Page 76 of Isaac

"Didn’t anyone tell you playing with guns is dangerous," he moans, and there's resignation in that sound—the kind that could make me forget why I ever needed a weapon to begin with. But forgetting is a luxury meant for those unscarred by the past.

"Quiet," I command, my words less an order and more a spell woven into the humid air between us.

Our mouths collide again, a savage blend of lips and teeth that speaks of hunger rather than affection. It's raw, this connection, sparking against the dampness of our skin.

Although, he’s got a few pounds of muscle on me and perhaps half an inch in height, Hawk yields beneath the onslaught. The gun in my hand is power, a reminder that I’m not a helpless boy cowering in the dark anymore. I keep the weapon close, letting its presence fortify the walls around my fractured soul.

I am the puppet master now, pulling on threads of sudden desire as I press closer, my body a shield and a statement all at once.

Hawk’s breath fans against my cheek, hot and erratic, as I continue to study his body, tracing my hand and the muzzle of the gun over his firm chest and his ridged abdomen.

Something inside me uncoils—an entity waking from a long slumber. Curiosity licks at my insides, flickering like a candle in the void.

I need both hands to do this.

The gun clatters onto the counter, the sound of finality that shoots through my bones. I wince at the thought of letting it go, abandoning my lone guardian. But something tells me Hawk’s not going to take advantage of me. I’m not sure why I trust the man I hardly know but my gut says he’s one of the good ones.

Internally, a monotonous laugh echoes at that naive sentiment. Because, in our line of work, there’s nothing good left. Only psychos.

"I shouldn’t be doing this," he whispers as I drag my mouth over his chin, memorizing the sharp curve of his jaw dusted with light not-even-day-old stubble. "With an employer."

"Didn’t you get the memo?" I murmur, letting my teeth graze his earlobe and tug lightly on his earrings. "We don’t follow rules here." I pull back slightly to meet his fever-bright gaze. His face is flushed and fucking stunning. "We make our own."

He chuckles through the heat of the moment, the sound more like a drunken slur.

I slip my hands down his body, one last sweep over his stomach before my fingers deftly work his belt free. I still remember how it’s done, all these years later, but I’m no longer the victim. I’m the one in charge.

The leather slips through the loops, a soft fizz in the silence of the bathroom. The buckle clatters against the marble when his pants drop, fabric whispering down lean muscular thighs.

The tiny space between us is thick with breaths held and released in uneven rhythms. The counter behind Hawk is acold contrast to the heat that radiates from our bodies pressed together.

My fingertips graze the hem of his boxers, then I dive lower. He sucks in a lungful of air through clenched teeth when I find him hard and pulsing. I cup him through the fabric, feel his cock and play with his balls.

"Fuck..." Hawk gasps, and it's a sound torn from the depths, raw and unrestrained. He tosses his head back, eyes shut, hair mussed from all the earlier making out we did. Every line of him is somehow perfect. And I don’t know why I’ve never noticed it before.

There’s complete surrender written in the arch of his spine, the baring of his throat. So vulnerable. You could end him right here and now while he’s this exposed with his pants hanging down his thighs and his hands propped against the counter.

But that’s not what I want to do. I want to explore him instead. Explore his body. Wring sounds out of him until I find the one that I enjoy the most.

"You like that, don’t you?" I rasp out, my throat closing up for some reason. "Me, touching your cock?"

"Jesus... fuck..." His response is another broken moan, which only spurs me on. "You have to ask?"

I lean forward and press my mouth to his skin, my lips follow the slope of his collarbone while my hand continues its exploration south, delving beneath the boxers and gripping him firmly in my fist. Hawk’s cock fills my palm, big, hot, and aching.

"Fuck," he curses again, his hips jerking into my grip as I give him a light stroke.

My other hand grips his hip.

I glance up and drink in his expression—the hazy lust in his half-closed eyes and the flush staining those proud cheekbones. It’s... intoxicating. And empowering.

Here with him, I am more than the sum of my wounds. I wield power with every twist of my palm as I begin to stroke him for real now.

The tension between us ratchets up, electric and fleeting, as Hawk's thighs quake beneath my touch.

I haven’t yearned for another's body—or for physical intimacy—since before that very first time Jacob walked into my room when I was thirteen and told me to suck his dick.

But with Hawk, I can taste the control as I jerk him with purpose.

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