Page 55 of Second Story

Thank fuck I saw that room key he dangled. I knock on the door sharing its number, and Joe swings it open. He’s still in that stained shirt. The papers spread on the bed behind him almost stop me from speaking. His surprised smile gets me talking.

“You said you wouldn’t say no to longer.” I wet suddenly dry lips. “How does another hour sound?”

15

JOE

Maybe Meera was right about manifesting. Finding Isaac at my door is one wish granted. So is him getting busy the moment I let him in. He shrugs out of his jacket, then makes a start on unbuttoning his shirt, no way to mistake what he’s here for.

He pauses regardless. “Yes?”

“Fuck, yes.”

It doesn’t matter that the light outside has faded. The overhead light means I can still see plenty, like the determination I first witnessed in front of social workers when he fought for Lenny. He’s got his mind set on keeping someone else now.

Me.

As soon as I close the door behind him, I get equally busy helping him to undress, starting with Isaac’s belt. With his fly. With trying to shove off his shirt and shove down the same spray-paint jeans I last saw him peel out of in a lay-by.

The difference this time is that he doesn’t hiss or snarl or tell me to leave him alone.

Isaac laughs.

“Wow. He really did get you good.” He traces the full extent of the stain my jacket covered earlier, fingers pulling at where cotton has dried to my skin, then trailing down to trace where my dick is firming, and I abandon fighting with his jeans to kiss him, only he backs off, and it’s my turn to follow.

Doing that once got me into trouble. Into a whole world of pain. Tonight, following Isaac only leads to pleasure in a bathroom where he gets the shower running.

I press up behind him, one hand exploring the light fuzz of hair at the centre of his chest. His breath hitches when I brush a nipple, then pinch. It hitches again as soon as my other hand drops to where he’s hard already, and I finish what I started in the bedroom.

His dick is hot. So is the way he shudders with nothing like revulsion.

He’s hot because of me.

Forme.

I’m about to suggest we wait to shower after, only he turns in my arms and I forget how to form words. I also forget him ever being icy around me. That past doesn’t seem possible when our mouths meet and a match flares like it did back at the station earlier this evening. Or maybe it’s a reminder of getting him off in the back of his van, of heat that should have made every book on those shelves combust—or at least start to smoulder.

His eyes do that, right before I kiss him again. His mouth is as soft and slick as I spent a whole lot of time replaying, all alone in my city bedroom. Now I get to do exactly what else I manifested, only Isaac is one step ahead. He gets a hand between us to squeeze a raw sound from me, then he makes fast work of finding access.

My suit trousers puddle at my ankles, phone and belt buckle striking floor tile, and I couldn’t give a fuck about either when his hand wraps my bare dick. I don’t even try to hold in therepeat of a noise he twists from my soul, as soon as his other hand cups and rolls my balls.

I kiss him again then, and it’s easily as hot as the shower water he backs me under once the last of our clothes are gone. I’d usually at least keep a shirt on during sex, if unbuttoned. Tonight, it doesn’t occur to me to hide anything from him.

Isaac doesn’t hold back either, and fuck me, being wanted this much could get addictive.

That’s a reminder of days I’ve put behind me. Of trying to be as big a man at fifteen by accepting bumps of white powder from a dealer’s door key, and of trying to chase acceptance that was as hard to hold on to as the steam filling this shower stall.

Because it wasn’t real.

This is.

Isaac’s hold on my cock is a different kind of high that only elevates when he finds soap. I don’t mean because he uses it for a slippery and quick wank under pounding water. He goes slow, soaping up my chest first, rinsing away the last traces of fear left by a teen who made the same chasing-acceptance mistakes as me.

Dried-on hot chocolate disappears under soapy fingers that take more care than a little stickiness strictly calls for. Isaac gives care a whole new meaning by mapping that area with searching fingers, and I can’t decode data like my brother but I can compute this intent amber focus.

He’s checking that drink didn’t scald me.

Isaac washes away soap to kiss the meat of my pec, stubble prickling a nipple. Nerve endings spark in a good way, and I have to grip his shoulders to stay upright. His aren’t as heavily built as mine. They’ve easily carried as much weight.

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