Chapter 4: Noah chokes on his wine when Richard's foot rubs against his hardening cock under the table, his body still loose and sore from their earlier session. 'You okay, babe?' Emily asks, unaware of how her father's fingers had roughly stretched Noah open just hours before over this very dining table.
The air in the dining room hung heavy with the scent of rosemary crusted lamb and impending confession. Firelight danced across the polished table, catching the rim of Richard’s wine glass as he raised it, his eyes not on his daughter, but on Noah. Emily, blissfully unaware, spear a roasted potato, her laughter light.
“So apparently Mark got the ring hidden in a fortune cookie,” she said, grinning. “Can you imagine? Liam almost choked on it.”
Noah shifted in his chair. The drying smear on his inner thighs, Richard’s claim from their late afternoon encounter in the study, had grown tacky, a constant, whispering secret against his skin. He felt exposed under the domestic glow. He took a too-large gulp of water.
“Sounds unhygienic,” Richard remarked, his voice a low, amused rumble. His foot, under the table, found Noah’s calf, then slid higher with deliberate, searching pressure.
“Oh, it’s romantic!” Emily insisted. “It’s the thought that counts. Makes you think, doesn’t it?” She reached over, her fingers warm and gentle, brushing a crumb from the corner of Noah’s mouth. The innocent touch, so full of her love, made his stomach clench. He felt the sticky pull of his own underwear.
As Emily spoke about venues and spring weddings, Richard’s foot pressed insistently against the growing bulge in Noah’s trousers. A firm, rubbing pressure through the fabric. Noah’s cock hardened achingly fast, a traitorous response that filled him with shame. He dropped his fork with a clatter.
“You alright, sweetheart?” Emily asked, her green eyes soft with concern.
“Fine,” Noah managed, his voice tight. “Just… slippery fingers.”
Richard smiled, a slow, knowing curl of his lips. He leaned towards Emily, his movement causing his foot to grind more firmly. “It does make you think,” he echoed, his gaze locking with Noah’s. “About family. Permanence.” He reached out and gently tucked a stray lock of Emily’s golden hair behind her ear, a paternal gesture that felt, to Noah, like a brand. “Becoming real family. I suppose I should get used to the idea of having a son-in-law.”
The word son hung in the air, fat with dual meaning. Noah’s asshole twitched violently, a sudden, shocking spasm deep inside him, as if physically acknowledging its true owner. Emily beamed, mistaking the complex tension for happy emotion.
“See?” she said to Noah, squeezing his hand. “He’s coming around.”
After the meal, Noah insisted Emily go relax. “You cooked, it’s only fair,” he said, kissing her forehead, tasting the ghost of Richard’s expensive wine on her lips. She protested mildly but acquiesced, padding into the living room. The sudden, jarring blast of a reality show’s theme song filled the house, a chorus of vapid cheers and synthetic drama.
Alone in the kitchen, Noah plunged his hands into the hot, soapy water. The mundane task was a lifeline. He focused on the gleam of a plate, the swirl of suds. He could not think about the text from Jake, still unanswered on his phone. He could not think about the persistent, dull ache between his legs.
He didn’t hear Richard approach. He only felt him—the solid, immovable presence at his back, the arms sliding around his waist, pulling him tight. The hard ridge of Richard’s erection pressed insistently against the cleft of his ass, even through their layers of clothing.
“She’s happy,” Richard whispered into the nape of Noah’s neck, his breath hot. His hands splayed possessively over Noah’s lower stomach, pulling their bodies flush. “You’ve done well. You’ve proven yourself to me, completely.”
Noah kept scrubbing a pot, his muscles rigid. The water was scalding.
“You could propose tomorrow,” Richard continued, his voice a dark, soothing murmur. One hand drifted down, fingers deftly undoing the button and zipper of Noah’s jeans. “You have my blessing. My full and complete support.” He yanked both jeans and underwear down just past the curve of Noah’s ass, baring him to the cool kitchen air. “You could even start calling me ‘Father’ now. Get used to it.”
He positioned himself. Noah’s body, still loose and wet from the earlier load, offered little resistance. The thick head of Richard’s cock pushed against his entrance and slid in with a sick, familiar ease. Noah grunted, his forehead dropping towards the sink, his wet hands gripping the stainless-steel edge.
Richard sheathed himself fully with one slow, deep thrust, then stilled, buried to the hilt. He resumed his whispering, grinding his hips in tiny, circular motions that stretched Noah open around him. “Think of the things we could do. Father and son. Fishing trips. Business talks. Private lessons.”
Noah clenched his jaw, focusing on the dish in his hands. Scour. Rinse. Set on rack. Repeat. It was a mantra. If he broke rhythm, if he allowed himself to feel the slow, claiming drag of Richard’s cock inside him, he would shatter. He would become a moaning, pleading mess right there at the sink.
Richard pulled out slowly, until just the tip remained, teasing the loosened rim. Then he pushed back in, a little harder. “I’d teach you everything,” he breathed. “How to manage money. How to handle a wife. How to take what you’re given.”
With deliberate pressure, Richard began to guide Noah backward, away from the sink. Noah stumbled slightly, his pants around his thighs, Richard’s cock still lodged inside him, holding them together. They moved like a grotesque, four-legged creature across the tile floor, back into the shadowy dining room.
Richard sat heavily in his carved chair at the head of the table. He pulled Noah down onto his lap, impaling him fully from this new angle. Noah gasped, his wet, soapy hands scrambling for purchase on the smooth wood of the tabletop. Richard’s hands clamped back on his hips.
“There,” Richard said, his voice tight with strain. “Now you’re really part of the family.”
He began to fuck upward, sharp, driving lifts of his hips that forced Noah to brace himself. Noah leaned forward, gripping the table’s edge, presenting his offered ass to the relentless thrusts. The dining room, so recently a place of pretended normalcy, now echoed with the soft, wet sounds of their joining and the creak of the wooden chair.
“This is your place,” Richard grunted, his pace increasing, becoming jagged and urgent. “Right here. Between my daughter and my cock. Isn’t it?”
Noah couldn’t speak. He could only hold on, his body rocked by the pounding, a dishrag still clutched in one slippery fist.
Richard’s final thrusts were harsh and bottoming out. He locked Noah against him, a low, guttural sound escaping his throat as he pulsed deep inside, filling Noah with a fresh, hot rush. He held them there for a long moment, both of them breathing raggedly in the dark room, the raucous soundtrack of the television providing cynical cover.
Then, as casually as he had arrived, Richard eased Noah off him. He tucked himself away, straightened his trousers, and patted Noah’s flank. “Don’t forget behind the plates,” he said, his voice now normal, almost dismissive.
He walked into the living room. Noah heard the creak of the other leather chair, Richard’s jovial, “What are we watching, sweetheart?” and Emily’s happy, muffled reply.
Noah stood alone in the dark dining room, Richard’s release already beginning a warm, treacherous slide down his inner thigh. He pulled up his pants, the wet spot on the back of his underwear a cold confession. He returned to the kitchen, to the cooling, greasy water, and began to wash the dishes all over again.
He returned to the kitchen, to the cooling, greasy water, and began to wash the dishes all over again. His hands moved mechanically, scrubbing clean what was already spotless, as if he could scour the feeling of Richard from his skin. The house settled into a tense quiet, broken only by the television’s murmur and the ticking of the grandfather clock, each second a hammer fall on his nerves.
Days passed in a blurred cycle of whispered nights and performative days. He proposed to Emily on Thursday morning over coffee, his voice cracking with a sincerity she mistook for sweet nervousness. She cried, said yes, and Richard clapped him on the shoulder, his grip a possessive vise. “Welcome to the family, son,” he’d said, the word now a cold stone in Noah’s gut.
The following Saturday, the doorbell rang just past noon. Noah, alone for a moment in the foyer, opened it to find Jake standing on the step, his delivery uniform swapped for tight jeans and a faded tee. His sun-bleached hair was messy, his smile wide and uncomplicated.
“Hey, you,” Jake said, his voice a bright contrast to the house’s heavy silence. “You didn’t text back. I was starting to think you forgot me.” His eyes traveled over Noah’s cashmere sweater and tailored trousers. “Fuck, you look beautiful. Seriously. Those clothes are doing things for you.”
Noah flushed, a hot wave of panic cresting in his chest. He glanced quickly over his shoulder into the shadowy hall. “Jake. You can’t just—"
“Come on,” Jake said, his smile undimmed. He stepped past Noah, his movement easy and confident, and headed straight for the garden door as if he owned the place. “Let’s talk outside. Sun’s out.”
Noah followed, helpless, his heart thudding. The wisteria bench stood as a damning monument. Jake didn’t sit. He turned, his expression softening into something resembling earnest hunger.
“I can’t stop thinking about it,” Jake said, blunt as a hammer. “Your ass. How it felt. I have wet dreams about it almost every night, Noah. Waking up sticky and hard, wishing I was back here.”
“Jake, listen,” Noah stammered, holding up his hands as if to ward him off. “What happened… that was a mistake. I’m engaged. I’m in a committed relationship. It can’t happen again.”
“I know you’re engaged,” Jake said, nodding agreeably. He took a step closer, his eyes never leaving Noah’s. He didn’t look angry or rejected; he looked expectant, like Noah was simply stating a minor, irrelevant detail. “I’m not asking you to leave her. See?” He closed the final distance and took Noah’s limp hand in his.
Before Noah could pull away, Jake guided his palm firmly against the hard, thick line of his erection straining against his jeans. The heat was immediate, the size undeniable. “Feel that?” Jake whispered, holding Noah’s hand there, applying pressure. “That’s what just the sight of you does to me. Every time. You’re all I think about.”
Noah was flustered, trapped by the casual physicality of it. This wasn’t Richard’s calculated domination; this was a raw, youthful need that was just as overwhelming. He tried to form a sentence, a refusal, but his mind was blank static.
“We can just be friends,” Jake suggested brightly, as if offering a simple solution. He finally released Noah’s hand, but his gaze was challenging. “Friends hang out. Nobody has to know what we talk about. Or do.”
Noah looked at Jake’s hopeful, predatory face, at the house that contained his fiancée and the man who owned him. Saying no felt impossible. It felt like creating a scene, a problem. Agreement was the path of least resistance, the quietest option. “Friends,” Noah echoed, the word hollow.
“Great!” Jake beamed. He slung a casual arm around Noah’s shoulders, his body warm and solid. “Let’s go inside then. I wanna meet your famous fiancée. And your dad.”
“He’s not my—" Noah began, but Jake was already steering him back through the French doors.
Emily was in the living room, curled with a law book. Richard sat opposite, reading the financial times. They both looked up as the two young men entered.
“Em, Richard,” Noah said, his voice tight. “This is Jake. We, uh, we met the other day. In the garden.”
Jake extended his hand to Emily, his smile charming and wide. “A real pleasure,” he said. “Noah’s told me so much about you. You’re even prettier than he said.”
Emily laughed, taking his hand. “He’s sweet, isn’t he?” she said, glancing fondly at Noah. “A delivery guy with manners. I’m impressed.”
“Jake,” Richard said, lowering his paper. His blue eyes were shards of ice, assessing, missing nothing. He didn’t offer his hand.
“Sir,” Jake said, turning the charm on him, utterly unfazed. “Beautiful home you have. Really… solid.” His eyes flickered to Noah for a fraction of a second. “Can feel the history.”
“Can you,” Richard stated. It wasn’t a question.
Jake just smiled and took a seat on the sofa, right next to Emily, as if he’d been invited for years. He launched into a story about his truck breaking down, his gestures animated. Emily laughed again. Noah stood by the fireplace, a statue of anxiety.
Richard watched Jake, then his gaze shifted to Noah. He saw the panic, the trapped-animal look in his eyes. A slow, almost imperceptible smile touched Richard’s lips. He understood the game instantly, saw a new piece on the board.
“So, Jake,” Richard said, folding his paper. “You and Noah becoming quite the friends.”
“Hope so, sir,” Jake said, leaning back, his arm stretching along the sofa back behind Emily. “He’s a special guy. Seems like he could use more people looking out for him.”