Ty is not just a guy, he’s our precious boy. And witnessing the connection between the two of them last night was everything. It wasn’t just fucking. It was more than that. Shit, I’m not a poet, but it was like the sum of their shared past, their memories and all their longing came together. I saw it written across my husband’s face as his orgasm slowly left his sated limbs. I heard it in his voice as he whispered my name on repeat, tears glistening in his eyelashes. Cal. Cal. Cal. I love you, Cal. My Cal.

Then the little brat, of course, ruined—not really—the moment as he scrambled across the sheets and sucked my dick so far down his throat, I felt him choke around me. With drool spilling down his chin and neck, he looked up at me, his eyes wide and filled with adoration and bliss as he sucked my release out of me in no time. Turns out watching your hubby rail your bratty boyfriend is the best kind of foreplay.

Boyfriend . Huh. Strange how that term popped so easily and naturally into my head. Even though we haven’t put into words what we are to each other, I guess my heart sees Ty as our boyfriend. It feels right to call him that. I should tell him. We should tell him.

Only now he’s gone. Ty. Well, not gone , gone. It’s only been what… three hours and thirty-two, no wait, thirty-one minutes, but it feels like forever. He slept in like the little brat that he is, Bree moping around the kitchen, sighing—yes, our dog can sigh—waiting for him while ignoring Mitch and me. Then, as soon as I took the banana pumpkin muffins out of the oven, he waltzed right in, the broadest of all smiles on his lips, dark curls all over the place as he was trying to fix his headband. It was green. Spruce, actually, to match the flannel of mine he was wearing. It was huge on him, going all the way down to his knees, his tattoos peeking out, his feet disappearing into a pair of Mitch’s woolen socks. That did something to me. The image of our boy wearing our clothes, a glow to his skin, telling a tale of being happy and well-fucked. Ty, of course, had no idea what he was doing to me, his eyelids pink and puffy as he blinked at me like I was his favorite treat.

‘Morning Daddies,’ he giggled, breezing past me, his fingers ghosting along my ass, pinching it innocently. His voice carried a low rasp from last night, and he winced slightly as he jumped into Mitch’s lap. ‘Something smells yummy,’ he licked his lips exaggeratedly, before pressing sloppy kisses all over Mitch’s beard and face. Mitch was, of course, all over him, fussing over him, asking if he was sore, if he was okay, if he was sure he shouldn’t stay in bed.

‘Jeez, Mitchy.’ Ty tapped his index finger against Mitch’s nose. ‘You’re so silly, Daddy,’ he chuckled. ‘I’m only a little sore. The good kind. The I’ve-had-my-little-boy-hole-wrecked-by-a-midsize-anaconda kind.’ That’s when I dropped the tray of pastry on the floor and Bree made her move. She managed to scarf down two muffins before one ear-piercing whistle from Ty brought her right in, by his side, where she started devouring Mitch’s socks instead. The ones on Ty’s feet. Yeah. Good times.

“Hasn’t he been gone long?” Mitch grunts from the couch, interrupting my thoughts. “I mean… he was just going to the park, right?” He twists his phone in his hands, looking at it longingly like he could will it to ping with a text from Ty that he’s on his way home or just stumbled upon a crop top shop on the way. “He was just gonna draw for a while, right? What if some—” I shut my man up with a hard kiss against his lips while I steal the phone from his hands.

“He’s fine. He’ll be fine,” I murmur against his lips, hoping that my words will settle the unrest currently inhabiting my own body. “You just miss him.” I brush my fingers through his salt and pepper hair, tugging at the strands curling at his neck. “Hell, I miss him too,” I admit as I lean over and place Mitch’s phone on the coffee table before sitting back next to him again. “I miss him like crazy,” I laugh. Linking my fingers through my husband’s, I lean in against him, resting my head against his shoulder. “How the fuck did this happen, babe? How the fuck did we become so… I don’t know.”

“Old? Boring? Whipped?” Mitch offers, a frustrated grunt to his voice.

“No,” I laugh. “So… happy .” I turn the word around in my head, then adjust it because we were always happy. “Happier,” I murmur.

“Yeah,” Mitch nods, a deep exhale leaving his chest. “I know. It’s like…” he trails off, deep in thought.

“Like the ghost is gone,” I say. That’s it. The ghost is gone. The ghost of the boy who was lost. Who finally found his way back home. That’s it. That haunted-ness that would occasionally appear in my husband’s eyes when he thought I wasn’t watching. It’s gone now. Ty has come back to him, to us , and the ghost went away.

“Yeah,” Mitch whispers as his chin wobbles. “Yes,” he croaks, digging his teeth into his bottom lip. “I don’t feel it anymore, Cal,” he turns and blinks at me, tears slipping from his eyes. “It’s truly gone,” he sighs, a huge tremor leaving his body. “I think it finally left last night when I showed him the box. When I finally showed him how he never, not once, not even for one single moment, left my thoughts. He was always there, you know? He was always right there, Cal,” he cries, tapping his chest, right above his heart.

“I know, babe. I know.” There’s nothing else to say. I know. I’ve always known. Tilting my head, I press a kiss against Mitch’s chin, feeling his beard tickle my lips as I breathe him in. “Maybe we should tell him.”

“About the ghost?” Mitch blurts, looking at me, horrified. “We can’t tell him that, Cal. He’ll run away screaming all the way to Venice Beach. Oh shit, the Muscle Daddies at Muscle Beach are gonna have a field day. They’ll be all over hi—”

“No, you silly man,” I laugh. “Not that.” I shake my head. Mitch looks relieved, settling back into the couch. “We should tell him we miss him when he’s not here. How we want him to be with us all the time. That we…”

“That we love him, right, Cal?” Mitch finishes my sentence. “We love him, right Cal?”

“We do,” I nod. “We love him.” The smile that breaks free across my husband’s face is the most beautiful I’ve ever seen. It mirrors the happiness currently bubbling inside my own chest. It’s the kind of smile that makes you melt. That makes you laugh with abandon because it’s just fucking spectacular. And I do. I laugh our newfound truth into Mitch’s mouth. “We love Ty, babe. We love him so much!” Then I stumble from the couch, grabbing Mitch’s phone from the table and pulling up his texts. To hell with pride and fuck being needy and possessive. I’ll fight every last Muscle Daddy, if I have to. With eager fingers, I tap out the words that have been burning inside me since the very minute Ty walked out the front door. I even put it in fucking bold for good measure.

When are you coming home, baby boy? Your daddies miss you!

When Ty finally blows in the door, he is, in fact, wearing a new crop top, but aside from that he looks unharmed, no Venice Beach Muscle Daddy in sight. He skips toward us, a wicked smile on his lips, and at that moment I know I was right to text him. Sure, we’ll probably never hear the end of it—of our boundless neediness—but at least the text was sent from my husband’s phone. So he’s needier than me, right?

“Hi Daddies,” the little fucker smirks, swinging a plastic bag between his fingertips. When he reaches us, he throws the bag in Mitch’s lap before removing his backpack and throwing it on the floor. Then he plumps down, wiggling his butt in between us, the already ridiculously short shorts riding high, revealing a bandage on his thigh. What the hell? Motherfucking Muscle Daddies, I’m going to kill them all.

“What’s wrong, Daddy?” he squints at me, pursing his lips. “Why are you growling like an angry grizzly, Cal-Bear?” He blinks, all innocent, while my gaze shifts between the bandage and his golden eyes.

“What’s that?” Mitch says hesitantly, his voice low, pointing at the bandage. Ty’s eyes dip to his thigh like he’s only just now noticing that his thigh is wrapped.

“Oh, this ol’ thang?” he drawls nonchalantly. “Just a new tattoo,” he says, trying for an indifferent tone, but I notice the pent-up excitement seeping through. He’s bursting with something, that’s for sure. “So you missed me, huh?” he changes the subject, his voice sugary sweet with a hint of vulnerability.

Mitch grunts something inaudible as he wraps his arm around Ty’s slim shoulders, pulling him flush against his side.

“What was that, Daddy? I didn’t hear you?” Ty smirks, burrowing closer against Mitch’s side. Mitch groans, his gaze searching mine. I just shrug at him, as I mouth, tell him. Mitch coughs, then says, “We uhm… we missed you, Ty.” For a moment the words hang in the air between us, their meaning sinking in. Ty sniffs against Mitch’s chest, then he purrs, “ Reallyyy ? You missed me?” He then sits up slightly, turning toward me. “You too, Cal-Bear? You missed me too?” And before I can reply, Hubby Dearest throws me under the bus as he tattles on my ass like we’re in goddamn kindergarten.

“Cal’s the one who stole my phone and texted you!”

“Really?” Ty blinks. Then he tsk-tsks , smiling at me. “Jeez, Cal-Bear. That’s so cute. You missed me, you old grizzly.” Mitch laughs, his deep baritone filling the room.

“I’m not old,” I mumble like a petulant child. “I’m younger than Mitch,” I pout, real kindergarten style, too.

“Awww, that’s so sweet,” Ty coos. “You guys…” he shakes his head. “I missed you too, Daddies,” he laughs, his chest vibrating. “So much!” He pats our thighs. “If you get off your senior citizen asses, I’ll show you exactly how much.” Then he leaps from the couch, running toward the bedroom. “Bring the bag, Mitchy,” he throws over his shoulder. “We’ll need it after!”

“After what?” I call out, my mind registering the wording on the back of Ty’s new crop top as he disappears down the hallway. I May Be Cute, But Don’t F****** Touch Me If You’re Not My Daddy.

“Fuuuck,” Mitch groans, shifting next to me and rubbing his hand across his massive hard-on. “Did you see that?” I just nod because all words other than ‘ If you’re not my Daddy ’ have apparently left my vocabulary. Those words are on repeat in my head until I fly from the couch at the same time as Mitch, who blurts, “We’re the Daddies!” Yes, we are. We are the Daddies. Go eat your heart out, Muscle Daddies of Venice Beach.