Daddy's Home Read online

  Table of Contents

  Copyright

  Want To Be In The Know?

  Cruz

  Reese

  BONUS STORY : Hold Me Tight

  HOLD ME TIGHT

  Daddy’s Home

  Landon Rockwell

  Contents

  Copyright

  Want To Be In The Know?

  1. Cruz

  2. Reese

  3. Cruz

  4. Reese

  5. Cruz

  6. Reese

  7. Cruz

  BONUS STORY : Hold Me Tight

  HOLD ME TIGHT

  Copyright © 2017 by Landon Rockwell

  All rights reserved.

  No part of this book may be reproduced in any form or by any electronic or mechanical means, including information storage and retrieval systems, without written permission from the author, except for the use of brief quotations in a book review.

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  Want To Be In The Know?

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  Cruz

  I want to fuck him.

  And that’s a problem.

  Gordon Davenport’s twenty-one year old son, Reese, is sitting at the bar, washing down a dark beer like there’s no tomorrow. I can tell it’s him because his travel bag is sitting on the floor beside him, and there’s hardly anyone else in this place.

  He’s barely old enough to buy alcohol and you could be his father.

  But I’m not his father. My client is, however. I need to keep reminding myself of that fact.

  For a moment, as I stand there watching him, I can’t think. My dick is already hard as a rock, and my stomach is tight as a drum.

  Shit. This was not the plan.

  I came here as a favor to my biggest (let’s face it, my only) client. Gordon Davenport was going out of town and asked me to pick up his son and keep an eye on him for the weekend.

  Apparently the kid is a real handful, but I didn’t realize just how much of a handful until I spotted him at this bar. Reese still hasn’t noticed me yet, so I keep watching him, trying to calm myself before I say hello.

  Another step closer, and I look down slightly as I decide to work my way up from his ass. Fuck, my dick swells even more. His tight black jeans with little fashionable tears here and there seize my attention, the faded denim hugging those ass muscles like they’re holding on for dear life. I swallow hard, clenching my thighs to keep my shit from getting too hard as I notice the white elastic band from his boxers clinging to his lower back. His teal-colored t-shirt is lifted just slightly on his back, as if to show the whole world the tan-skinned gateway towards his tight little hole.

  I imagine myself caressing his back, sliding my hand beneath his underwear, and slowly dipping my finger in that tight little hole of his.

  Fuck, my cock is at full throttle now, hard as stone.

  Snap out of it, Cruz. You’re not here for that. Reese Davenport is off limits.

  Reluctantly, I approach him. I grab the seat next to him. I look right at him, thankful that he hasn’t noticed me sitting right next to him yet. I need more time.

  Reese brings the cold beer up to his moist, pink lips and swallows. Everything in the room seems to come to a halt as I stare at the sinful work of art that is him -- wavy, blond hair, bronzed skin, and broad shoulders.

  His lips are perfect, full, and for a brief moment I wonder what it would feel like to bury my cock in his wet mouth.

  Reese seems to be heading towards his fourth drink given that there are three empty glasses staring right at him. Damn, three drinks in less than an hour after landing, no surprise there I guess.

  I look straight ahead, desperate to pull myself together and bring down the swelling in my cock. "You must be Gordon's Davenport's kid," I say, finally.

  He chuckles. "And you must be his assistant."

  “Hardly,” I say, trying not to let his wise-ass remark get the best of me. “Your father’s a business colleague of mine,” I tell him. “My name’s Cruz, by the way.”

  Reese just shrugs as if he could care less what or who I am.

  I hate that I find myself wanting to impress this young punk. He’s half in the bag, drinking like a fish, with that shitty entitled attitude that privileged rich kids all seem to have these days.

  “So, we should probably get out of here,” I say, moving as if to stand.

  Reese turns his head and locks eyes with me, and for a moment, I’m startled by how pure blue and beautiful his eyes are.

  Suddenly, the annoyance I felt seems less potent as his sky blues take utter hold of me. My pulse quickens.

  But then he smirks. “I’m not finished with my drink just yet.”

  “Yeah, well I think you’ve probably had enough to drink for a weekday afternoon.”

  He smirks. “Whatever you say, Dad.”

  The bartender drops another drink down in front of him, "Dirk’s Brown Ale, pinch of lemon," the bartender says. Gordon's kid throws down two twenties.

  "Keep the change," Reese says. I watch as the bartender smiles, picks up his monster tip and then walks away.

  The bartender comes back over and rolls up his sleeves. "What can I get you?" he asks me.

  "All good, I'm driving."

  Gordon's kid looks at me again, his eyes wary now. "How much is my father paying you for this?"

  “I’m not being paid a dime.”

  A bit of a white lie, since the only reason I’m doing this bullshit is to make sure I keep Davenport’s investment money coming in. If I lose it, my business (let’s face it, my life) will be in the toilet.

  “Well, you should’ve asked him for some money,” Reese chuckles. “My dad loves paying people to clean up his messes.”

  I can feel my jaw tighten as I look at him. He’s still drinking like a fish.

  "I'm beginning to see why Gordon was concerned about leaving you alone for the weekend."

  Reese looks my body up-and-down, and this time his glance isn't so quick. With pursed lips, he takes his sweet ass time with his gaze, starting at my feet and working his way slowly up my legs, across my torso, over my arms and chest, until he meets my eyes.

  And if there was ever any question about him being gay, there isn’t one now. I wonder if Gordon even knows this himself. Probably not, that old man is so fucking conservative he probably thinks it's scientifically impossible for him to produce a gay son.

  "I stopped listening to my father years ago,” he says, after a long moment. “I suggest you do the same.”

  "Thanks for the advice, but things aren’t that simple in the real world.”

  Reese sighs. As he begins to raise the beer glass to his lips yet again, I snatch it away from him. “You’re done. And we’re going.”

  He looks at me with barely concealed fury in his eyes. “That’s my fucking beer.”

  I take a quick sip of it and smack my lips. “It’s good, actually. But you’ve had more than enough and I have things to do at home.”

  “It’s fine, dude. I’ll get a hotel. Just go. Don’t worry, I’ll tell my dad you took real good care of me this weekend.”

  Something about the way he says this gets my dick hard all over again.

  “No, you’re coming with me. And that’s final.”

  He waves the bartender over again. "What's your best scotch?"

  The server doesn't hesitate as he points to one of the bottles behind the bar. "That’s easy. Johnny Walker Blue, hands down." The kid nods in approval, his drink delivered in seconds flat from the bartender.

  "Do you always make things this difficult?" I say, as if to no one in particular.

  He takes a massive sip from his scotch
and then slams the small glass down on the bar. "I'm just trying to relax after a long flight, that's all. I never asked for a bodyguard, and I don't give a fuck what my father arranged with you ahead of time. And the more time I spend with you, the more I'm beginning to think that I have two fathers."

  “Believe me,” I say, my frustration getting the better of me now, “if I was your Dad, you wouldn’t be sitting at this bar right now.”

  “Oh, no?”

  “No. I’d have you home and I’d be spanking the hell out of your impudent ass.” The words come out more aggressive than I intended, and I can feel my face flush.

  But Reese, for the first time, seems to like what I’ve said. “Oh? Is that right, Daddy? You’d like to spank me, wouldn’t you? I bet that’s your thing. You’re into some kinky stuff.”

  He’s still trying to get a fucking rise out of me.

  We lock eyes and this time I keep my gaze even and serious. “You wouldn’t be able to handle what I’m into, boy.”

  Reese suddenly turns a shade paler and he swallows hard. Then he breaks eye contact as the bartender comes over with his scotch.

  I reach into my wallet and pull out some cash and then throw a couple of tens down on the counter. "Come on, we're leaving before things go from bad to worse." This time I don't say it with any uncertainty, and he knows it. Even he can sense that I'm through being pushed.

  He throws back the rest of his drink. "Okay, Daddy. I won't act out too much, I wouldn't want you to ground me this weekend."

  The arrogance is back and he seems to have recovered his bravado.

  Reese stands up quickly from his barstool, grabs his small black suitcase from the floor, and goes to leave without saying another word to me. "Hey!" I yell to him. Reese stops dead in his tracks, alone and with his back to me in the middle of the bar.

  He slowly turns and faces me, and then takes a step backwards, stumbling a little. "Hey, what?" he slurs.

  It looks like the alcohol is catching up with him after all.

  "Where do you think you’re going?"

  "I'm going home, where do you think I'm going?" He turns and then staggers through the front door.

  I swallow my pride and follow after him. Maybe I am his daddy for the weekend. Or maybe I'm more like his parole officer. Either way, this is really getting ridiculous. I'm a grown man who until very recently was managing billions of square feet of premium commercial real estate in Boston. Have I really fallen so far that I'm literally chasing after some potential investor's son just so I can get a business loan?

  I guess so.

  “Come on, junior. You’re coming with me.”

  “Hey,” he says, but he’s not really fighting me as I grab him and pick him, and his suitcase, up like the light sack of feathers that he is. He's extraordinarily warm and perfect feeling in my arms as I carry him to my car. His chest is pushed up against my bicep, and I can feel his heart as it beats up against my flesh. I shake my head, getting hit by a wave of compassion for him, and suddenly feeling pissed off that he got to the point where he felt the need to get this drunk on his first night home.

  Damn, I really do sound like an old man right now.

  I stand him up as I open the back door, then I gently lay him on the soft leather seat in the back of my car.

  “This is...fucking bullshit,” he says, but his eyes are already starting to close as he curls up in my backseat.

  I look on the bright side… at least he didn't get away from me. It's not my fault he got so drunk that he passed out. Gordon can't put that on me. If anything, it's probably more Gordon's fault than anyone’s. He's probably a shitty dad like most rich business sharks tend to be. How can they be anything else? They're usually so busy making money that they never actually spend any real time with their own kids.

  I never made it to having kids, but that’s another story.

  We get back to my condo, and by the time we do, Reese Davenport is officially out cold. I carry him to the elevator and up to the third floor. We finally make it to my bedroom, and I find myself wanting to make sure that he gets really good sleep for some reason. Maybe he'll be less difficult in the morning if he's well rested. At least that's what I tell myself.

  I lay him down on my silky black sheets. Under normal circumstances, I would take his jeans off so that he can sleep more comfortably, but something tells me I shouldn't go there. I will say, he is fucking stunning. Stunning and stupid. His wallet and phone are sticking slightly out of his front pockets so I grab both of them and put them some place safe.

  I give him one last look. He's sound asleep, and I don't expect he'll be up for at least twelve hours.

  As I leave him in my room, I say a meaningless prayer to myself… please let this weekend goes smoothly.

  But as I put myself to bed, I have a very strong feeling that my prayer is going to go completely unanswered.

  I strip down to my boxers and plop myself down on my brown leather couch. I'll be the first to admit, I'm kind of a baby when it comes to sleep. I like shit comfortable at night, what can I say.

  I have trouble settling down, and it's not just the couch that's giving me a hard time. I feel like shit admitting this, but I was getting a little bit turned on when I was carrying him, and especially when I set him down onto my bed. If I wasn’t me, a relatively decent human being and all, I could've taken some serious advantage of him. I could have tugged those jeans off and done things to him, things he never would’ve even known about. Sick thoughts, I know. I guess Reese was right, I really can be a kinky fuck, at least in my head.

  That’s beside the point. I didn't do anything to him, that's not my style. Never was. Plus, like I said, I kind of feel bad for him. Flying all the way from California, and the first thing he does is get so shit-faced that he has to pass out.

  Welcome home kid.

  I turn off the pity party that I’m having for him in my mind and I let myself fantasize about that smug look on his face at the bar. Sitting there in that eighty-dollar T-shirt, his skin all tan and his body all tight and muscular. Yep, I'm going there. My cock goes from chubby to ultra hard in about four or five seconds. I wrap my fist around it and start to jerk. It doesn't take long. My balls tighten as I blow my load all over my stomach. I tell myself that was all I needed to get myself to sleep.

  But something about this whole situation isn't sitting right with me, and I manage to toss and turn for the next forty-five minutes trying to figure out what it is.

  I came to only one conclusion... this is going to be a really long weekend.

  Reese

  When I first wake up, I have no idea where the hell I am. The room is completely black apart from the small sliver of sun fighting to creep through the space between the room-darkening curtains and the window framing. The steady hum from the central AC filtering through the vent that’s right above my head blocks out any outside noise. I soon realize that I slept in my jeans and T-shirt, the same outfit I flew into Boston wearing. Then it hits me, the last thing I remember is leaving that bar to get away from that gorgeous (and pain in the ass) older dude my father sent to pick me up at the airport.

  Although calling him older can be misleading, even though he was. Built like a Navy seal, he had thick, perfectly styled black hair, eyes hot enough to kill, and hands that were big enough to cover my face with only a single one of his palms.

  Oh, and did I mention the gray little speckles in his five o'clock shadow? Huge turn-on for me, for whatever reason.

  I slide the curtain over and look out through the window of wherever I am to try and ascertain my location. Down below, in the streets, there are hundreds of college kids walking in various directions, and there are a billion stores and places to eat down there. It looks familiar, but a lot of places in Boston look like this so it's hard to pinpoint the actual section I'm in.

  I leave the room to make sense of where I am, and how I got here. I walk down a hallway, and into a small living room. The room is brightly lit from the su
n pouring through the large windows.

  I look down and see a man lying on a couch, looking extremely physically uncomfortable I should add.

  Crap, it’s him.

  It's all starting to come back to me. He's still sound asleep. The blanket he apparently had on is now on the floor, and he's lying there wearing only his white boxers, having no clue that I'm staring at him.

  Man, is this guy a major stud. What I could do with those muscles… I would climb all over that body of his, take my sweet time with every inch of his it. Considering that his boxers are snug fitting, it's no secret that he's well hung too. The damage that man could do to me.

  I'm getting thicker just thinking about it.

  The end of the night (or at least a piece of it) starts to come back to me... him hoisting me over his shoulder and bringing me here. He could've left me wherever I was. I remember passing out, I just don't know where the hell it happened.

  Idiot, I'm surprised I didn't pass out sooner. I wasn't psyched about coming back home to begin with, but I needed to. L.A. had run its course with me. Then, when I found out my father wasn't even going to be around this weekend, it sent me on a downward mental spiral. So I started drinking on the flight home. By the time this sexy, and controlling, boy scout showed up, I already had six or seven drinks in me. I'm not proud, believe me.

  I'm guessing he thinks I'm a lush, just some dumb rich fuck. Let him think that, no skin off my back.

  As the morning fog in my brain starts to lift more with each passing second, last night's picture gets clearer and clearer. I remember giving him a hard time at the bar, and also messing with him before that when he was texting me from the airport. I just don't like people treating me like I'm some spoiled idiot. I can't help that my father has a lot of money. In truth, I don’t take a dime of it.

  All this heavy thinking has my cock settling down, which is probably for the better. It probably wouldn't go over so well if I started prancing around this man’s place with a raging erection.