The Best Man | Part 6: Back at the Estate (Patreon)

All characters depicted in this story are fictional and 18 years of age or older. Everything portrayed is safe, sane, and consensual.

By the time Calvin and I got back to the estate, my hair was only slightly less of a mess and Calvin’s smirk still hadn’t faded.

He walked like a man who just got his dick sucked on a golf cart; slow, loose, satisfied. I, on the other hand, had wiped my mouth three times and still wasn’t sure if I could speak without the taste of his cock creeping up the back of my throat. My stomach was a tight knot of nerves and heat. I could still feel his cum sliding down my throat, clinging to the back of my tongue, stubborn as sin.

Lunch was already in full swing, set outside beneath the barn’s overhang, where long rustic tables stretched across the flagstone patio, dressed in soft linen runners and dappled sunlight. The garden buzzed with voices and champagne corks, and someone had tucked an old Bluetooth speaker near the barn door, filling the air with lazy acoustic covers of wedding playlist classics. Bees drifted near the florals. Glassware clinked. Someone was already tipsy enough to be slurring. Nathan’s fiancée floated from table to table in a lemon-colored sundress, trying to wrangle the groomsmen into “candid” shots that were clearly staged.

Calvin settled into the seat across from me, broad shoulders stretching the sleeves of that blue polo that should honestly be banned because of how fucking hot it looked on him.

I kept my eyes on my plate. I could still taste Calvin. The tang of him clung to the back of my tongue, thick and somehow still making me half-hard under the damn table. I was sitting there, fork in hand, nodding along to something Nathan was saying about table arrangements and last-minute RSVPs pretending that everything was normal. As if I hadn’t had his best friend’s dick down my throat less than an hour ago.

My voice stayed even. My posture, polite. I even managed a smile when Nathan’s fiancée passed behind me, tousling my hair and calling me “cute as always.” But beneath the table, my thighs were clenched and my mind kept skipping...golf cart, hand in my hair, his voice growling "Take it, Masey boy."“Okay, can we talk about how intense golf got this morning?” Calvin said suddenly, his voice slicing clean through the clinking of cutlery and the scattered hum of conversation. He sat across from me, fork dangling from his fingers, tan forearms propped casually on the table, chewing like he hadn't nearly broken me earlier.

I froze mid-bite. My head turned, slow. Like..what the fuck was he doing? He wasn’t talking about the game. I narrowed my eyes across the table. He smirked. That smug, dimpled, fuck-you smirk that made my blood run hot and my stomach twist.

One of the groomsmen Ralph, in a pale pink shirt and with a sunburn already creeping across his cheeks groaned through a mouthful of salad. “Bro. You both were getting crushed. You two bailed mid-round.”Calvin gave a casual shrug. “We were clearly losing. Had to protect our fragile egos.”

Laughter. Someone tossed a roll at him.

Miguel, another groomsman, leaned in from across the table, smug. “I won, by the way. In case anyone’s pretending not to know.”

“No one asked, Miguel,” Ralph muttered, rolling his eyes.“It’s not my fault you sliced every shot into the bushes,” Miguel said, sipping his wine. “I’m just a natural athlete.”Calvin leaned back in his chair, twirling his fork like he was bored of the conversation already. “Yeah, I don’t know, man,” he said casually. “I should’ve just used the golf cart to find the damn hole. Would’ve stuffed the ball in first try.”

I nearly choked on the wine I was sipping.

He didn’t even look at me...just kept talking, kept chewing, as if he hadn’t just referenced the exact position I’d been in an hour ago, ..on my knees in that golf cart, exactly where he’d left me stuffed full and speechless.“The greens were real firm too,” Calvin added with a shrug. “Didn’t want to force anything.”

I stared at him across the table. He was clearly doing this on purpose.Nathan raised his glass like he was toasting. “To Miguel’s ego, may it live forever.”

More laughter, easy and warm, with the kind of energy that only comes when everyone’s slightly sun-drunk and wearing linen.

I kept quiet. I could feel Calvin’s gaze drifting to me sometimes; not in a way anyone else would catch. But I caught it. Every time. Especially when I licked wine off my lip, or leaned back in my chair with my legs slightly spread, or shifted my hips just a little too slow when standing to grab another plate.

“So,” Nathan said, glancing down the table, “we’re gonna need more wine soon. Mase..mind grabbing a few more bottles from the cellar?”It wasn’t a request. More like something Nathan had already decided; the kind of ask older brothers make when you’re young enough to still be the errand boy. But honestly? I would’ve volunteered myself if he hadn’t. I needed to get the fuck away from Calvin.

God knows what he’d say next, or what he’d do-- like adjusting his sleeves again to show off those stupidly sexy biceps. Or stretching back in his chair in that tight, ridiculously hot, deep-navy blue polo that clung to his chest like a second skin. I was one line or one rolled-up sleeve away from popping a boner in front of twenty people and a charcuterie board.

“Yeah,” I said, already getting up, “I’ll go grab a couple of bottles.”

I turned and started walking toward the barn doors. The sunlight outside was blinding, but not as much as the sudden sound of Calvin’s chair scraping back behind me.

“Uh-Mase...” he called out, standing up, casually brushing crumbs off his jeans. “Wait up. I’ll help you carry ‘em.”

Of course he did. Of course he wanted to join me in the cellar... away from all the laughter and polite conversation and fucking witnesses. God knows what that ridiculously hot man had planned this time. He’d already stuffed my mouth at the country club. God only know what he had planned for me now.Calvin leaned in just enough for only me to hear. “Hope it’s dark down there,” he murmured, voice low. “Might have to feel my way around to find the… bottles.” He half-stuttered on the word, then gave a soft laugh like he couldn’t help himself.

I shot him a look. “Dude. Shut up.”

He smirked, clearly not planning to.

We walked in sync, his fingers grazing the small of my back like he owned me. Back toward the barn. Toward the cellar. Toward the cool, quiet shadows waiting underneath and whatever mischievous thing he thought he could get away with next.

__________The Best Man | Part 7: Wine Cellar