Page 92 of Second Story

I shake my head, which brings my ear to his lips.

“You aren’t in it.”

I’d like to believe that rough whisper, only I’m not sure I’m the real hero of today’s story. I can’t be after listening to what my brother attempted for me, or after witnessing that dirt under Noah’s nails.

He dug deep for Lenny. For Isaac and me. Most of all, he faced fear for his own brother, and man, I got nothing but respect for that.

I guess that’s why I can’t care about Josh making the piss-poor teen decision that burned me. I’m a mistake-making expert, after all. Made plenty of my own. The real truth is that the wheels of justice might just turn again soon, all due to my twin and a kid smart enough to break a cycle of violence by asking for help.

Only Isaac’s breath coasting across my ear can distract me from what that might mean for us.

An actual happy ending.

His lips find a pulse at the base of my neck next, where he nips nerve endings alight. He’s fierce about making me feel good, and I’m just as fierce about what I need to make that happen.

“Really want to keep you. All of you.”

I picture Isaac and Lenny, a fractured family one step closer to reuniting. To healing.

He surprises me by mentioning my own.

“I’ll talk to Josh. Tell him why I lost it with him.”

Isaac didn’t lose it. He came out fighting for me, and I’m never gonna forget it. Never gonna forget him being as watchful as he is now while straddling my hips, either. He waits a beat as if checking he isn’t too heavy for unpredictable scar tissue while murmuring about other old wounds. “He wanted to protect you.” This sounds like a promise. “Same.”

Isaac tests how much of his weight I can take, searching for a sign he should stop. I’m not about to give him any—he’s exactly the right kind of heavy on my dick, which wakes up in a hurry. So does my heart, which alternates between speeding and clenching at the sight of him taking this much care.

I’m here for anything he’ll give me, for soft lips and the sharp edge of his incisors, for kisses like these that come with rough confessions. “I’d have wanted to get you out of that world too. Would have done anything I could to save you.” His mouthagainst my throat sends all kinds of signals. So does him rocking against where I’m hard for him, and maybe that does something for him too—he’s breathless when his mouth meets mine, wet and open.

He’s so good at this, I lose time to the sensation of him sucking on my tongue. He’s good too at finding where else sucking me feels even better.

Isaac shuffles back, straddling my knees now, his mouth on the head of my cock, and the light from his phone fades.

I don’t need extra brightness to name what helicopter searchlights find through the gap in my curtains. Isaac looks up from following a map of his own along fat veins from my base of my dick to the head. His lips and my dick are both wet by the time he’s done, and all I see is what he told me outside a Tube station this morning.

He dips his head to swallow me down, our eye contact broken, and my eyes close at this heat, this slick slide and the tight clutch where his throat narrows. He pushes for more, and fuck it, I give him what he asks for.

Both of my hands find curls to hang onto, hips chasing more of that constriction, and he chokes. His eyes are wet. Wild. And I see more of what I already noticed and what willow leaves once fractured. A mirror in a school bathroom also reflected what Isaac now shows me, and I don’t know how I didn’t see love sooner. It’s so easy to name. He doesn’t have to verbalise it. It’s already as clear as if those circling helicopters swung their searchlights straight through the window.

Thank fuck they don’t—the pilots would only get an eyeful of Isaac shuffling higher up my torso. Not to sit where scars wrap me. Higher. He brings his dick level with my mouth where it lands a precome-damp kiss to my chin, to my cheek, and to the lips I open for him.

Salt floods my mouth, an explosion of sharpness, and I’m flooded with even more of that care he keeps giving.

Isaac leans over me to grasp the headboard instead of bracing his hands somewhere that might send phantom distress signals. He doesn’t need to be this careful, so I grasp his arse to pull him closer—deeper—and I go ahead and drown in scent and taste and sensation.

I only choke because reaching under the pillow for lube while sucking him off wrecks my coordination. I guess he realises—he pauses rocking, then breathes, “Yeah,” once I smear lube across his hole.

Isaac lurches forward, so deep I can’t breathe. That’s no problem. We’re old hands at inhaling and exhaling with each other. All I have to do is wait for him to rock back onto the finger I press inside him. Then I get to drag in a gasping breath before he rocks forward again.

I’ll never take this give and take for granted.

This trust.

I also don’t hurry to get a second finger inside him. I take my time to find what and where is good for him, and his next groans come with another flood of flavour.

He pulls away what feels like far too quickly, but the click of the cap on the lube distracts me from caretaking. He does that for me. “I’m it for you, yeah?” He slicks my bare dick, and it’s a stupid time for my eyes to sting, but I nod again at him adding, “Because you’re it for me whatever happens.”

He’s as bare as I am, as raw, and this slow descent almost kills me. So does his mouth on mine, where he catches a soul-deep groan of my own.

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