A Secret With Leo - Part 7

Hi everyone, I hope you’re all doing well! Thank you so much to those of you who voted in my recent polls. I asked whether you’d prefer me to batch content for the whole week in one day, and also how you’d feel about me moving to five posts a week.

The results were clear—most of you didn’t want me to batch posts, so I won’t make that a regular thing (though I might try it occasionally if I’m away or on vacation).

As for posting five times a week, I was so touched by how many of you said I should do what’s best for me. One of you also reminded me that it doesn’t have to be set in stone, and I love that idea. So here’s the plan: some weeks will be five posts at minimum, and other weeks might be more.

Mondays will still be my off day as before, while the other “day off” won’t be a fixed day. That said, I’ll make it a priority to share at least daily updates on weekends, since I know many of you enjoy reading then.

Thanks again for your support and flexibility—it really means a lot! 💛

Everyone in this story is 18+

The church hall still smelled faintly of lilies and candlewax, a mix of old tradition and new beginnings, and though the priest’s words were already fading into memory, the image of Alexander crying in Sophie’s arms as the holy water touched his forehead would not leave me. He was healthy, strong, his tiny lungs announcing themselves to the world, and when Sophie whispered his name, Alexander after her deceased brother— I felt something crack open in my chest.

◆◆◆

The reception that followed at the venue Sophie and I had rented for the occasion was modest but warm. Guests drifted between tables with plates of cake, offering their congratulations. Sophie moved gracefully from one conversation to the next in her pale blue dress, radiant in a way I hadn’t seen in months. James never strayed far from her side, steady as a shadow, his hand resting lightly on her back whenever she laughed, his other hand often reaching down to guide his daughter, a whirlwind of curls and four-year-old energy, away from toppling a stack of paper cups.

What caught me most off guard wasn’t James, though. It was Leo. Somehow, against all odds, he was here. I had no idea how he’d managed to earn even a sliver of Sophie’s forgiveness — he hadn’t been named godfather, of course; that honor went to Nadia and her boyfriend, who had clearly risen to the spot of Sophie’s closest confidants. But there Leo was, handsome as ever, arriving with a half-haul of gifts so excessive Sophie rolled her eyes but couldn’t hide the flicker of a smile.

At first the air between us was stiff. Leo and I had hardly spoken since the fallout, both of us keeping our distance out of respect for Sophie. We circled each other in the hall like polite strangers, never more than a few words exchanged. I buried myself in small tasks — refilling pitchers, moving chairs, stacking plates — anything that kept my hands busy. Still, I noticed him glancing my way more than once, a flicker of something in his expression that I tried not to dwell on.

By the time most of the guests had gone, the edges of the day had softened. Only a small group remained to clean up: Sophie, James and his daughter, Nadia and her boyfriend, Leo, and me. The room was quieter now, filled with the sound of chairs scraping, paper plates rustling into garbage bags, and children’s yawns turning slowly into tears. I saw how Sophie leaned into James when she thought no one was watching, how natural it looked, how much lighter she seemed beside him. For the first time since the night everything shattered, I smiled without forcing it. James was good. Steady. The kind of man Sophie deserved.

It was that smile that made the ache sharper when I glanced across the room and found Leo alone by the window, tidying napkins into too-neat stacks, his shoulders slumped as though he were trying to fold himself into something smaller. There was no mistaking the sadness in his face.

The children’s fussing grew louder, Alexander’s thin wails mixing with James’s daughter’s exhausted cries, and Sophie looked frazzled as she tried to soothe both. I wiped my hands on my slacks and stepped in. “Why don’t you all head out?” I offered. “I’ll finish the cleanup.”

Sophie raised an eyebrow at me, but I added, “Seriously. Take James and Nadia with you. If she stays, I think she might murder me and Leo both.”

That earned a laugh — a real one, warm and unguarded. “Fair enough,” she said.

We walked together to the cars, divvying up the mountain of christening gifts. I hefted a few of the heavier bags from Leo’s pile into Sophie’s trunk, and when I offered to bring the rest over later, she shook her head and pulled two duplicates from the backseat. “Keep the car seat and the bottle cleaner,” she said. “We ended up with doubles anyway. And…” She hesitated, glancing toward James as he buckled his daughter in, before looking back at me. “Alexander’s yours next weekend. James and I are finally getting a weekend off, just the two of us.”

For a moment I only stared at her, surprised, then smiled. “I’m happy for you, Soph,” I said, and I meant it.

As I closed the trunk, my eyes flicked almost without thought back toward the hall’s glass doors. Leo was still inside, moving gift bags around like he was afraid to stop, his face caught in an expression I couldn’t quite name. My gaze lingered too long, and Sophie noticed.

She followed my line of sight, then looked back at me with a knowing half-smile. “It’s okay, Adrian,” she said softly. “Do what makes you happy.” Then, with a chuckle: “I should’ve known. No one got that excited about a lap dance dare from Leo at that party but you.” She winked once, slid into James’s car, and shut the door.

I stood in the parking lot a moment longer, the car seat still in my hands, watching their taillights fade, before I turned back toward the hall. Leo hadn’t moved, he waved and I waved back.

Leo was still there, bent over the table, gathering dishes, his movements slow, mechanical. His shoulders sagged with a weight I knew too well.

Before I could second-guess myself, I walked back inside.

The door closed behind me with a soft click, and Leo froze. He didn’t turn, just stayed bent over the table, as though bracing for impact. I crossed the floor quietly, each step pulling me closer until I was right behind him.

My hands found his hips, firm but trembling under my touch. I leaned in, my lips just brushing the shell of his ear.

“Is this okay?” I whispered.

A sound escaped him — half a moan, half a shiver. “Uhm…” His voice broke, the smallest surrender in that one syllable.

He turned then, fast and sudden, and before I could breathe, his mouth was on mine.

It wasn’t careful. It wasn’t soft. It was months of guilt and longing and silence colliding all at once, a kiss that was messy, wet, desperate. His hands fisted in my shirt, pulling me closer until our bodies collided, chest to chest, hip to hip. I groaned into his mouth, clutching him tighter, afraid if I let go he’d vanish again.

Leo pressed me back against the nearest wall, his lips fierce, his breath hot against my jaw. I kissed him harder, tasting the faint salt of tears I wasn’t sure belonged to him or me. My hands slid up his sides, memorizing the lines of him all over again, grounding myself in the body I’d spent too long trying to forget.

When we finally broke apart, gasping, his forehead rested against mine, his eyes wide, glassy, searching.

“You sure?” he whispered.

I swallowed hard, my hand still on his jaw, holding him steady. “I’ve never been more sure of anything.”

For the first time in months, I felt like I could breathe.

His sleeves were rolled to the elbow, the buttons of his slim blue shirt clinging just a little too tight at his chest and biceps—tailored for attention, like always. The top two buttons were undone, revealing that ridiculous gold chain he wore and the barest hint of smooth skin beneath. Dress pants, fitted, belt slightly crooked. He looked fucking edible.

Leo grabbed my waist like he wanted to leave fingerprints. “About time,” he rasped, breath hitching as I backed him against the table.

“Shut up,” I said, and kissed him again.

He tasted like frosting and sweat, like the tail end of a long day spent pretending nothing hurt. Underneath, I could still taste the ghost of his cologne—cedar, citrus, faint now but buried deep in my memory. My hands slid up beneath his shirt, finding smooth skin stretched tight over lean muscle. He was warm. Too warm. It made my head spin.

“You’re shaking,” he whispered, as my fingers fumbled with his buttons.

“Not from fear.”

He laughed—a short, breathless thing—and raised his arms as I peeled the shirt off him. It hit the floor in a soft crumple. I leaned in and dragged my tongue along the curve of his collarbone, tasting the salt there, biting down just hard enough to make him suck in air between his teeth.

“Still into biting, I see,” he said, smirking.

“You bring it out in me.”

I reached behind him, hoisted him up onto the folding table like a drunk groomsman with something to prove. He slid up without protest, long legs parting, heels catching on the edge of the metal frame. I dropped to my knees, eyes level with the tented bulge in his slacks. He was already hard—visibly straining, the fabric dark where it stretched tight around him.

“You always did look good desperate,” I murmured, pressing my mouth against the line of his zipper.

Leo hissed, bucked forward slightly. “You gonna stare at it all night or—”

I tugged his belt open with one hand, popped the button with the other, then slowly drew the zipper down with my teeth. His slacks parted. No underwear, of course.

“Seriously?”

He shrugged, breathless. “Didn’t want panty lines.”

I laughed against his hip, then let my tongue follow the crease where thigh met pelvis. His whole body jolted.

I gripped his ass, dragged him closer to the edge, and wrapped my lips around the flushed, leaking head of him, tongue swirling hard and slow while he gasped above me. His hands shot out, grabbing the edge of the table like he didn’t trust his balance.

The taste hit me all at once—salt, sweat, something sharp and familiar. His skin was hot against my tongue, his scent thick in my nose: clean, crisp, Leo. I could’ve lost myself there.

But I wanted more.

I stood, wiped my mouth with the back of my hand, and pushed him flat against the table, chest heaving, hair clinging to his forehead. I yanked my own shirt off over my head and tossed it aside, then reached for my pants. He sat up just enough to help, fingers clumsy but eager, undoing my fly like it owed him money.

When my pants dropped, he reached between us and stroked me once—slow, teasing, thumb teasing the ridge just beneath the head. “I’ve missed this,” he whispered.

I growled something incoherent and shoved him flat again. His legs lifted automatically, wrapping around my hips. I spat into my palm, once, twice, slicking myself quickly, then reached between his thighs and used my fingers to spread the tension of his body open around my touch.

He gripped my arm, breath hitching. “Yeah. Just like that.”

I pressed forward, guiding myself into the tight, hungry space of him, inch by inch. He was warm, impossibly snug, the pressure near unbearable. His thighs tensed around my waist, fingers digging into my shoulders as I felt my balls meet his skin, both of us groaning through clenched teeth.

I paused, forehead against his, chests heaving together. “You okay?”

Leo nodded fast, eyes half-lidded. “Don’t stop.”

I pulled back, hips grinding forward again in a rough, snapping rhythm that made the table quake under us. The metal legs protested with every thrust, but Leo only arched his back, taking it even deeper, meeting every push with a twist of his hips that drove me closer to the edge.

His eyes rolled back when I reached between us, gripping him tight, stroking in rhythm to the pace I slammed into him. Sweat dripped down my spine, pooled at the small of my back. My skin stuck to his. The scent of both of us—sex and heat and the faint clean smell of lemon floor polish—filled the room like incense at a shrine.

“Harder,” he gasped.

I gave it to him—relentless, brutal, the slap of skin on skin echoing in the empty space. His legs locked tighter. His nails raked down my back. His voice broke in short, strangled sounds every time I bottomed out inside him, our bodies crashing over and over like waves in a storm.

I didn’t slow down when he started to lose it. I watched him fall apart, eyes glassy, mouth open, jaw slack. He was beautiful like this—wrecked, open, unguarded.

When he came, semen spilled out like a lightning strike—his body locking around me, a rush of heat between us, his head thrown back in silent agony. I felt him clench hard enough to make my vision go white. My thrusts turned wild, erratic. I lost rhythm completely, chasing that edge until I reached it, snapping forward with a final, brutal grind that sent me spiraling after him, hips grinding, breath caught in my throat as I emptied every last ounce of need and literal seed into him.

We collapsed together in a heap, panting, covered in sweat, trembling with the aftershock.

Leo wiped his brow with the back of his hand, still flat on the table, blinking like he’d just been struck by divine revelation.

“So…” he said, voice rough.

I raised an eyebrow, chest still heaving.

“Does this mean I can call you daddy now?”

I laughed, too tired to hold it back. “Only if you join me on actual daddy duty next weekend.”

He rolled his head toward me, grinned, and kissed me softly, tasting like sweat and sin.

“Deal.”