24. Isaac

CHAPTER 24

ISAAC

I sit at my office desk, staring blankly at the computer screen, buried in paperwork. Yes, that’s the not-so-glamorous part of the job. My mind is elsewhere, replaying the events that happened in the bathroom downstairs over and over in my head. The way Hawk felt under my command, the way he submitted to me. I can’t remember the time I've had someone so willingly obey me.

Just thinking about it has my dick hardening.

The memory of his breath hitching in his throat, or the curves of his perfect sinewy body is there, in the front of my mind, overshadowing everything else happening around me. It's been two days since our encounter and my fingers still tingle from the sensation of him solid and aching for release.

I shut my eyes and try to focus on the numbers I need to run for this new project the family is interested in, but my thoughts keep drifting to Hawk like a moth to a flame.

I can't deny it anymore—there's something going on between us. The need to see him again is gnawing at me like a rabid beast, threatening to tear me apart if I don't succumb. My grip tightens around the pen, and I realize that I'm not getting anything done. I need fresh air, something to clear my head and help me regain control over my erratic thoughts.

"Fuck it," I mutter under my breath, pushing away from the desk. I stride through the door and into the hallway, making my way toward the bank of elevators.

The minute my fingers hover about to press the button, the doors breathe open with a swish, revealing Hawk. His gym bag is casually draped over one shoulder. The plain black T-shirt clinging to his broad chest and sinewy arms is almost a casual dare for you not to notice him, not to notice how fucking perfect he is.

Our gazes lock, and for a moment, time seems to stand still.

The silence between us stretches and becomes something agonizing.

"Hey," he finally says, his voice low and steady, yet I detect a hint of nervousness in his tone.

"Hey," I reply, stepping into the elevator.

Hawk's eyes pierce through me like a sharpened blade and I'm suddenly overwhelmed by the emotions coursing through my veins. The inexplicable craving for him threatens to consume me now that he’s so close.

Without thinking, I move forward, shoving Hawk against the elevator wall just as the doors close behind us.

"Isaac," he whispers, his eyes widen a little but not with shock. It’s something else, something darker, more primal. "Someone can see us."

"No, they won’t," I whisper harshly, and draw back for a second, just long enough to stab furiously at the button on the bottom of the panel to halt the elevator. "How about this?" I ask, leaning into him, until our faces are less than an inch apart.

"People may want to use the elevator."

"There’s another one," I shoot back. "Plus, we own the building. I'll delete the security footage."

His mouth twists. Something like a hint of a smile makes an appearance. "I guess I can’t argue with that."

I feel the warmth of his breath on my lips when he speaks and it takes every ounce of self-control not to close the remaining fraction of space between our mouths.

Instead, I reach out, fingers brushing against his freshly shaved cheek, my thumb tracing the faint trace of the scar that's almost gone, then the curve of his jaw. "Move into the hotel permanently," I say.

"I’m already spending most of my work nights here."

"You don’t need to pay for a shitty apartment if you can live here for free."

"Fuck, Isaac." Hawk shuts his eyes for a moment. "What else do want me to do?"

"Everything," I rasp out, pressing myself against him, burying my nose into the crook of his neck where a few strands of silky black hair that slipped from his ponytail rest over his skin. My body hums in response to his proximity. It’s like I’m a magnet and he’s the ferromagnet surface.

"You sure about that?" Hawk asks, his tone teasing all of sudden. "Because I don't come cheap, you know, Sugar Daddy."

"I’m younger than you," I state. "Don’t you ever use that word with me." I bite into his neck, sink my teeth into his skin as a form of punishment.

His breath catches in his throat and I can feel it, can feel him melting and tensing from my touch.

"Okay," he whispers.

"Otherwise, I don't care what you call me," I reply, pulling back a little to look at his face again. "As long as you're here with me, safe and protected. Things are going to get rough, Hawk. I need you to be ready for that."

"I am," he says.

"So, you'll move in here?"

"Can I think about it?"

The next morning, I find myself standing outside Hawk's hotel suite, a pair of steaming coffees trembling in my grasp. It’s still early and the sun is lazily stitching its path across the horizon, veiling the cityscape in gossamer hues of coral and vermilion.

I knock gently on his door, my heart pounding in anticipation with adrenaline under my skin while a persistent question torments me—what the hell brought me here?

"Who is it?" comes Hawk's muffled voice from behind the door.

"Room service," I reply sarcastically.

The door swings open, revealing Hawk wearing nothing but a pair of sweatpants and a sleep-rumpled expression.

"Nice outfit," I comment. "Brought you coffee. Thought we could take a ride."

"Sure thing." He takes the cup from my grip, his fingers briefly brushing against mine. His blue gaze lingers on me for a heartbeat longer than expected before he retreats back into the room. "Need a few," he murmurs after taking a sip.

"Cool." I follow him inside and shut the door.

He says nothing, just pads into the bathroom to brush his teeth and clean up. I watch him come out and lose the sweatpants, then tug on a fresh pair of jeans and a black T-shirt.

As we ride the elevator downstairs in silence I still don’t know why I’m taking him with me today.

Finally outside, we head toward the warehouse where a collection of cars at my disposal is waiting for us. Today’s pick? A sleek black sports car that I know will impress Hawk.

Still confusion looms over my decision; what business do I have impressing someone technically under my payroll?

I shake off these thoughts; maybe it's time to stop questioning every leap and simply...jump. To let go…

"Nice ride," Hawk comments, whistling appreciatively as he slides into the passenger seat. "Where are we off to?"

"Breakfast first," I reply, starting the engine and revving it dramatically. "After I have some errands to run." As we drive through the still-quiet streets of Las Vegas, I can feel Hawk's curious gaze on me, but he remains silent, allowing me to navigate us without interruption.

We pull up to a small diner, the kind of place that serves up greasy goodness and endless cups of coffee. Over plates piled high with eggs, bacon, and hash browns, I ask Hawk if he’s going to take me up on my offer and move into the hotel permanently. He’s never given me a direct answer.

His fork pauses midair as he chews, considering my question thoughtfully. "Sure," he says eventually.

"Good." I nod, shoving food into my mouth to hide what I think is a grin.

"It's safer that way, right?" Hawk comments matter-of-factly. But we both know there’s nothing offhanded about this. "Are you going to tell me what those errands are that you’ll need my company for?"

"Nothing crazy," I say with a shrug.

"Alright."

We finish the remaining breakfast in a comfortable silence, pausing occasionally to compliment the food.

"You take care of this place too?" Hawk asks as I signal for the check.

"You think I take care of every diner in this city?" I chuckle.

"I don’t know. You’re full of surprises."

I don’t respond.

As we get back into the car, I feel a strange sense of contentment. Despite the darkness that surrounds us—the danger lurking just beyond my line of vision—today’s morning is just…normal. A chance for us—me and him—to simply exist, together, in a world that's hell-bent on tearing us apart.

As I cruise down the street that’s starting to wake up, I can feel Hawk's presence beside me. His scent is filling the car with that intoxicating musk that makes my chest tighten.

Twenty minutes later, I pull up into the parking lot of a massive toy store. As always my stomach twists in knots at the thought of entering such a...happy place. A place filled with all this innocence. Sometimes, I wonder if I’m getting it dirty just by walking inside.

I know it’s an absurd thought, so I push myself. I push myself to come here once a month and do what I do.

"I would ask why we're here," Hawk comments while we approach the entrance. "But I’m afraid."

"Relax," I tell him. "We’re doing what everyone else is doing here. Buying stuff."

"I see."

As we move further between the aisles, my eyes drift over stuffed animals and bicycles before landing on a shelf filled with board games near the back. Monopoly, Life, Clue—simple things that bring back memories from my childhood when my mother was still happy and before Jacob turned our home into a living hell.

My hand hovers over the boxes and suddenly, I’m not sure anymore. I’m not sure that what I’m doing is right. It's like asking God to keep me in his mind when the Devil has already claimed me long time ago.

"Hey," Hawk’s voice comes from somewhere off to the side, yanking me out of my momentary haze.

I turn and meet a green stuffed iguana—or is it a lizard?— being shoved into my face.

"This has your name written all over it." He grins. "For your office."

I manage a shaky smile, taking the toy. "Jeremy will kill me if I put that in the office."

Hawk and I prowl through aisle after aisle in an almost ritual silence until our cart is full of action figures and Nerf guns and art supplies.

Standing shoulder to shoulder while waiting in line at the checkout and staring at a serpentine conveyor belt crawling ahead, I realize I haven’t felt this normal in a long time. There’s an unspoken communication developed between us, without words, in the form of stolen glances and accidental brushes of hands against each other.

And I like it.

I know it’s dangerous but I can’t control it, whatever it is.

Our next stop is an old church.

"Brace yourself," I warn, my fingers clasping around plastic handles of various bags bursting with toys, plucked from the mess spreading across our back seat. "These little rugrats are relentless."

"Sure thing." Hawk chuckles low and easy before jumping into action, hauling the remaining half of our purchases out of the cramped leather confines.

"You could’ve just admitted you needed an extra pair of hands," he says with a cheeky grin, whilst we navigate under the shadowed archway and toward the looming stone fa?ade of the building. "It wouldn’t have killed ya."

"You would've made some excuse if I told you what I was up to." I quirk an eyebrow cynically at him as we tread carefully on worn cobblestones. "Who knows, you might have considered this work beneath you now that you’re a big shot..."

"Toy shopping?" He snorts out a laugh that bounces off the walls and sneaks into my chest, warming it up from the inside. And even though it’s hot as fuck outside, I can still feel it, this pocket of different kind of heat around my heart.

"Never beneath me," Hawk adds. "I’m always game."

This is where we reach the heavy doors of the church itself and I push them open.

Sister Angela—a small woman in her late fifties—greets us from the other end of the long hallway, rushing over. Her weathered face lights up like she's just seen heaven when her eyes land on our toy-filled bags.

"Isaac! What a delightful surprise!" she exclaims. Her smile deepens as she reaches out to give me a brief hug.

She’s tiny in figure, and every time I find myself naturally leaning into her comforting embrace. As she gently withdraws, her attention veers over to Hawk. "And who's this young man?"

"Ah, this is my—" I have to pause because this catches me off guard and I fumble. Not exactly for words, but to restore my sanity as I attempt to push away the dark scenarios replayed ever so vividly in my mind–from cool walls and marble rubbing against our bare skin to the mark left by my hands on him the other day. Damn it all, these blasphemous thoughts about another man’s cock in God's house are certain to seal my damnation no matter what meets me at life's end…

Finally managing to compose myself just enough, I present him against the chaos rendering inside me. "My friend, Hawk."

"Bless you both," Sister Angela coos.

"Nice to meet you, Sister," Hawk says, glancing at me from the corner of his eyes, curiosity burning in his gaze.

"You’re right on time. We were just setting up for a meal."

I sidestep into confession instantly. "We had quite a breakfast earlier." I look at Hawk, unsure why. I usually make all the decisions myself, but here he is, like a shadow and I have this need to know what he thinks. "We’d love to join nonetheless," I add.

She takes us through the hallway, familiar to me. Hawk, on the other hand, is scanning every fraction of it with curiosity, like he’s trying to memorize the space.

Sister Angela then guides us through the familiar corridors of the church. Well, familiar to me, while Hawk observes every detail like an eager explorer about to chart unvisited territories.

"You don't strike me as the religious type," he whispers as we follow Sister Angela inside a large hall where at least a dozen kids of various ages are already seated at the long table.

I don’t have the time to give him an answer. And I’m glad for it.

"Guess what?" Sister Angela announces, clapping her hands. Her cheerful declaration reverberates through the large space commandeering everyone’s attention. "We’ve got some special guests visiting us today."

The sight of bags prompts the kids to descend upon us like an enthusiastic army. They are claiming shares, creating quite the animated battle around Hawk who looks dazed for a moment, surrounded by this frenzy while Sister Angela and I share an understanding smile at their pure, unbridled joy.

Every time I stop by Sister Angela’s and her sea of youthful energy, I find that any hurried exit strategy I may have gets nixed before it begins. I’m always tempted to bolt straight out of the church once I hand her the gifts, but I cave in instead, just like right now, watching Hawk–patience personified–field questions from children wondering about the mechanism behind their latest toys or why his hair flows down to his shoulders or whether his tattoos hurt when he had them done.

Time turns surreptitious inside the church, slinking by quietly until we finally escape into lingering daylight that has tracked across the sky unnoticed but still allows for one more errand.

"You come here often?" Hawk asks as we climb into the car and I steer into the evening traffic.

"Sometimes," I supply.

He’s quiet for a while, just messing around with the radio controls until some bluesy tune catches his attention.

"Jessica spent her last two years before she aged out here at the church orphanage," I say, unsure why I need to share this info. "She would have been dead or…worse if not for Sister Angela."

"She and Jeremy were both in the system, right?"

"Yes. Their parents were killed. Old street war. She was still a baby then, but Jeremy, he remembers it. And you know how he can be. No one wanted him as a foster kid because of his temper. In the end, they got separated and she was placed with a different family. She stayed with them for a good while, but her foster dad was a real dick. She needed to get out of there eventually."

"Life is funny, huh?" Hawk comments. He sounds almost philosophical. "When you only see what you see from your vantage point without knowing what the other side sees from theirs, it’s… not a full picture. And you can’t really work with the half-truth, can you?" He turns his head to me right when we stop at the red light. I meet his gaze. The wind catches his hair, dark strands brushing against his cheekbone before sliding into the air.

"Truth is relative," I reply.

"Not in some cases."

"Like?" I wing up a brow.

"The earth is round," he supplies without missing a bit. "That’s the truth and no matter how you look at it, it’s still the same."

"Then why all the deep contemplation?"

"Just thinking," he murmurs with a sad smile as if there’s something heavy in his heart and he can’t say it.

And I chose not to prod. We all have our own ghosts. Sometimes, it takes time to start talking about them. Sometimes, you never do and sometimes something pushes you before you’re ready.

The last stop of the night is a land lot the family recently acquired from some developer who went belly up.

It’s a combo of fresh concrete and steel—a sprawling modern beast rising against the horizon, never finished. Just bare walls. Blocks of cement and construction dust everywhere. Several cranes loom over the terrain, creating weird shadows that mingle with the long beams of receding light that falls from the sky as the sun is about to disappear behind the buildings in the distance.

I steer the car toward the unfinished entrance to the building, or its carcass, to be more exact. A derelict skeleton rather than a building.

"Thoreau’s recent purchase," I tell Hawk as we abandon the comfort of the vehicle.

I’ve been here before. Several times. Georgie isn’t much of a brain, so Uncle gave the assignment to me.

We navigate toward the staircase, cutting our way through veils of dust particles hanging motionless in shafts of fading afternoon light. We're ascending up to where construction had drawn its last breath. The final half-finished floor is our destination.

"Another casino?" Hawk asks over his shoulder while we near the edge of the floor under our feet. "It’s gonna look sweet when it's done," he comments, nodding toward the smattering of buildings in the distance. The Strip.

"Possibly," I reply. "But I don’t know yet. Could be condos or business spaces."

"Great view regardless."

"I know."

We stand shoulder to shoulder for what seems like an eternity, gazing at Las Vegas as it unravels before us, a ribbon spun of neon and sin.

A symphony of car horns and phantom jingle of slot machines plays backup to our silence, filling the hot evening air with an electricity that buzzes against my skin.

With trembling hands, I slide out a pack of cigarettes from my jacket's pocket. The crinkle of the paper in my grip echoes the crunch of gravel beneath our feet. I coax two cigarettes into life. One for him, one for me.

He accepts his without saying a word, our fingers brushing in the process and I’m slammed with a whole array of emotions that's been building up in me all day today. Such a small connection sears through my composure like hot iron through ice. It's unnerving—feeling. I've forgotten how it is and now that it's coming back it scares the shit out of me.

"You hungry?" I ask, trying to sound casual.

"I could eat." He takes a drag and holds the smoke in his lungs for a few heartbeats before letting it slip from his nose and from between his lips.

The scent of burning tobacco intertwines with the dry desert air around us and every inhale tastes like riot—bitter, tangy but undeniably thrilling.

"I know a place," I supply.

"I bet you do."

"What can I say? I like good food."

"Who doesn’t?"

"You should see the junk Hector eats. It's a wonder that his liver hasn't staged a rebellion."

Hawk laughs and his laugh is soft and languid and it gets to me just like it did before. "And I ain't laying blame on Grandma."

"She gotta make a living too, right?"

The 'Grandma' we speak of is the steely-eyed ancient woman vending her questionable cuisine during daylight from a rickety cart across the street from the club. Her culinary offerings are as dubious as they are tantalizing. Especially to unlucky souls like Hector who couldn’t fight off their strange allure if he tried.

"I don’t ever want to know what she puts in those dogs," Hawk comments, looking into the distance. His hair is caught is the hot desert wind again and I look at him, really look at him, really drink him in like he’s water and I’m on my deathbed. My insides curl onto themselves.

I know it’s dangerous—to let someone this close to me. To open myself up for weaknesses. But in all of the years I’ve been living as Isaac Thoreau, I never once allowed myself something for me. I will allow it just this once. I will allow myself wanting him .

With cigarettes burnt to stubs and jokes transforming into silence, we pull ourselves away from our overlook haven and toward the staircase.

Again, he remains unquestioning, moving on my rhythm while I drive through the glittering streets of Vegas until we're at the city's fringes.

There, we roll up to the rear of a building nestled between anonymity and grandeur. A mosaic of businesses resides within its walls, including an exclusive Thai restaurant nestled discreetly amongst clouds and stars atop its three-story frame.

I found out about it last year. A serendipitous discovery during one of those solitary nights at my place nearby when comfort was sought in take-out food surveyed through Uber EATS.

"You don’t mind Thai food?" I ask as we enter the elevator.

Hawk shakes his head. "Not at all."

"Good."

Once inside the restaurant, we are seated at the table near the glass wall that provides us with a perfect panoramic scene of the night city, light stretching and stretching into the darkness of the mountains.

Hawk seems to be comfortable with the cuisine.

"Best Pad Thai in town," I tell him while he skims the menu.

"I was thinking of getting something else—" he peers at me through his dark lashes from across the table and my insides twist again, "—maybe some Gaeng."

"Knock yourself out… But I’m warning you, they don’t hold the spices in this place."

"I can play nice with fire." He smiles. "Wanna bet?"

I raise an eyebrow. "Sure. Hundred bucks says you’d be begging for another glass of water halfway through your bowl." I pull out my wallet and fumble for an appropriate bill, then slap it on the table, challenging him.

Hawk just grins and says, "I’ll show you how it’s done."

Thirty minutes into our little gamble my wallet is a hundred bucks lighter.

The Vegas skyline gradually fades in the rearview mirror as we speed toward the outskirts of the city. The wild stretches out around us, illuminated only by the distant glint of the casino's neon lights.

"Now that you fed me, you’re taking me to the desert to kill?" Hawk says jokingly.

"Patience," I reply cryptically, a small smile playing at the corners of my mouth. "You'll see soon enough." My heart is drumming in my chest like crazy when we turn off the main road and onto a winding path that leads through a sprawling estate, flanked on either side by towering palm trees that sway gently in the evening breeze.

As we approach the front gate, and I roll down the window, Hawk's curiosity gets the better of him. "Whose place is this?" he inquires, craning his neck a little to get a better look at the imposing structure beyond the wrought-iron fence.

"It's mine," I answer simply, pressing a button on the dashboard to open the gate.

Hawk looks at me with a bit of surprise but says nothing as we pull up the driveway and park in front of the house.

We step out of the car and I let him take it all in. It’s remote and I didn’t tell him that we’d be ending this day here—at my house that I keep a secret pretty much from everyone. Only Jeremy and a couple more guys have visited in the past, very briefly.

I don’t want him to think I’m asking him to do something he may not want to do. I can read the room all right. There’s definitely chemistry between us and I want to keep going. But I’m not the kind of person who’ll do this without proper consent.

"Wow," Hawk murmurs, clearly taken aback. "You have a beautiful home."

Something a lot like pride flutters in my chest. It’s an elegant Spanish-style architecture piece, perfect against the backdrop of the desert. Its angles are softened by the small garden filled with mostly native plants and some colorful flowers.

Hawk confesses, circling the car, "I always imagined you as someone who preferred modern architecture with lots of glass and concrete."

"Not very Isaac Thoreau for you?" I ask, fumbling with the car fob in my palm. I’m nervous I realize whenever the distance between us shrinks.

No, I’m nervous around him all the fucking time.

It’s infuriating.

"Don’t know," Hawk responds with a shrug.

"What did you imagine my home looking like? Some dark mansion filled with guns and knives?"

"Maybe not quite that extreme," he admits with a crooked smile.

Our bodies stand a whisper apart, and my heart is now thrashing against my rib cage in earnest and I can’t bear it anymore. I take a step forward to erase the distance between us. I reach for his hand, placing a car key fob gently into his calloused palm.

His eyes study my face.

I lean forward and capture his mouth with mine. The kiss is brief. Just a hello. Then I murmur in his ear. "You can take the car and go. I’m not telling you to stay. It’s your choice… But if you do want to stay, I’d love to…explore…whatever it is happening between us—" My nerves strangle every word ebbing from me, resulting in nothing more than unintelligible mumbles, or so it seems, "—has been happening since that very first time we met the day of your interview."

I retreat just enough to look him straight in the eyes, bracing myself for rejection just in case.

Hawk's gaze meets mine, his blue eyes twinkling under the moonlight as he seems to mull over my confession. The silence is thick, paralyzing every muscle in my body in anticipation.

He glances down to where the fob was placed safely in his hand, then back up at me—his gaze searing through layers of doubt, fear, and desire.

"I’m not going anywhere..." he breathes out finally and returns the fob to me.

I shove it into the pocket of my slacks.

Without breaking eye contact, Hawk reaches out, tracing my jawline with the pad of his thumb. His touch sparks a blaze that engulfs my entire being, leaving me in the grip of an electric tingle resonating from where our skin meet.

"I want to explore it too," he murmurs seductively, leaning in until I feel his breath stir against my lips. His voice is soft. It’s heat and spicy cinnamon wrapped around every word.

Our mouths collide in a kiss, the tantalizing taste of him has me craving more. My fingers find their way to his shoulders before mingling with the dark waves of hair at the nape of his neck, pulling him closer as I surrender to the sensual rhythm of this mad entanglement.

He lets out a low growl as he pins me against the car. The coolness of metal against my back is a perfect contrast to the fire raging in me.

He explores my mouth with fervor: teeth grazing lips, tongues wrestling for dominance—an erotic dance conducted under the starlit Nevada sky.

I can feel him harden against my thigh—his desire for me evident.

He trails kisses along my jawline, nibbling at the sensitive spot behind my ear that has me gasping for breath.

"I think we better take it inside," I rasp out a suggestion.

"I think you’re right." His agreement is immediate. He does something I don’t expect from him—grazes my cheek lightly with his tongue before pulling back a little. We tumble toward the stairs, completely under each other’s spell.

I struggle for coherence, barely remembering the passcode for my own door. My head is all cloudy, filled with the promise of something new, something I’ve been subconsciously thinking about ever since the day he showed up at Purgatory.

Once the front door clicks open, I drag Hawk inside, pushing him against the wall and impatiently wrestling with the worn fabric of his T-shirt to peel it off him. He’s all taut abs and splashes of ink across his tanned skin. The scars only make him more beautiful.

He cradles my face gently in his warm palms before sealing our lips into another consuming kiss and effortlessly flipping me around until I realize I'm now wedged between him and the wall.

It’s a position I don’t like to put myself in.

A position of weakness.

He senses it. Senses my unease. His eyes find mine in the dimness of the room and he strokes his thumbs over my cheeks as if brushing my worries away.

There’s this voice inside my head, the voice that came to me in prison when I’d gotten too tired to be someone else’s punching bag. That voice drove me to conduct my first kill. They never found out who did it. Or if they did, they didn’t dare to come to me with accusations.

And now this voice is telling me things I don’t want to hear, so I shove it back down and tell it to shut up.

"We’re not supposed to be doing this," Hawk says.

"No, but we are and you’re going to make me feel fucking good," I husk out, my voice a rough whisper that fills the unnecessary pockets of space between us.

He stares at me.

"What are you waiting for?" I urge.

"Don’t know," he mutters.

His hands are everywhere at once: my neck, my chest, my abdomen—shaky fingers trying to unbutton my shirt.

"Hurry up," I order, my voice ragged with need.

Finally, the fabric pools on the floor at my feet.

We are both breathing hard as his eyes drink in every unshielded inch of me. I can’t remember the last time I was bared in front of someone like this. Voluntarily.

Gently, he reaches out and traces the contours of my own scars, the ones on my chest—five slashes from a fight during my first week in the lockup. Then his finger slips to the mark below my rib cage on the left. Another attempt on my life.

"Prison souvenirs," I tell him quietly.

He brings his hand to my throat and runs the tip of his index finger over the faded mark there—on my neck.

"And this one?"

"This one is a gift from some asshole who's long dead. Tried to end me right after I got out."

Hawk nods and kisses the scar. Then he drops his mouth to my chest to the uneven skin where a knife ravaged it years ago and kisses it too.

I swallow past the knot in my throat, expecting this sickness that always engulfs me when another man takes control of my body to wash over me. But with him, it doesn’t happen.

There’s just this electricity, this invisible current of desire.

A moment stretches out like an eternity while he’s leaving a trail of kisses across my chest, slowly moving his mouth higher, across my collarbone to my jaw.

There’s a soft clink of the belt buckle.

I realize we’re past the point of no return. He’s hard. So am I.

"Bedroom," I command and take his hand.

He hums an affirmative.

We tumble toward the large staircase and upstairs, our erratic footsteps muffled by the plush carpet beneath our feet.

My heart is ready to burst in my chest from the intensity of the anticipation as we reach the master suite, pausing for a moment on the threshold to share another fierce kiss before entering.

I wanted to show him my house properly but it’s too late now. He’s steering me to the foot of the king-sized bed, his lips and tongue caressing my mouth in the most wicked way.

"Did anyone ever tell you you’re a sexy little thing, Isaac?" he whispers in my ear while I'm engrossed in a major battle with his apparently very stiff jeans.

His voice isn’t the voice that I’m used to hearing. It drips through my senses, richer and darker than usual. Almost like a forbidden fruit-flavored seduction.

"People have called me many names." I chuckle softly, finally winning the battle with his jeans and slipping them down his thighs. "But not that."

"Do you like it?" he asks.

I hesitate for a second, contemplating. The memories flood back: the endless taunting and cruel nicknames in the lockup. I push it all down and focus on the present, not wanting the past to ruin the present.

"I do," I tell him, tracing the lines of muscles on his chest with my fingertips. "When you say it."

"Okay," he murmurs. "Good."

"Are you going to finish the job you started?" I ask, guiding his hand to my belt buckle that he already unbuckled downstairs.

He quickly undoes the button and zipper of my pants, allowing them to fall to the floor. We're left standing in our underwear, our bodies a hair's breadth apart, our eyes locked onto each other's.

"Did you enjoy jerking me off last time?" he asks, his voice thick with lust.

"I did. I told you you have a great cock, didn’t I?"

"Can I have yours tonight?" He cups me with his hand through my boxers.

"Maybe," I hiss out. The contact, even with the fabric still separating us, has my mind spinning in thousands of different directions.

My hands shake as I reach for him, gripping the waistband of his own boxer briefs and sliding them down his legs. Our erections spring free, straining toward each other like magnets drawn together by some invisible force. The sensation of skin against skin sends shivers down my spine, awakening a hunger in me that has long lay dormant. So long, I forgot how good this can feel, how mind-blowing.

"Fuck, you feel amazing," I groan, wrapping my hand around both of our cocks. I need to take control while I still can, while I still am able to think through this. Even though I want him to be in control instead. I just can’t give it up. I'm not ready.

I stroke us together in a slow, torturous rhythm, searching for the right angle and the right pressure.

Hawk's breath hitches and he grabs at my shoulder with one hand and pushes me toward the bed. We fall down and he’s on top of me now, his weight—all lean muscle—is a little terrifying and my pulse ratchets up.

Hawk’s hips are grinding against mine in a blissful harmony as I continue to jerk us off.

His warm breath fans my neck and his teeth graze the tender flesh of my throat. He captures my lips once again, the hint of stubble on his face scraping against my jawline.

Our tongues dance together, tasting one another. The faint smell of exotic spices and cigarettes still lingers on him along with the rugged scent of musk and sweat that makes me want to drown in him. Lose myself completely. Be fucking baptized in his flavor and come up all new.

It’s maddening—this insatiable craving, this desire for his body, for his hands on my cock. I don’t understand it. Don’t want to. What I do want is to feel. Feel everything.

"Fucking hell… You're incredible," he mutters into the crook of my neck, taking over entirely. Our cocks are pressed up together, at the mercy of his skilled palm which sends us further down this rabbit hole of pure ecstasy.

His other hand slips between my legs to cup my balls, rolling them gently in his palm as he growls against my ear, "Shit, Issac…"

I moan brokenly in response, unable to come up with a coherent answer. The orgasm creeps up on me, like a thief in the dead of night. I feel it gathering at the base of my spine, powerful.

Hawk’s rhythm is perfect as he whispers huskily, "Wanna come with you."

I arch my hips, angling them into his grasp, my hand finding its way to his ass, squeezing it, pushing him against me, pressing his hips closer, praying for friction.

We are a tangle of limbs, coated in sweat all of a sudden. And the room smells like sex. Like him. Like endless euphoria.

His whole body is tense with the strain of holding out as he keeps on stroking us, faster and harder.

"Right there, yes," I choke out when the pressure and the angle are just right. I’ve been giving orders for years, but I’ve never given orders to someone who has full control of my cock and my balls.

This is a first and it’s weird but it doesn’t feel wrong. It just feels… new. A territory to explore.

"Do you like that?" Hawk gasps, his hand moving lightning fast now. "Do you like my cock rubbing off yours?"

"Fuck!" I curse and grip the bedcovers with my free hand, my back arching off the bed. His words and his touch… It’s like a match to kindling. "More, fuck, just like that—"

I feel him grin against my collarbone, his breathing erratic now, and I know we’re both close. So close.

"Damn…" I hear myself moan. "I’m coming."

He moans into my neck and it’s like dominos tumbling down: all along my spine, shivers after shivers. My entire body is on fire. I’m burning up from the inside out, from his touch, his mouth.

The orgasm rips through me, white-hot and blinding, stealing any semblance of control I ever thought I had. What a fool.

I tense up and come with a strangled cry, sending jets of hot cum flying onto both of our chests as I shudder beneath him.

Hawk moans out my name like a prayer and follows me into the void, his entire body shaking above mine with the force of his own release.

I blink up at the ceiling, my heart pounding like a drum in my ears.

"Fuck," Hawk says, voice muffled against my shoulder. "That was… intense."

I can only grunt in response. My body is quaking, the aftershocks coursing through me like little waves after a storm. The edges of my vision are all blurry and all I can register is his body sliding off to the side and flopping next to mine.

There’s buzzing where our shoulders touch, where a portion of skin is pressed up to skin. It’s still there, this strange reaction. It hasn’t gone away. Even after the itch has been scratched a little.

But frankly, I’m too wiped out to self-reflect or think about anything beyond the basics like breathing… And maybe some water.

Beside me, Hawk is panting, his inked chest rising and falling with uneven intervals and we lie like this for some time until the room stops spinning and the ceiling stops moving.

I light the cigarette, inhaling deeply and letting the smoke fill my lungs before exhaling slowly. The haze in the air mingles with the fading scent of sex and cinnamon, a heady combination that leaves me feeling both intoxicated and strangely vulnerable.

We’ve managed to clean up ourselves a little, grab some water and cigs, and Hawk's naked body is pressed against mine now. Hard, powerful, and very disorienting. He’s rolled to his side and though I can’t see him, I can imagine his blue eyes burning a hole in my cheek.

It's been so long since I've allowed myself to let this loose. And this. Sex with another man after prison, after Jacob—it’s still a fucking mystery to me. I tried in the past, right after I got out of prison. I couldn’t get over the dumb fear of being exposed in front of another person.

"Hey," Hawk mutters, his breath a series of warm, shiver-inducing waves against my neck. "You always this quiet?"

"Don’t know. Am I?"

"Thinking about anything?"

"Nothing important," I reply as I take another drag from the cigarette. "Just... stuff."

"Stuff, huh?" His fingers trace idle patterns on my chest until they reach my hand and snatch the rest of the cigarette. "You know you're a terrible liar when you’re in bed, right?"

"Maybe," I concede. I’m not in the mood to argue. I’m too relaxed and too blissed out and if he were to try and tie me up right now, I probably wouldn’t put up a fight. It’s dangerous—this feeling. "And you’re terrible at small talk."

He inhales a lungful of smoke and holds it in before letting it back out. "I haven’t really done small talk after sex in a long time."

"Is that so?" I turn to look at him. "How long we’re talking about?" Suddenly, I find myself interested in who he slept with before me and if it was just intense, and if I can find that fucker or put a bullet in his head for once touching what’s now mine.

"A while," he supplies cryptically.

"Three months? Six months? Seven months?"

My suggestions conjure up an amused smile on his face.

"Am I even close?" I ask, curious. "Is it getting warmer when the number goes up to double digits?"

"Definitely warmer."

"Well, congrats. You haven’t lost your touch."

"Guess I haven’t." He shifts on the bed, his mouth grazing the shell of my ear. "Made you come, didn’t I?"

"Don’t get cocky," I tease.

He rests his hand on my stomach, his palm large, fingers long and calloused and warm and so familiar. "So, are you in double digits too?" he whispers.

My heart rate picks up immediately.

I’m silent, unsure if I'm ready to share that part of my past with him. Telling people my secrets means giving them ammunition to destroy me later.

"Been a while for me too," I whisper. That’s all I think I’m going to give him now.

"Double digits too then," he concludes.

"Probably triple," I blurt out. Why? I don’t know. It’s the first time in my life I don’t want to share something with someone but I open the door to the fucking conversation. It’s like a part of me doesn’t want to keep it in anymore.

"Seriously?" he asks.

"You sound surprised."

"I always thought someone as…fucking gorgeous as you would have people lining up."

"You watch too many shitty crime TV shows."

"You missed the compliment."

"I didn’t. I just chose not to make a big deal out of it."

Hawk props himself on one elbow and reaches over to stub out a half-smoked cigarette in the ashtray that wobbles precariously on the edge of our rumpled sheets.

He leans forward abruptly to seize my face between callused fingers and press his mouth—ardent, cold fire and burning tobacco—against mine.

My body responds instantly.

Before my brain catches up.

Our tongues meet in a fiery, wet dance and when he pulls back a moment later we are both breathless again.

"I don’t know if I can go again," I tell him honestly as he rubs himself against me. Everything I had he fucking milked it out of my dick. "Later."

"I can’t go again yet either," he admits. "I just can’t seem to stay away." Slowly he sags back on the bed and together we stare at the ceiling and it’s the most peaceful I’ve been in years.

"In prison," I begin, my voice a low, raw whisper, clawing its way out from under my tongue, "I wasn’t always someone who mattered. I’m sure by now you heard I was a made man in prison. Ran my business from there for years. But when I went in, I was barely eighteen. A legal adult by the time the judge finally read my sentencing. Wasn’t going to juvie anymore. And Thoreau…believe it or not…but we have a lot of enemies. Some of them we put behind bars for the good of ours and everyone else's business in this city." I pause. There’s a knot in my throat and I swallow to dislodge it. "Imagine their enjoyment when Jacob’s son finally arrived. Plus Jacob was dead. No one to threaten them. And Maurice was… well, has always been a coward. I think he was hoping he’d quietly get rid of me that way. I had no protection. No friends. Nothing."

"Jesus fuck, Isaac..." Hawk's voice has that tremor in it that I’m very much familiar with. It’s when you need to sound firm but on the inside, you’re fuming. Only I hide it a little better. He needs more practice. But then again, he didn’t spend several years in the lock-up playing punching bag for the nasty fuckers, whose dicks I wish to cut off even now that most of them are in the ground. I put them there.

"Listen, I don't want your pity," I snap, my defenses rising.

"It’s not—"

"It is and we both know it and if you continue feeling that way, then today is one and done."

"I’m sorry."

"Don’t need your fucking apologies either." I push off the bed, riled up. I know I shouldn’t be. I brought this shit up. What did I really expect?

Hawk rises up with me, hands reaching out to cradle my face.

I swat them away. "Go to hell, Cody!"

It’s probably the first time I say his real—his legal—name when we’re this intimately close, and he freezes for a moment like I just struck him. Something shifts in his expression, like things clicking into place. I don’t know what to make out of his reaction. He’s just as much of an enigma as I like to be to the outside world.

"I think we’re having communication issues," he huffs out, sliding his palm down my thigh as if trying to ground us both with that single contact.

"No shit." The sarcasm tastes bitter on my tongue.

"I’m sorry if I said something to upset you."

"Oh, for fuck’s sake." Swinging my legs over the edge of the bed, I create distance between him and me, a quiet protest against his dumb emotions and his incessant need for apologies. Goddamn pussy.

He presses himself to my back, his mouth near my ear and I don’t like the position I’m in. The position of a certified dickhead.

In retaliation, I spin around swiftly—all harsh movements and raw energy— forcing him down onto the cool sheets below us as I straddle him again. Our cocks brush against each other, speaking louder than any conversation or argument ever could–igniting sparks that surge through every nerve ending of our entwined bodies.

And then I forget why I was so riled up in the first place.

I crack my eyes open and determine that it’s late by the length of the delicate patterns the sun has painted on the walls. For a brief moment, I feel disoriented and lazy and I allow myself to bask in the unfamiliar comfort of waking up beside someone. Beside Hawk.

He’s out cold and blissfully naked and I take a second to appreciate his body, the hard lines of it, the lean muscles, the silky hair splayed on the pillow around his head like a dark halo, the glint of the metal piercing his left ear, the ink on his skin, the scars left by war that makes no sense.

He did most of the work during the later portion of the night, milking my cock dry until I couldn’t remember my own name.

His arm is thrown over my chest and I remove it carefully, trying not to wake him up.

I’ve gotten just a couple of hours of sleep and I should be exhausted. My body should be rebelling against any kind of physical activity but I feel more alive than I have in years.

Another anomaly I can’t explain when it comes to Hawk.

And frankly, I’ve reached the point where I’m not questioning it anymore. Maybe, just maybe the universe has finally decided to give me someone. To give me that one person who will make everything better. Worth it.

But reality has a way of intruding, even in the most idyllic moments. With a sigh, I reluctantly rise up from the bed and pad downstairs. The house is quiet and still, as if holding its breath and waiting for something to shatter the peace.

The first thing I do is look for my phone. It was a mistake to leave it abandoned here on the couch. I don’t even remember how it made it there. I must have tossed it away when Hawk and I were about to get busy.

The device is blinking insistently with a dozen missed calls from Jeremy.

My heart lurches in my chest, a cold knot of dread settling in my stomach.

I snatch up the phone and call him back. The line rings once, twice, before he picks up.

"Blade! Where the fuck have you been? I've been trying to reach you all night!" Jeremy's voice comes through the speaker, strained and frantic.

"Sorry. Was...preoccupied," I say, glancing back toward the stairs, where Hawk still sleeps, blissfully unaware of the shit brewing. "What's going on?"

"It's Jessica… She's been attacked. She's in the hospital." The words slam into me like a fist, knocking the breath from my lungs. "I need you here."