40 Is the New 30 – Part 4 (Patreon)

Everyone in this story is 18+

-------------Chris’ POV------------

The bedroom in Nate’s brownstone is dim with late-afternoon light filtering through half-drawn blinds, casting gold stripes across the rumpled sheets. We’re both still dressed from dinner—my shirt unbuttoned to the navel, his slacks undone at the fly—but the second the front door clicked shut behind us, the urgency hit like a body check.

Nate’s already on his knees between my spread thighs at the edge of the mattress, hands braced on my hips, fingers digging into the muscle there. My shaft stands rigid against my stomach, thick and flushed, the cut head glossy from the precum he’s already smeared with his thumb. He looks up at me once—eyes dark, mouth curved in that same half-smirk he wore twenty years ago—then leans in.

His lips part around the broad head first, tongue licking against the sensitive underside as he takes the head fully into the wet heat of his mouth. The suction is immediate and perfect, cheeks hollowing while he swirls slow circles around the ridge. I feel every millimeter disappear—his tongue pressing the thick vein along the bottom, lips stretching wide to accommodate the girth as he sinks lower, inch by inch, until the head nudges the back of his throat and he relaxes to let it slide deeper still.

Spit pools at the corners of his mouth, drips down the shaft in slow trails. He pulls back just enough to breathe, then dives again, taking me almost to the root this time, nose brushing the trimmed hair at my base. The throat flutters around the length, muscles working in rhythmic swallows that send jolts straight up my spine. One hand cups my balls, rolling them gently, thumb stroking the sensitive skin behind while the other wraps the base he can’t fit, stroking in perfect sync with his bobbing head.

I thread fingers through his hair—not forcing, just holding on—feeling the soft strands slip between my knuckles every time he rises and falls. My thighs tense, toes curling into the carpet, hips lifting off the mattress in tiny, helpless rocks. The wet sounds fill the room—slick glides, soft pops when he pulls off to breathe, the low hum he makes around me that vibrates straight through my core.

“Fuck, Nate,” I rasp, voice wrecked. “You always knew exactly how to wreck me.”

He pulls off slow, lips dragging along the full length until only the head remains between them. A thick string of spit connects us for a heartbeat before it snaps. He grins up at me, chin shiny, hand still pumping steady. “Twenty years practice. Figured I’d make it count.”

He dives back down, faster now, head bobbing with purpose—deep, wet pulls that make my vision tunnel at the edges. The suction tightens, tongue flicking the slit on every upstroke, lapping up the steady leak until I’m leaking more, the taste of me clearly on his tongue when he hums approval.

He finally pulls off, lips swollen, a final bead of me clinging to the corner of his mouth. He licks it away, then climbs up my body, kissing me deep so I taste myself on his tongue—salty, sharp, intimate.

“Welcome to Saturday night,” he whispers against my lips, voice rough from use.

I laugh breathlessly, pulling him down beside me. “You’re gonna kill me before dessert.”

Good thing we’ve got all night after dinner,” he says, voice low and rough, thumb circling the head just enough to make my hips twitch. “Hope you’re ready for round two once we’re done eating.”

Nate pulls off slow, lips dragging the full length of my shaft until the head pops free with a wet sound. A thick string of saliva stretches between his swollen mouth and the glistening head, then snaps. He licks his lips, tasting me there, then climbs up my body until he’s straddling my hips, knees planted on either side of my ribs. His own erection brushes against my stomach—enough to show the flushed head leaking a steady bead that smears across my skin.

He leans down, kissing me deep, letting me taste the salt and musk of myself on his tongue. Our cocks slide together between us, trapped and rubbing in slow, slippery drags that make my thighs tense and my breath catch. His hands roam my chest, thumbs circling my nipples until they stand hard and aching, then slide down to grip my hips, holding me in place while he grinds harder.

“Been thinking about this since the reunion,” he says against my mouth, voice low and rough. “You inside me again. All of you.”

I flip us in one quick move—Nate lands on his back with a surprised huff of air, legs falling open, eyes dark and hungry. I reach for the nightstand drawer, grab the lube, and pour a generous line straight down his crack, watching it run in a slow, clear trail over the tight ring and between his heavy and full balls. He lifts his hips instinctively, thighs spreading wider, knees bending toward his chest.

I slick my fingers first, rubbing the lube warm between them, then circle his hole—slow, teasing strokes that make the muscle tense and soften. One finger slips inside easy, the heat gripping tight around the knuckle. I add a second, twisting slow, feeling the ass yield and clench, then a third, opening gently until he’s pushing back onto my hand, breath coming in short, needy bursts.

“Enough,” he rasps, grabbing my wrist to pull my fingers free. “Want you now. All of it.”

I pour more lube over my shaft—thick, long, veins standing out, the head flushed dark—and stroke myself once, twice, coating every inch until it gleams. I kneel between his thighs, one hand bracing on the mattress beside his head, the other guiding myself to his opening. The head nudges the tight rim, pressing firm until the muscle parts with a slow, delicious give. I sink slowly in one steady glide—feeling every ridge and vein disappear into the velvet grip, the stretch making him arch, head tipping back against the pillow.

When my hips finally meet his ass, the heat is overwhelming, ass walls clamping down in rhythmic pulses that make my vision blur at the edges. I stay buried deep for a moment, letting him adjust, letting myself feel every throb, every flutter around the full length.

Then I start to move. Long, deep rolls at first—pulling out almost to the head, then driving back in slow, letting him feel every inch drag along the inner walls. His hands clutch my back, nails digging into skin, legs hooking around my waist to pull me deeper. The bed creaks under us, headboard tapping the wall in steady rhythm. Sweat beads on his chest, runs in rivulets down his sides; I lean down to lick a stripe up his throat, tasting salt and the faint trace of his cologne.

I speed up—hips snapping harder, the wet slap of skin on skin filling the room. Each thrust punches a sharp breath out of him, his thick shaft trapped between our stomachs, leaking steadily across his abs. I shift angle, driving deeper, aiming for that swollen spot inside until his whole body locks up, thighs trembling, hole gripping me like a fist.

“Fuck—right there,” he grits out, voice shredded. “Don’t stop.”

I don’t. I pound that spot relentlessly, feeling him clench tighter with every hit, his cock jumping and leaking more, balls drawing up tight against my body. My own release is building—pressure building low in my gut, thighs starting to shake—but I hold it back, wanting to drag this out, wanting to feel him fall apart first.

Nate’s hands slide down to my ass, pulling me in harder, urging me deeper. His eyes lock on mine, pupils blown wide.

“Chris…” His voice cracks, raw. “I want to fuck you. Let me inside you. Please.”

The words hit like a slapshot to the chest.

I slow my thrusts, buried balls deep, chest heaving against his.

I look down at him—flushed, wrecked, beautiful—and feel something shift inside me.

“Yeah,” I say, voice low and rough. “Yeah, you can have me.”

Nate’s mouth is still shiny from me when he rolls us again, pinning me beneath him with that easy strength he’s always had. My legs fall open instinctively, knees bending, feet planted on the mattress. He kisses down my chest—teeth grazing a nipple, tongue dipping into my navel—then settles between my thighs, his thick shaft brushing the inside of my leg, leaving a wet trail.

I reach down first, wrapping my hand around him. The weight is familiar and new at once—heavy, veined, the foreskin gliding back easily under my thumb to reveal the flushed head. I stroke slow, feeling him thicken further in my grip, then guide him toward my mouth.

His knees sink deeper into the bed as I take the head between my lips, tongue swirling the ridge before sliding down the shaft. I work him in long, wet pulls—lips stretched wide, throat relaxing to take more—until my nose presses into the dark-blond hair at his base. He exhales sharp, one hand bracing on the headboard, the other threading through my hair without pulling, just holding on. Saliva drips down his length, coats my chin; I hollow my cheeks, tongue pressing flat along the underside, feeling every throb against the roof of my mouth.

“Fuck, Chris,” he rasps, hips rocking shallow. “Missed this mouth.”

I pull off slow, lips dragging the full length, then lick a stripe from balls to tip, tasting the salty leak at the slit. He’s rock-hard now, curved slightly upward, veins standing out like cords. I suck him deeper one more time—deep enough my throat flutters—before releasing him with a wet pop and looking up.

“Your turn,” I say, voice rough. “Want you inside me.”

He grabs the lube again, pours it cold over my hole, then rubs it in with two fingers—slow circles that turn into deep pushes, scissoring, curling until I’m arching off the bed, pushing back onto his hand. Three fingers now, stretching me open, the burn sweet and insistent. When he pulls them free I feel empty, needy, the hole fluttering around nothing.

He lubes himself thoroughly—hand gliding root to tip until his shaft shines—then lines up, the blunt head nudging my own tightness. He presses steady, the muscle parting slow, the stretch blooming wide as he sinks in inch by inch. The fullness is overwhelming—feeling his hardness dragging along my walls until his hips meet my ass and he’s buried inside.

We both exhale at the same time. He stays still a moment, letting me adjust, letting me feel him throb deep inside. Then he starts moving—long, rolling thrusts at first, pulling out almost to the head before sliding back in deep. The angle hits that spot inside with every pass; my back arches, thighs trembling, hands clutching his shoulders.

He speeds up—hips snapping harder, the bed creaking, skin slapping skin. Sweat slicks our chests, runs down his back under my nails. He leans down, mouth on my throat, teeth scraping, then kisses me messy and deep, tongues sliding while he drives in relentless.

I feel him swell thicker, thrusts turning erratic, breaths ragged against my ear. “Close,” he grits out. “Fuck—Chris—”

He slams in one last time, hips stuttering, as his cock delivers an impressive amount of cum deep inside me, the heat spreading inside as he grinds through it, milking every spasm. His weight drops onto me, chest heaving, forehead pressed to mine.

He stays buried a minute, softening slowly, then pulls out careful, the rush of warmth leaking down my crack making us both laugh breathlessly. He kisses me once more—slow, tender—then slides down my body, mouth already hovering over my still-hard shaft.

“Gonna finish you now,” he grins, lips brushing the head. “Make you come so hard you forget your name.”

Before he can take my cock in again, a sharp electronic chirp cuts the air.

His pager—on the nightstand—lights up red.

Nate freezes, eyes flicking to it. He reaches over, reads the screen, and swears under his breath.

“Shit. STAT ER—Level 1 trauma.”

I blink, brain still hazy. “Hospital?”

“Yeah.” He’s already rolling off the bed, grabbing his discarded pants from the floor. “I have to go. They need me.”

He heads straight for the en-suite sink, turns on the faucet, and—without hesitation—cups water in his palm, splashing it over his still-semi-hard shaft, rinsing himself clean with quick, efficient strokes. Soap next, lathering fast, then more water. The whole thing takes maybe fifteen seconds, but he’s thorough, like he’s done this before.

I prop up on my elbows, watching, half-laughing despite myself. “Ah, the perks of having fun with a doc. Mid-fuck rinse-off. Classy.”

Nate glances over his shoulder, grinning despite the urgency. “Yeah, I don’t get why people think docs are such a catch. Having to run away before I get you off? That’s cruel.” He shuts off the water, grabs a towel, dries himself quick. “Sorry. Seriously. But please—hang out here. No worries. I’m not sure how long this will take. I’ll call you when I get the chance. Maybe we can finish what we started. Make yourself at home. There’s beer in the fridge, dinner, whatever. Rowan’s at practice till late.”

He steps back into the bedroom, pulls on fresh scrubs from the closet—navy blue, faded at the knees—then leans over the bed, kisses me hard and fast.

“Stay,” he says against my lips. “I want you here when I get back.”

Then he’s gone—door clicking shut behind him, footsteps fading down the stairs.

The apartment falls quiet. Just the hum of the fridge, distant city noise filtering through the windows.

I lie there a minute, still hard, still leaking, heart hammering from the interrupted high.

◆◆◆

The apartment feels too quiet after Nate leaves, the kind of quiet that amplifies every creak of the old brownstone. I lie there a minute, still hard, still buzzing from the interrupted high, then decide fuck it—might as well make myself useful. The groceries I bought for dinner are still in the fridge: two thick ribeyes, asparagus, Yukon Golds, a bottle of cabernet that costs more than my first apartment rent.

I pull on my boxers and Nate’s hoodie (it still smells like him—cedar and faint cologne), head to the kitchen, and get to work. Potatoes in the oven, asparagus trimmed and tossed with olive oil and garlic, steaks seasoned and waiting for the cast-iron pan. The sizzle fills the space, steam fogging the window over the sink. It’s domestic in a way that feels dangerously good.

Suddenly the front door opens around eight. Rowan steps in, cheeks pink from the cold, hockey bag slung over one shoulder.

“Hey,” he says, spotting me at the stove. “Smells like actual food in here. Dad’s still at work?”

“Yeah,” I say, flipping a steak. “Got called in—Said it might be a while. But there’s plenty here if you’re hungry. Ribeye, potatoes, greens. Figured I’d cook what we were supposed to have.”

Rowan drops his bag by the door, peels off his coat. “Hell yeah. Dad can’t even cook toast without setting off the smoke alarm. I’ll eat. Just need a quick shower first—practice was brutal.”

“Go for it,” I say, waving him off. “Food’ll be ready soon.”

He heads for the bathroom and the door stay open. Wide open. Water starts running. I keep my eyes on the pan, focused on the sear, telling myself not to be that guy. No creeping. Not my place. The steak hits perfect medium-rare; I plate everything, sets the table for two, pours the wine.

Movement in the hallway. I glance up just as Rowan steps into the hallway, no towel. He’s drying his hair with the towel, I don’t see the front, just his bare ass, round and firm from endless squats and sprints, dimples at the base of his spine, water still beading on the skin. He catches me looking, smirks over his shoulder like he knows exactly what he just flashed, then disappears into his room.

I exhale hard, turn back to the plates. Heart’s hammering a little too fast. Get it together, forty-year-old.

He comes back down in tiny gray athletic shorts that hug everything—thighs thick, the outline of his heavy package shifting with every step—and an old Hockey tee that’s seen better days, sleeves cut off, hem frayed. Casual as hell, but the way the fabric clings to his damp skin makes it impossible not to notice.

We sit. Dig in. The steak’s perfect—crust seared, pink inside. Rowan groans around the first bite.

“Damn. You can cook.”

“Had to learn,” I say, shrugging. “Eating out every night gets old.”

We talk easy—hockey’s upcoming schedule, how the freshman class is gelling, the pressure of being the new guy on a stacked roster. Then he sets his fork down, looks at me sideways.

“Ran into Grayson and Jake the other night. After the game. We… hung out. Talked a lot. Like, really talked.”

I raise an eyebrow, keeping my tone neutral. “Yeah?”

“Yeah.” He takes a sip of water, eyes on his plate. “Didn’t expect them to be so… open. About everything. Grayson especially. He’s got this way of just making you spill shit without feeling weird about it.”

I smile despite myself. “That’s Grayson. He’s got a gift for it. Made me spill plenty back in the day too.”

Rowan nods, quiet for a second. “He told me you were the first person he came out to as bi. Said you handled it like it was nothing.”

“I’m glad he thinks so.” I lean back, swirling the wine in my glass. “He was a great support to me coming out too. Mutual thing.”

Rowan looks up then, eyes steady. “I’m bi too.”

The words land simple, matter-of-fact. No drama. Just truth.

“Really?” I keep my voice even, warm.

“Yeah.” He exhales, like the air’s been waiting to leave his lungs. “Dad doesn’t know though.”

I nod slow. “Why not? I think he’d understand more than most.”

“I know.” Rowan rubs the back of his neck. “And I know he’d accept it. Support me. No question. But… he’s got so much on his plate all the time. Work, the ER shifts, making sure I’m good. I don’t want him to worry, y’know?”

“Worry that he somehow ‘made’ you bi?” I ask gently.

Rowan’s laugh is short, self-conscious. “Yeah. Partly. Even though he knows you don’t just turn bi. He’s always gone out of his way to make sure I’m my own person—that I can do what I want, be who I am. I don’t know. Maybe I’m stupid. I just don’t want him to feel like it’s any of his doing.”

“I get it,” I say. “Coming out can be hard even when you know it’ll land well. There’s always questions, always that little voice wondering if you’re adding weight to someone else’s load. I know this better than anyone—I waited too long. Just… promise me you won’t wait that long, okay? Your dad loves you. And he knows being bi isn’t something anyone ‘does’ to you. Give him credit.”

Rowan nods, eyes a little shiny. “Thanks. Grayson said you’re a great listener. He was right.”

My phone buzzes on the table. Nate’s name.

I answer. “Hey.”

“Hey.” Nate’s voice is tired but warm, background noise of hospital chaos behind him. “It’s a shitshow. Gunshot, MVC pileup—multiple criticals. I’m stuck here till morning at least. Probably overnight.”

“No worries,” I say. “I’m eating dinner with Rowan. Steaks turned out good.”

Nate laughs softly. “That’s great. I love you two getting along. Seriously. And Chris—stay the night. It’s dumping snow again. I don’t want you sliding into a ditch just to see me in scrubs at 3 a.m.”

“Deal,” I say, smiling. “I’ll hold down the fort.”

“Tell Rowan hi from me. And… thanks for staying. Means a lot.”

I glance at Rowan, who’s watching with a small grin. “Will do.”

We hang up.

Rowan reaches for the wine bottle, pours himself half a glass. “Dad says hi?”

“Yeah. He’s thrilled we’re hanging out.”

Rowan takes a sip, then—casual as anything—grabs the hem of his old tee and yanks it off over his head. The fabric sticks a second on his damp hair, then comes free. His chest is bare now—lean muscle from endless ice time, nipples pebbled from the cool air, faint happy trail disappearing into those tiny shorts. A splash of steak sauce had landed on the shirt earlier; he’d wiped it off, but now the tee’s gone, tossed over the back of his chair.

My mouth goes dry for a second. I cover it with a cough, look away, then back. Rowan’s smirking, fully aware.

“Spill,” he says, leaning back, arms crossing over his chest. “You’re free to spend the night on my account. I’ve been wanting to catch up on this new hockey series. Wanna watch it with me?”

I knew exactly which series he meant, and for the first time in a long while, I didn’t know what to say.