Blake Hart
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My Uncle Chris – Part 14
🕑 Added 2025-07-16 02:06:27 +0000 UTCHe was tight, perfect, his hole pink and so tight
[Commission Piece]
Everyone in this story is 18+ and fully consenting. There is also no blood relations between any characters as they are in-laws
-------------Chris’s POV------------
The restaurant was a quiet corner of London, tucked away from the tourist traps, with low lighting that made everything feel softer, more intimate. Candlelight flickered on the table, casting a warm glow over Grayson’s face, catching the sharp angles of his jaw and the hazel spark in his eyes. The place was all dark wood and crisp linens, the kind of spot where the wine list was thicker than a novel and the waiters moved like ghosts, silent and precise. We sat across from each other, our knees brushing under the table, a small rebellion against the world waiting for us back home.
Grayson looked fucking incredible tonight. His navy blazer hugged his broad shoulders, the open collar of his white shirt showing just enough of his chest—smooth, tanned, carved from years of hockey. At 18, he was all lean muscle, his body a testament to discipline and youth, with that messy dark hair I loved running my fingers through. But it was Grayson’s eyes that kept pulling me in, bright with excitement, alive with something that made my chest ache in ways I couldn’t quite name.
The waiter poured our wine, a deep red that smelled of berries and earth, and Grayson raised his glass with a grin. “To London,” he said, his voice warm, teasing. “And to us.”
I clinked my glass against his, my throat tight. “To London. And to you, kid.”
He laughed, that low, easy sound that always hit me like a shot of whiskey. “Kid? I’m a college man now, Uncle Chris. Keep up.”
“Old habits,” I said, smirking, but my eyes lingered on him, drinking in the way he leaned back in his chair, confident, like he owned the damn room. This trip had changed him—freed him, maybe. Or maybe it was just being here, away from the weight of family, expectations, secrets.
We ordered—some fancy steak for me, salmon for him, though I barely paid attention to the menu. The food was secondary to the way Grayson’s fingers brushed mine when he passed the bread, the way his knee pressed against my leg, a silent promise of later. We talked about the trip, our voices weaving through memories like they were something we could hold onto.
“Remember the Tower?” Grayson said, his eyes crinkling with a laugh. “You thought that guard was gonna spear me.”
“You were asking for it,” I shot back, leaning forward. “Sneaking around like a dumbass tourist. I was ready to bail you out of royal jail.”
He snorted, sipping his wine. “And the London Eye? You got all sappy up there.”
“Sappy?” I raised an eyebrow, but I couldn’t hide my smile. “You were the one clinging to me like a koala.”
“Clinging?” He leaned in, voice dropping low, playful. “I seem to recall you liking it. A lot.”
My laugh came out softer than I meant, and I felt that ache again, sharper this time. There was something I wanted to say, something big, heavy, sitting on my chest like a stone. I’d been carrying it all week, maybe longer. Words like I don’t want this to end or I’m falling for you kept circling my head, but every time I opened my mouth, they stuck in my throat. How do you say that to someone who’s just starting their life? Someone whose future is wide open while yours is tangled in a marriage, a job, a world that doesn’t bend for what you want?
Grayson’s phone buzzed on the table, breaking the moment. He glanced at it, his face lighting up as he read the screen. “It’s Mom,” he said, typing a quick reply before looking back at me, practically bouncing. “She’s asking if I want new hockey gear for college. Says I deserve an upgrade, and I should break in some new skates before summer’s over.”
I nodded, watching the way his whole body came alive. “You gonna need new sticks too? Those old ones were looking rough.”
“Probably,” he said, his grin wide, boyish. “I’m pumped for the rink. College hockey’s gonna be a whole new beast. And I got that summer job lined up—camp counselor at the sports program. Teaching kids to skate, running drills. It’s gonna be dope.”
He kept going, words spilling out about team tryouts, the dorm he’d picked, the engineering classes he was stoked for. His hands moved as he talked, animated, his eyes bright with the kind of fire only an 18-year-old with the world at his feet could have. I leaned back, sipping my wine, letting his voice wash over me. He was so alive, so ready to take on everything—college, hockey, new cities, new people. A whole life stretching out in front of him, full of firsts I’d already had.
And me? Soon 40, married, with a life I’d built on choices I couldn’t undo. Not yet. Maybe not ever. Watching him, I felt it hit me like a slap: he needed to do this on his own. College, freedom, all of it. He couldn’t be tethered to me, not when he was just starting to fly. I wanted him—fuck, I wanted him in every way—but he deserved to grow up, to figure out who he was without me holding him back. Maybe someday, when he’d lived a little more, when I’d sorted out the mess of my own life, we could find a way. But not now.
I didn’t say any of it. I just watched him, my chest tight, my smile soft. He was still talking, something about a road trip he wanted to take with his teammates, when the waiter brought our food. The plates were works of art—my steak seared to a perfect medium-rare, his salmon glistening with some fancy glaze. We dug in, and for a while, we just ate, the silence comfortable, the clink of cutlery and the low hum of the restaurant grounding us.
Grayson looked up, catching my eye, and his grin turned mischievous. “You’re quiet tonight. Saving your energy for later?”
I laughed, shaking my head. “You’re relentless.”
“Damn right,” he said, leaning forward, his voice dropping to a whisper. “I can’t wait to get back to the room. I wanna show just you how much this trip’s meant to me.”
My throat tightened again, but this time it wasn’t the unsaid words. It was him—his hunger, his honesty, the way he looked at me like I was the only thing that mattered. I reached across the table, brushing my fingers over his. “You know this trip was no strings attached, right?”
His eyes softened, but the grin stayed. “Of course. But I want to. I really want you.”
I squeezed his hand, my heart pounding. “You’re gonna kill me, kid.”
“Good,” he said, winking. “Means I’m doing something right.”
We finished dinner slowly, savoring every bite, every glance, every brush of his knee against mine. The city hummed outside, but in here, it was just us, stealing one last night before the plane took us back to reality. I didn’t say the big thing I wanted to say. I didn’t need to. Not tonight. Tonight, we were here, together, and that was enough.
◆◆◆
The walk back to the hotel was quiet, the London streets alive with the hum of late-night taxis and distant laughter, but it felt like we were in our own bubble. Grayson’s hand brushed mine as we walked, his fingers grazing my knuckles, a silent tether that kept my heart racing. The air was cool, carrying the faint scent of rain and city dust, but all I could focus on was him—his broad shoulders filling out that navy blazer, the way his dark hair caught the streetlights, the soft curve of his lips when he glanced at me. My chest ached with the weight of tomorrow, the plane ride back to the States, the life waiting to pull us apart. But tonight, we had this.
The Ritz’s golden glow greeted us as we stepped into the lobby, all marble and chandeliers, but we barely noticed, too caught up in each other. In the elevator, Grayson leaned against the mirrored wall, his hazel eyes locked on mine, a slow smile spreading across his face. “You’re staring,” he teased, his voice low, playful.
“Can’t help it,” I said, stepping closer, my hand finding his waist. “You’re too fucking beautiful.”
He laughed, soft and warm, and pulled me in, kissing me slow, his lips soft but firm, tasting of wine and the mint he’d swiped from the restaurant. The elevator dinged, and we broke apart, breathless, stumbling into the hallway like teenagers sneaking around. His hand stayed in mine, pulling me toward our suite, and the second the door clicked shut, the world outside ceased to exist.
I pushed him against the door, my mouth on his, kissing him deeper now, hungrier. His hands were in my hair, tugging gently, his body pressing against mine, all lean muscle and heat. I could feel his heart pounding through his shirt, matching the frantic beat of mine. My fingers fumbled with his blazer, shoving it off his shoulders, letting it hit the floor. His shirt followed, buttons popping as I yanked it open, revealing his chest—smooth, tanned, the hard planes of his pecs and abs flexing under my hands. I ran my palms over his skin, feeling the warmth, the slight sheen of sweat, the way his muscles shifted under my touch.
“Fuck, Chris,” he whispered, his voice thick, as he tore at my shirt, exposing my chest—broad, dusted with dark hair, still toned from years of discipline. His hands roamed, nails scraping lightly down my abs, making me hiss. “I’ve wanted you all night.”
“Same,” I said, my lips brushing his jaw, tasting the salt of his skin. “Always want you.”
We stumbled toward the bed, shedding clothes in a trail—jeans, belts, boxers—until we were bare, skin against skin, the air cool against our flushed bodies. The room was dim, lit only by the soft glow of a bedside lamp, casting shadows that danced across Grayson’s frame as he climbed onto the bed. His thighs were thick, sculpted from hockey, his dick heavy and hard, bobbing against his abs. I followed, my own body still strong, my dick thick and ready, aching for him.
He pulled me down, kissing me slow, his tongue tracing mine, a quiet intimacy that felt like a confession. I could taste the melancholy in it, the unspoken weight of tomorrow, but also the fire, the need that burned brighter than ever. My hands framed his face, thumbs brushing his cheekbones, and for a moment, we just looked at each other, eyes locked, hearts bare.
“I don’t want this to end,” I whispered, the words slipping out before I could stop them.
He didn’t answer with words. Instead, he kissed me again, harder, his hands sliding down my back, gripping my ass, pulling me closer. “Then make it count,” he said, his voice low, raw, a challenge and a plea.
I pushed him back, his head hitting the pillows, and climbed over him, kissing down his neck, his chest, my lips lingering on his nipples, sucking until he gasped, his hands fisting the sheets. I moved lower, tracing the ridges of his abs with my tongue, tasting the faint musk of his skin. His dick brushed my chin, and I took him in my mouth, slow at first, savoring the weight of him, the velvety skin, the way he twitched when my tongue swirled around the head. His fingers tangled in my hair, not pushing, just holding, like he needed to feel me there.
“Fuck, you’re too good at that,” he said, his voice breaking, a laugh in it despite the heat.
I pulled off, grinning up at him, my hand stroking him slowly. “Gotta give you something to remember about this trip.”
His eyes softened, but the hunger didn’t fade. “I will never forget this trip, now flip over,” he said, his voice firm now, taking charge.
I obeyed, rolling onto my back, letting him take the lead. He straddled my hips, his hands roaming my chest, fingers tracing the lines of my pecs, my abs, like he was memorizing me. He grabbed the lube from the nightstand, slicking his fingers, and I spread my thighs, giving him access. His fingers were gentle but sure, sliding inside me, stretching me with slow, deep thrusts. I gasped, my body arching, the burn mixing with pleasure as he worked me open, his eyes never leaving mine.
“You’re so fucking gorgeous like this,” he said, his voice soft but intense, his fingers curling just right, hitting that spot that made my vision blur.
“Grayson,” I whispered, my hands gripping his thighs, feeling the muscle flex. “Need you. Now.”
He didn’t make me wait. He slicked himself up, his dick glistening, and nudged against me, pushing in slow, the stretch intense but perfect. I gripped the sheets, my breath hitching as he filled me, inch by inch, until he was buried deep, his balls pressed against my ass. He paused, leaning down to kiss me, his lips soft, reverent, like he was saying something without words.
Then he started to move, slow at first, each thrust deep and measured, his hips rolling with a rhythm that made my whole body sing. I met him, pushing back, our bodies finding a perfect sync, the bed creaking softly under us. His hands braced on either side of my head, his eyes locked on mine, and I could see it—the love, the need, the quiet sadness of knowing this was our last night here.
“Fuck, you feel so good,” he said, his voice rough, his thrusts picking up, harder now, deeper. The slap of skin filled the room, mixing with our heavy breaths, the air thick with the scent of sweat and lube.
I grabbed his shoulders, pulling him down, kissing him messy, all teeth and tongue. “My turn,” I said, flipping us with a quick twist, pinning him beneath me. His laugh was bright, but also dark with want at the same time as I slicked my hard dick up, spreading his thighs.
He was tight, perfect, his hole pink and so tight as I pushed in, slow, watching his face—his lips parting, his eyes fluttering shut. I leaned down, kissing his neck, his jaw, feeling the way his body welcomed me, every inch of him gripping me like he never wanted to let go. I fucked him slow at first, savoring the heat, the pressure, the way his legs wrapped around my waist, pulling me deeper.
“Chris,” he gasped, his hands digging into my back, nails scraping. “Harder. Please.”
I gave it to him, my hips slamming against his, each thrust driving us both higher, the pleasure building like a storm. I stroked his dick, my hand rough and fast, matching my rhythm, feeling him tense beneath me. His body was a masterpiece—sweat-slick, muscles flexing, his dick leaking against his abs.
“I’m close,” he said, his voice breaking, his eyes locked on mine, full of something raw, unspoken.
“Me too,” I said, kissing him again, deep and desperate, like I could hold onto this moment forever.
We moved together, relentless, passionate, the world narrowing to just us—his body, mine, the way we fit, the way we loved. I felt him tense, his dick swelling in my hand, and he came with a low cry, thick ropes splattering his chest, his abs, his body arching beneath me. His hole clenched around me, and it pushed me over, my orgasm ripping through me, filling him with a warmth that felt like a promise, my hips jerking as I poured into him.
We collapsed, tangled in each other, panting, sweaty, the sheets a mess beneath us. I kissed him slow, my lips lingering on his, tasting the salt of his skin, the faint sweetness of his breath. His arms wrapped around me, holding me close, and for a long time, we just lay there, the city humming faintly outside, the weight of tomorrow pressing but not yet breaking us.
“You’re gonna be okay,” I whispered, my voice soft, almost lost in the quiet. I didn’t know if I was saying it to him or myself.
He smiled, his fingers brushing my cheek. “So are you.”
We stayed like that, wrapped in each other, the melancholy lingering but not winning. This wasn’t the end—not really. Just a pause. A moment to breathe before life pulled us in different directions. But tonight, we were here, and it was enough.
