My Uncle Chris – Part 15

Everyone in this story is 18+

-------------Grayson’s POV------------

The plane hummed around us, a low drone that felt like the only thing keeping the world from crashing in. First class was as plush as it had been on the way to London—wide seats, soft blankets, champagne flutes still sweating from our last toast—but the vibe was different now. The cabin lights were dim, the sky outside a gray blur of clouds, and Chris sat beside me, his broad shoulders slumped slightly, his hands fidgeting with the edge of his tray table.

He looked good, as always—his black sweater clinging to his chest, the stubble on his jaw a little thicker, his brown eyes distant but warm. I could see something big, unsaid, simmering under the surface.

I leaned back, my own body still sore from last night’s marathon in bed, my navy hoodie loose over my hockey-built frame. My dark hair was a mess. The trip had been a fucking dream—London, the club, Harper, the Ritz—but now we were heading back to reality, and I could feel it pressing in, like the air itself was thicker.

Chris turned to me, his lips twitching into a half-smile. “You’re quiet. Not planning to jump me under the blanket again, are you?”

I laughed, the sound lighter than I felt. “Tempting, but not yet.”

He chuckled, but it faded fast, his eyes dropping to his hands. He was twisting his wedding ring, sliding it back and forth, and my stomach tightened. I’d seen that look before—when he wanted to say something but didn’t know how.

“Spit it out,” I said, nudging his knee with mine. “You’re doing that thing where you look like you want to say something important.”

His expression turned serious. “I’m leaving Emily.”

The words hit like a slap, sharp and sudden. I blinked, my mouth opening, but nothing came out right away. I’d known things were rocky—hell, we wouldn’t have been doing what we were doing if they weren’t—but hearing it out loud was different. Final.

“Wow,” I said, my voice soft. “Like… for real?”

He nodded, his jaw tight. “Yeah. I’ve been thinking about it for a while. Long before London, even. It’s not fair to her, Grayson. Staying when I’m… when I’m not all in. She deserves better than that.”

I swallowed, my heart doing weird flips—part relief, part excitement, part something I couldn’t name. “You deserve better as well. You’re doing the right thing,” I said, reaching for his hand, my fingers brushing his. His skin was warm, soft, familiar. “I’m proud of you. That’s a big fucking step.”

He squeezed my hand, his eyes searching mine. “Thanks. Means a lot, coming from you.”

I grinned, trying to keep it light, but my mind was racing. “So, what’s the plan? You gonna move closer to campus? Be my personal cheering section at games?” I wiggled my eyebrows, half-joking, but there was a hope there I couldn’t hide.

Chris’s smile was soft, almost sad, and he leaned back, letting go of my hand to run his fingers through his hair. “God, I want to say yes. You have no idea how much. But…” He trailed off, his voice quieter now, like he was choosing every word carefully. “You’re 18, Grayson. You’re about to start college, this whole new life. You need to live it—make mistakes, date other people, figure out who you are without me hovering. I can’t just… uproot everything and follow you. Not yet.”

I felt a pang, sharp and quick, but I nodded, trying to keep my face neutral. “Yeah, I get it. Gotta spread my wings or whatever.”

He laughed, but it was tinged with something heavy. “Exactly. And there’s Emily. I can’t just hit her with everything at once—divorce, coming out as bi, exploring that, and, oh yeah, telling her I’m… with you, her nephew.” He winced, like the thought alone was too much. “It’d be too cruel. To her. To you. I need to do this right, give her time, give us time.”

I leaned back, my chest tight, but I got it. I really did and he was right, it wouldn’t be fair. He wasn’t saying no forever—just not now. And as much as I wanted him to pack up and move to my college town, be there for every game, every late-night study session, I knew he was right. I had shit to figure out—hockey, classes, new friends, maybe even new guys. The thought of that last one stung, but it was true. I wasn’t ready to settle down, not when I was just starting.

“Fair,” I said, my voice steadier than I felt. “But you’re not getting rid of me that easy. You’re gonna visit, right? Like, a lot?”

He grinned, the tension in his shoulders easing. “Hell yeah. I’ll be there for games, weekends, whatever. You’re not shaking me, kid.”

“Good,” I said, nudging his knee again. “Because I’m holding you to that.”

He reached for my hand again, his thumb brushing over my knuckles, and for a moment, we just sat there, the hum of the plane wrapping around us. I could feel the weight of what he wasn’t saying—that he loved me, that he wanted me, but that we had to wait. And I was okay with that. Mostly. Because I knew he’d be there, even if it wasn’t the way I wanted right now.

“So,” I said, breaking the silence with a smirk, “no moving in with me, but you’re still gonna be my biggest fan, right?”

He laughed, loud enough that the guy across the aisle glanced over. “Always, Grayson. Always.”

We settled back, my hand still in his, the blanket draped over our laps like a shield. The future was messy, complicated, but for now, we had this—his warmth beside me, the promise of visits, the knowledge that whatever we were, it wasn’t over. Not by a long shot.

◆◆◆

The plane’s hum was a steady lullaby, the cabin lights dimmed to a soft amber glow, casting long shadows across the first-class cubicle. Most passengers were asleep, their blankets pulled tight, headphones on, oblivious to the world. Chris sat beside me, his broad frame relaxed but heavy, like the weight of our conversation was still settling into his bones.

His black shirt still hugged his chest, the faint outline of his pecs visible, his dark hair slightly mussed from leaning against the seat. My own body, lean, hockey-honed—felt restless under my navy hoodie, my jeans tight from the tension, I had to have him again.

We’d just talked about his divorce, about the future, about waiting. The air felt thick with it, a bittersweet mix of hope and goodbye. I reached for his hand, my fingers tracing the lines on his palm, and he turned to me, his smile soft but tinged with something sad.

“You okay?” I asked, keeping my voice low, the words just for him.

He nodded, squeezing my hand. “Yeah. Just… gonna miss this.”

My chest tightened, but I leaned closer, my lips brushing his ear. “We’ve got a few hours left. Let’s make it count.”

His eyes widened, a spark of mischief cutting through the melancholy. “Here?” he whispered, glancing at the curtain separating our cubicle from the aisle.

I grinned, nodding toward the lavatory sign glowing faintly down the cabin. “Mile high club, Chris. Proper send-off.”

He laughed, quiet but real, and shook his head. “You’re gonna get us arrested.”

“Worth it,” I said, standing and tugging him up. “Come on.”

We moved silently, slipping past the sleeping passengers, the soft hum of the plane masking our steps. The lavatory was cramped, all sleek metal and harsh fluorescent light, but it didn’t matter. The second the door locked, I pushed Chris against the sink, my mouth finding his in a kiss that was slow, deep, like we were trying to memorize each other. His lips were soft, tasting of the wine we’d had earlier, his stubble grazing my chin. I pressed my body against his, feeling the hard planes of his chest, the warmth of his skin through his shirt.

“Fuck, Grayson,” he whispered, his hands sliding under my hoodie, fingers tracing the ridges of my abs, making my breath hitch. “You’re too much.”

“Not enough,” I said, kissing him again, softer this time, my hands cupping his face. I wanted to feel every inch of him, to hold onto this before we landed and couldn’t do this every day anymore.

I tugged his shirt off, letting it fall to the floor, revealing his broad chest, smooth, his nipples tight from the cool air. My hands roamed, nails scraping lightly down his sides, feeling the muscle flex under my touch. He yanked my hoodie off, his fingers digging into my shoulders, pulling me closer until our bare chests pressed together, skin warm and slightly damp.

I dropped to my knees, my hands working his belt, his jeans, pulling them down just enough to free him. His dick was thick, already hard, the head glistening in the harsh light. I looked up at him, his eyes dark with need, and kissed the tip, slow, worshipping it, before taking him into my mouth. He gasped, his hand gripping the sink, the other tangling in my hair. I sucked him gently, my tongue tracing the veins, enjoying the weight of him, the way he trembled under my touch.

“Grayson,” he whispered, his voice breaking, like he was holding back a flood. “You don’t have to—”

“I want to,” I said, pulling off to kiss his thigh, my hand stroking him slowly. “I need this. Need you.”

He nodded, his eyes soft, and I stood, kissing him again, deep and slow, our tongues moving like we had all the time in the world. I turned him around, guiding him to bend over the sink, his hands braced on the metal. The space was tight, the air heavy with the scent of soap and us, but it felt like ours. I grabbed the small packet of lube I’d slipped into my pocket—always prepared—and slicked my fingers, sliding one into him, slow, feeling the heat of his body grip me.

He let out a soft sound, his head dropping forward, and I kissed the back of his neck, tasting the salt of his skin. I worked him open, my fingers gentle but sure, curling to find that spot that made his breath hitch, his body arching back against me. “You’re so fucking perfect,” I whispered, my lips brushing his ear.

“Grayson,” he said, his voice raw, needy. “Please.”

I slicked myself up, my cock throbbing, aching to be inside him. I pressed against him, slow, the stretch making us both gasp. He was tight, warm, pulling me in like he was made for me. I sank deeper, inch by inch, until I was fully inside, my chest pressed against his back, my arms wrapping around him. For a moment, we just stayed there, breathing together, the hum of the plane a distant echo.

Then I started to move, slow, deep thrusts, each one a promise, a goodbye, a vow. His hands gripped the sink tighter, his knuckles white, but his body moved with mine, meeting every thrust. I reached around, my hand finding his dick, stroking him in time with my hips, feeling the way he swelled, the slickness of his precum coating my fingers.

“Fuck, you feel so good,” I whispered, my lips on his neck, kissing the pulse point, feeling his heart race under my mouth. The sadness was there, a quiet ache in every touch, but so was the love, the need, the power of knowing this was ours, even if just for now.

He turned his head, catching my lips in a messy kiss, his breath ragged. “Don’t stop,” he said, his voice thick with emotion. “Please, don’t stop.”

I didn’t. I fucked him slow, deep, each thrust a little harder, a little more desperate, the pleasure building like a tide. His body trembled, his dick pulsing in my hand, and I stroked him faster, my thumb gliding over the head. He tensed, his breath catching, and then he spilled, thick ropes coating my fingers, his body shaking against mine. I brought my hand to my mouth, licking it clean, tasting him—salty, warm, him—while he watched me in the mirror, his eyes soft, wrecked.

I kissed his neck again, my lips lingering, and thrust deeper, faster now, chasing my own edge. The pleasure was overwhelming, a wave that crashed through me, and I buried myself in him, filling him with a warmth that felt like everything we couldn’t say. My hips jerked, my breath ragged against his skin, and we stayed there, locked together, the world outside forgotten.

We pulled apart slowly, our breaths heavy, the air thick with the scent of us. I turned him around, kissing him soft, my hands cupping his face. His eyes were wet, not with tears, but with something close, and I felt it too—the weight of this moment, the goodbye we weren’t saying out loud.

“You’re gonna be okay,” I said, echoing his words from last night, my voice soft.

He smiled, brushing his thumb across my cheek. “So are you.”

We cleaned up, silent, our touches gentle, lingering. Back in our seats, we sat close, my hand in his under the blanket, the plane carrying us toward a future we couldn’t predict. But for now, we had this—this moment, this memory, this love that wasn’t done, just waiting.