Page 86 of Catcher's Lock
“I don’t need you to get it right on the first try,” I tell him. “I need you totalkto me when it gets dark. I can’t—I don’t know how to handle being terrified every time you’re out of my sight. I’m so fucking sick of being scared for you all the fucking time.” I swipe angrily at my tears while he stares at me, before he snatches his phone from the table and thumbs viciously at the screen.
Zombie startles and flees, a string of congealed cheddar hanging from his mouth, and a few seconds later, my own phone buzzes in my pocket. I fish it out and blink at the notification.
“Asshole” has shared their location with you.
“Does that help?” he asks, and he’s so fucking soft and unshielded, half naked in my kitchen andtrying, that something vast and vital cracks open in my chest.
“Yes.”
“You can’t do this sobriety thing for me, Rocket,” he says. “Believe me, I wish you could. But we both know there are pieces I have to do on my own. Even if I suck at them.”
Still clutching my phone, I nod. How many times did I watch my mom try to bully or threaten my dadsober? How many ultimatums did I see fail because we weren’t enough?
“But, Rocket?” His hand falls open on the tabletop, palm up, and inches toward me. “I don’t think I can do italone.”
I lace my fingers with his and squeeze as hard as I can.
“Then stop leaving me behind.”
“I swear I wasn’t running away this time. I was always planning to come back to you.”
Lifting my gaze from our clasped hands, I meet his eyes.
“So was my dad.”
His brows crash down, and the next thing I know, he’s shoving back from the table and coming around to straddle my lap and wrap his arms around me. I bury my face in the crook of his neck, my hands snaking up his spine to grip his bare shoulders as the chaotic morning breaks against the shoals of grief.
“I promise,” he whispers, fingers tightening in my hair. “I promise not to leave you like that.”
My tears are hot on his skin as I tremble and cling to the raw nearness of him. His lips drift in my hair, whispering comfort with each impossible vow: “I’m not him. I’m here. I’m right here. I’m sorry, I’m sorry, I’m sorry.”
When my sobs subside, he takes my face in his hands and kisses my temples, my eyelids, and finally my lips. His tongue brushes mine, an offering without hunger or expectation, and I’m wrung clean as a tidepool, each touch another shy creature unfurling in the wake of the storm.
This and this and this.
It’s me who grows urgent, deepening the kiss, sliding my hands down the planes of his back to slip beneath his briefs and clutch his ass. He doesn’t question or protest, only bares his throat to my teeth and grinds against my stiffening cock.
The need to touch himeverywhere, to crawl inside him and make him a part of my bones, pushes me to frenzy. I don’t haveenough hands or teeth or bare skin to quench my craving. I want to swallow his breath and suck his blood to the surface of his salt skin.
“Tell me again,” I beg, shoving one hand into the front of his briefs to grip his cock and using the fingers of the other to spread his ass and stroke my middle finger over his entrance.
I could be asking for anything.
“I promise,” he groans as I suck the firm flesh of his pec between my teeth. “I promise, I promise, I’m here. Oh fuck, I’m right fucking here.” The words end on a harsh cry as I shuttle my hand over his length, and his peak hits him sharp and sudden. Before he can catch his breath, I hoist him onto the table and spread his legs, knocking my coffee mug to the floor. Diving down, I catch the last of his release on my tongue and take him into my mouth.
“Jesus. Rocket. Shit,Josha.” His thighs quake under my stroking palms as I roll my tongue and suckle his softening cock. “Enough. Fuck. I can’t—” He tugs at my hair, and I reluctantly release him, slumping back into my chair and breathing hard.
Not enough.
Propped on his hands and eyeing me through lids gone lazy, he nudges my crotch with a foot and curls his toes when he finds me still hard. Catching his ankle, I rut into his arch a few times, considering, then stand and rake my gaze over his messily sprawled form.
“Please don’t touch my dick. It might fall off if you get me hard again.”
“Your dick is mine now,” I tell him. And in that moment, I mean it. His head falls back with a moan, and I fist my cock, peeling back the foreskin to swipe my thumb over the swollen head. I’m slick and aching and desperate to claim him with my unrelenting need.
Fisting his briefs, I yank them clear of his ass and use the bunched fabric to pin his thighs to his abs. He gasps at the sudden exposure, his hole clenching as his elbows hit the table with a thud. Pinching his barbell between his teeth, he watches, rapt, as I jerk myself to a swift, brutal climax. Thick ropes of cum spatter over his crease and balls, marking him, and the guttural sound that rips from my throat is closer to a growl than a groan.
A promise of my own—or maybe a prayer…
