The summer sun streamed through the open windows of Peter's house, casting golden streaks across the hardwood floors. I'd been staying with him for a couple of weeks now, a 21-year-old college student eager to make some extra cash by helping him fix up the place before he sold it. Peter was a family friend, the kind of guy who'd always been around--dependable, steady, and at 52, still ridiculously fit. His broad shoulders and toned arms flexed effortlessly whenever he hauled lumber or climbed a ladder, and I'd caught myself staring more than once. He'd never married, which always struck me as odd for a guy like him--ruggedly handsome, with salt-and-pepper hair and a quiet confidence that made you feel both safe and on edge at the same time. I didn't know about the eight-inch secret he was packing until later, but God, did that knowledge change things.
That afternoon, I thought I had the house to myself. Peter had said he'd be out running errands, so I sprawled out on the guest bed, my gym shorts bunched around my thighs, and dialed my girlfriend. She was back at her place, a few states away, and we started off just catching up--small talk about her day, my progress on the house. But it didn't take long for her voice to drop into that husky tone I knew so well, the one that sent heat pooling in my gut. "What are you wearing?" she teased, and I grinned, glancing down at my bare chest and the thin fabric barely clinging to my hips.
"Not much," I said, my hand already sliding down my abs. "You?"
The conversation spiraled from there, her words painting vivid pictures in my mind--her soft curves, the way she'd arch her back when I touched her just right. I kicked my shorts off completely, letting them hit the floor, and lay back on the bed, one hand wrapped around myself as I listened to her breathy moans through the phone. The bedroom door was wide open, but I didn't care--Peter wasn't supposed to be back for hours, and I was too lost in the moment to think straight.
I didn't hear the front door creak open, or the soft tread of his boots on the stairs. My eyes were half-closed, my head tipped back as I stroked myself, my girlfriend's voice urging me on. "Fuck, babe, I wish you were here," I muttered, my hips bucking slightly into my grip. That's when I felt it--a shift in the air, a presence. My eyes snapped open, and there he was: Peter, leaning against the doorframe, his piercing blue eyes locked on me.
He didn't say a word. His hand was stuffed into the front of his jeans, moving slowly, deliberately, and the bulge there was impossible to miss. My heart slammed against my ribs, a jolt of shock--and something else--racing through me. I'd always been bi, drawn to women like my girlfriend with her killer body and sharp wit, but also to older guys like Peter. There was something about the way they carried themselves, all that experience etched into their skin, their quiet strength. And Peter? He'd been creeping into my thoughts more than I cared to admit since I'd moved in.
I should've stopped. Should've yanked the blanket over myself and stammered out an apology. But I didn't. His gaze burned into me, hungry and unapologetic, and it lit something reckless in my chest. I kept going, my hand moving faster, my breath hitching as I held his stare. My girlfriend's voice purred in my ear, oblivious to the audience I'd gained, and the thrill of it--of being watched by him--pushed me over the edge. I came hard, a low groan escaping my lips as ropes of white streaked across my abs, my muscles tensing and shuddering.
"Shit," I panted, still clutching the phone. My girlfriend laughed softly on the other end, satisfied with her work, and after a few more murmured words, we hung up. Peter was gone by the time I set the phone down, the doorway empty like he'd never been there. But I knew what I'd seen. What I'd felt.
