Page 70 of The Prodigal Son

With that, it feels a bit more casual between us. My dad finishes his beer, throws down a twenty, and stands from his stool. I think it’s done, and I’ve escaped any dangerous topics of conversation when he claps his hand on my shoulder again.

“I just want you to be happy, son. And I don’t care what that looks like. I hope you know that. You only get one life. Don’t waste it by trying to please everyone else.”

With that, he walks away, and Isaac’s song comes to an end. I sit at the barstools for a while, considering my next move, although I already know what I want to do.

But do I even deserve what I want?

Eventually, I stand from the bar and say goodbye to my parents.

“Oh, you’re off already?” my mom whines.

“Yeah. I need to uh…do something.”

My dad smiles as he picks up his bowling ball from the machine. Waving them goodbye, I leave the bowling alley in a rush. I’m in my car, driving without even really thinking about where I’m going. I have no destination in mind, just that familiar gravitational pull.

Before I know it, I’m texting him.

I don’t deserve it but open the gate, please.

He reads the message, and a moment later, it starts to roll open slowly. I pull my car through and up to his house. Then, I’m out and practically running to the door.

He’s standing in the doorway, a cold, emotionless expression on his face. He looks nothing like the star who takes the stage and commands a crowd. In a ripped muscle tee and a pair of tattered jeans, he looks like just a man. A brokenhearted man.

I stand two feet away, waiting to see if he wants to chew me out and curse my name. He doesn’t say a word. He just stares at me.

Lifting my arms, I let them drop in surrender. What the fuck do I say?

I could tell Isaac that I’m sorry or that nothing has changed since last night. Everything still stands. Everything about our lives and futures.

But I don’t want any of that darkness between us. So I close the distance between us without a word. Grabbing his face, I pull him in for a fierce kiss.

To my relief, he grabs me back, kissing me as passionately as I’m kissing him. His arms wind around my neck, and he lets my hands roam his body. I grip him by the ass and lift him a few inches off the ground. As I carry him inside, he clings to my neck like he needs me.

It should be a crime to be needed by Isaac Goode. He’s been hurt by those who he needed before, and I am a monster for being the man he needs now. But I can’t help it.

Because I need him too.

We stumble our way into the house. As we reach his living room, I’m tugging at his shirt desperately, and he’s practically ripping the buttons off mine.

Our shirts come off in a rush, hitting the floor as we reach the thick plush rug in front of the dormant fireplace. I drop to my knees in front of Isaac and tear open the button of his jeans. His fingers wind through my hair, tugging so hard it makes my eyes water.

I like the pain he inflicts. I deserve it.

After jerking his pants down, I pull the elastic of his briefs with them. As his cock bounces free, pointing straight at me, I grab the length and pull it to my mouth. I am not gentle or teasing this time. I wrap my lips around him and suck him into the back of my throat like my life depends on it.

Instead of moaning with delight, he growls in frustration. His grip is still tight, and he’s forcing himself deeper with each thrust. When I gag, spit flying from my mouth, he releases his grasp on my hair.

Grabbing him by the thighs, I wrestle him to the floor. He lets out a desperate sound, pulling my mouth down to his for a kiss. Then suddenly, he fights for control, rolling me to my back so he’s straddling my chest.

Staring down at me with passion in his eyes, I can tell that he wants to scream at me. He’s angry and I love it. I crave his fire. More than anything, I want Isaac to fight for himself, even if that means fighting me.

“You told me I could trust you,” he says in a low, raspy tone as if he’s speaking through gritted teeth. I’ve never seen him like this before.

“I know,” I reply.

“Then you left. You fucking left.” His palms are on my chest, his fingers pressing into me as if he wants to hurt me.

“You deserve better.”

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