Chapter 8

8

ISAAC

T hat wasn't supposed to happen.

I had meant to just…talk about it. The elephant in the room. Our obvious attraction for each other that I wasn't ready to act on. Just talk, that was it. Get it out in the open, see if he really was feeling the same way, see if maybe he'd be interested in…something physical, down the line. But instead, I found myself pole-vaulting right over the line I'd tried to draw for myself, right into territory that my desperate dick wanted to land in.

Brody had been squirming over on the other end of the couch, and even with the laptop—or maybe because of the laptop—I could see that he was hard. I could see the way he kept looking at me, kept rubbing his hand over himself. And I couldn't take it anymore—I had ended up bypassing any kind of conversation and skipping straight to the good part.

Even though I was terrified of being touched like that, the need to see Brody touch himself, to hear what he sounded like when he was losing control, to catalogue every facial expression, every moan and pant and grunt when he came, had overridden any kind of sense I thought I'd had.

Brody coming beside me on the couch had unlocked something in my depraved mind. Something that had been shoved way down deep, something I wasn't sure would ever be resurrected. A single sexual encounter with Brody had done what no one—or nothing—else could.

And it was going to haunt my dreams—or, more accurately, my fantasies—because he'd said my name in a guttural growl that had ricocheted deep in my balls and had me coming faster than I ever had in my entire life. God, watching him had been the single most erotic thing I'd ever seen. The way he expertly stroked his cock—which was huge, by the way—and how his abdominal muscles kept clenching when he twisted his palm over the head.

He'd destroyed me without even touching me.

And then he'd asked— begged —to touch me. And I'd done what I do best—ran out of there and left him soaking in his own release.

I had never hated myself more.

With a growl of frustration, I snapped my textbook shut and flopped back on the bed. It was Monday, and I hadn't heard a word from Brody. To be fair, I hadn't tried to reach out either. But still, I wished he would say something. Anything. I'd told him I wanted to get him out of my mind, but by doing what we'd done, it had only seemed to strengthen whatever hold he had over me. Maybe, like quicksand, the more I struggled, the more I resisted, he'd only pull me deeper. If I gave in, if I let him touch me, maybe then I would see that there was nothing to obsess over.

"Dude, what is happening over there? You look like a despondent teenage girl. You sound like one, too, with all the heavy sighing going on."

I turned my head toward Jordan, who wasn't even looking at me, was typing something on his laptop as he sat propped against the headboard of his bed.

I sighed. "Nothing," I said. "Do you still need a ride today?"

"Duh. Do I look like I sprouted wheels where my legs are? I'm not an autobot."

"Well don't make me wait like you did last week, I was almost late to class because you couldn't decide which color scarf looked best with your eyes. The answer is none. It's always none. Your eyes are the color of poop."

Jordan gasped. "Well we can't all look like cute little Keebler elves, can we!"

"Just be ready at twelve."

"I will be. I'll show you."

He did not, in fact, show me. An hour later, when Jordan wasn't downstairs at twelve, I found him changing scarves in front of the mirror and grumbling to himself.

"Just wear the purple one. Purple looks great with poop."

"Fuck you, Isaac!" But he wore the purple one, and then we were on our way to campus.

Before we parted ways, Jordan said, "I'm gonna ride with Josh later, so don't wait up for me and my shitty eyes."

Sometimes it felt like we were twelve, not twenty two, but I really loved Jordan. He was the first person in my life that I had truly connected with, and in the four years we'd known each other now, he'd become like a brother to me. He was always there for me, and I appreciated that more than I could ever put into words.

Plus, he made a mean pound cake.

Class was a drag. I had two back to back—a four hundred level writing course and a math elective I'd put off until now because I loathed the subject—and by the time I was out, I was utterly exhausted. But I still had a four hour shift to get through at the bookstore that started soon, so that was where I was headed.

When I rounded the corner of the library, I stopped dead in my tracks. Someone behind me bumped into me, practically sent me to the ground, mumbled sorry and kept walking.

But all my attention was on Brody. I could see him across the little open garden with a fountain in the middle. He was wearing his red flannel coat, one hand holding the strap of his backpack over one shoulder, black hair looking shaggy and a little tousled. He was talking to another guy, smiling at him, and I was floored by the overwhelming rage that shot through me when the guy reached out and wrapped his hand around Brody's bicep. His fingers squeezed, then played with the fabric of his coat, gliding down toward his forearm.

Irrational anger flooded my system, and my mind was a ruthless flurry of furious, shouting thoughts. Thoughts that had no basis in reality or logic or sanity. My feet were taking me toward the duo before anything rational could reach me.

I hadn't even touched Brody yet, and here this motherfucker was, tugging at the sleeve of his coat, rubbing his hand up his arm. I wanted to chop his fingers off one by one. I wanted to bite a hole through his wrist and kick him in the dick. How fucking dare he!

Brody saw me coming. At first, he looked surprised, which quickly shifted to something that was maybe happiness or excitement, and then, the longer he stared at me, he looked confused. A little worried.

"Isaac," he said as soon as I stood in front of him. His eyes devoured me, scoured every inch of me, a hungry, leering glint in his inspection of me that sent warm tendrils of desire curling around me. And then what he said next completely diffused my anger and replaced it with exhilaration and a boundless pleasure. "God, you look good," he murmured. As if he couldn't help himself, he leaned toward me, bowing over me, and I…

I didn't step away. I didn't move a muscle. I let him invade my space, let him bring his face next to mine, anticipation pulsing low in my belly, my heart beating hard in my chest, and when he inhaled…fuck, how could he get me so turned on without ever even touching any part of me? Just by looking at me. By…smelling me. I guess I was into that now, too.

"Mm," he hummed, drawing away from me. "Smell good, too."

And when he smiled down at me, I just stared at his mouth. "How have you been?" I asked his lips, unable to look away. "Feeling, I mean. Since Saturday. After what happened," I said. And even though I was talking about him being in the hospital, I realized too late that he probably thought I'd been talking about…the other part of that day.

His smile turned into a sly, knowing smirk, and damn if I didn't want to bite it from him. "My eyes are up here, Isaac," he said. When I finally tore my gaze from those plush lips with the piercing I wanted to lick, when I forced myself to meet his eyes, I felt a physical ache in my chest, like I'd been punched. "And I'm fine. I've been fine."

I wanted to say so many things, ask so many questions, but what barreled out of my mouth was, "I've been worried about you."

Because I had been. Ever since he'd told me about his heart condition, I couldn't stop thinking about him fainting—alone—and getting worse than a concussion. What if he liked to take baths and passed out and fucking drowned ? What if he liked to fix things and was up on a ladder and fell and cracked his head open? What if he?—

"Really?" Brody's shocked voice pulled me from my catastrophizing, and I watched as his expression changed from stunned to intensely satisfied. "You don't have to worry about me, Isaac." Then his features shifted into something serious, and he said, "Actually, I was worried about you . I'm not sure?—"

Someone cleared their throat, and I wanted to punch them in said throat. I looked at the guy standing beside Brody and narrowed my eyes at him. He was shorter than Brody but taller than me and very, very skinny. I was judging him so hard because he was decked out in khakis, a button-up, and a fancy pea coat. He looked ridiculous and out of place with his gelled back hair and leather satchel. Seriously? Who carried a leather freaking satchel around? His flinty brown eyes gave me a quick once-over, a sneer pulling at his thin lips, and then he dismissed me completely and turned toward Brody. I barely restrained myself from hissing at him like a pissy cat.

"I have to get going, but you've got my number. We'll talk details later," he said smarmily.

What? What?

I felt like I'd entered a wind tunnel, and when this asshole raised his hand, clearly aiming for another squeeze of Brody's arm, I wasn't able to control my body from reacting the way it did. I batted his hand away before he could make contact and both him and Brody stared at me in stunned silence.

"Stop touching him," I hissed, giving in to my newly unearthed feline nature.

"The fuck…?" the leather satchel douche muttered, holding his hand against his body as if I'd broken it. Fucking pussy.

"Isaac," Brody snapped, sounding baffled and a little angry and making me wonder who this guy was to him. And at the same time, his stern tone had my dick perking up. "I'll talk to you later, Paul," Brody said to the other guy, who just gave me a nasty glare and walked away muttering something under his breath.

Then Brody gave me his full attention, and I wanted to bask under the beautiful weight of it. "What the hell was that? You can't go around hitting people just because they touched me," he said, gray eyes staring hard into mine.

"I don't want anyone else to touch you when I haven't even gotten to!" I exploded, and fuck if I didn't sound like a toxic, petulant child.

He gave me a considering look, like he was working through something in his mind. "So that's it? That's what that was about? Isaac…" he said, moving closer, eyes darkening with intensity. Like storm clouds at the height of summer. His voice became softer, lower, and slid along my spine like the lightest caress. Teasing me. "You can touch me anywhere, anytime, and in any way . You can put those pretty hands on my body whenever you feel like it. Those lips, too." Brody leaned forward, bowing his body again, making me clench my fists so I didn't grab him like I wanted to. His breath skittered across my cheek, a soft gasp slipped from my lips, and he said, "I have been dying to get your hands on me, sweetheart."

"Are you fucking him?" I blurted out, because at this point I was leaning hard into the craziness.

His lips quirked up as he pulled back and stood at his full height again. "No."

"Are you going to fuck him?"

"Fuck no."

"Well he wants to fuck you."

"Isaac, I have no interest in him whatsoever. We got partnered together on a project for class, that's it. I couldn't care less what he wants, what he does, what he looks like, or how he acts. You're the only person I want to touch. Or look at, or smell, or fuck."

I let his words sink in, enveloping me in warmth, heating me and opening me up. "Good," I finally said. "I have to go to work, but I'll see you on Wednesday?"

Brody sucked his bottom lip between his teeth for a moment that felt like an agonizing eternity, then asked, "Where do you work?"

"The bookstore on campus."

"Mm. All right. See you Wednesday, Isaac."

I wasn't sure if I imagined the promise in those words or not, but Wednesday couldn't come soon enough.

Wednesday took forever to arrive, and after my run-in with Brody, I wanted to get my head on straight. I had a lot of emotions that were unsettling me, but there was one thing I was desperate to work through and I felt like I couldn't move forward until I had someone help me untangle a few threads.

"I think I want to have sex," I said. "I think I'm ready. Or almost ready."

Dr. Varu looked at me through her glasses, hummed, nodded, and scribbled something on her notepad. "And what brought about this revelation after making the decision two years ago to never be intimate with anyone?"

I had zero qualms about talking to my therapist about sex. After all, it was the reason for all my issues and hangups, and her specialty. She was like a modern day Freud. Kind of. Not really. Never mind.

"Well," I started. "I met someone."

Dr. Varu was aware I'd been triggered to the point of losing control, but I hadn't really talked about how Brody had also taken care of me. How he'd been so careful to respect my boundaries since that day, how no one else made me feel safe like he did. So I talked about it now, and she listened patiently, nodding along and writing things down.

"And do you think he'd continue to respect your boundaries if things became…more, between the two of you?"

I nodded. "Yeah. I do."

"And what will you do if he doesn't? If he breaks your trust in some way? How will you cope if things get out of hand?"

"But that's the thing, I don't think they will. We've already…" My face heated, but I powered through my next words. "We did something last week. He…jacked off in front of me. And he didn't touch me. He asked, but I said no."

"Mm. It's good that he continued to respect your wishes. Respect is a very important factor in feeling comfortable with another person. In trusting them with the vulnerable parts of yourself. Do you trust him, Isaac?"

Did I? I think I was starting to. But trust took a long time to build, didn't it? You couldn't just start trusting someone because they'd treated you well for a while. A lot of predators acted like saints until they had their prey firmly curled in their claws. I should know.

"Sometimes the only way to know if you can trust someone is to trust them," said Dr. Varu before I could answer.

"Okay, Confucius," I muttered, making her lips twitch up in a small smile. "So even after what I've been through—what I know some people are capable of—you're telling me I should still put myself out there? I should still risk it just to get my—" Nope, don't say that. "Just to be intimate with someone else?"

"Maybe that's what's needed here. He sounds like a good person, from what you've told me. Someone worthy of your trust. And if on the off chance we're both wrong here, you can implement certain safeguards. Tell your friend Jordan where you're going, what your intentions are. You could tell him to expect a call from you at a certain time, and if he doesn't hear from you, then he can go to you. Whatever you're comfortable with. Because the most important thing here is to feel safe. So do whatever you need to do to ensure your safety."

I did feel safe with Brody. But it was hard to put away the past when it came to sex, and I had a feeling that no matter how kind and respectful and supportive Brody was, it didn't matter in the face of my demons. But I wasn't about to let them direct my life, and I wasn't about to let them come between me and something I desperately wanted, so it was time to start letting go.

"Have you told him about your past? Maybe an honest conversation is what's needed here, if you think telling him would help him understand."

"No, I haven't told him about that, and I don't really want to," I said. I didn't want it to affect his opinion of me.

"And why is that?"

Sometimes I hated therapy. It wasn't easy for me to share things in the first place, let alone talk nonstop for an hour about them and have someone else try to dissect it all. It made me deeply uncomfortable at times, and as open as I tried to be—because I knew it would help, in the long run—I still wanted to ignore my problems. It was easier that way.

"I don't know," I hedged. "I guess I just…" I was ashamed, that was why. But I didn't want to talk about my deep-rooted feelings about what happened to me. Not today. We'd been over it a million times before, and it always left me feeling numb and tired after. "I just don't feel like talking about it right now."

Dr. Varu moved on and segued into school and how everything was going in that area of my life, thank god.

And while I appreciated my therapist's helpful advice, there was no way I was telling Jordan what I planned on getting up to with Brody. No fucking way.

After my session with Dr. Varu, I went home and worked on the one thing that brought me peace and joy—my book. I had a few hours to kill until five o'clock, and with all this desire and anxiety swirling through me, it was the only way I knew how to center myself.

Writing had always pacified me, allowed me to pull away from reality and put my thoughts on paper, making them more real than they felt just swimming around in my head, untethered. But I didn't really write stories. Instead, I wrote silly poems that sparked a delighted kind of glee in me. I had always loved Dr. Seuss and Shel Silverstein as a child, and as I got older, I'd started writing my own mishmash of quirky rhymes, trying to emulate my favorite authors. Reading their books had been a deep source of happiness for me during a time when it had been hard to find any. It had been my escape from the truth: that I wasn't really wanted by anyone, just tolerated.

My birth parents had died in a car accident when I was two, and I was adopted by my aunt and uncle. But they didn't really want me. I always wondered why they'd taken me under their wing in the first place, considering how little attention they gave me. How, when they did turn their focus my way, it was to belittle and berate me. I could never figure out what had made them bring me into the mix when they barely put up with me. Probably out of some misguided sense of responsibility, seeing as there were no other living members of our family.

When I turned twelve, I was convinced that they'd been blackmailed or something. Or that I was going to be some kind of ritual sacrifice that they were fattening up until I got old enough. Or that they had been paid large sums of money to take me in.

I'd been a fairly happy child, though pretty unloved, until middle school. It was when I was old enough to see how other parents—parents who loved their children—acted. It was when I was old enough to start questioning things on a deeper level, to really feel that mangled link that I so desperately wished wasn't broken. I tried to be a good son, but nothing I did was good enough, and they barely paid any attention to me anyway. So I just kept my head down and read my books. I focused on my studies and getting perfect grades, and was ultimately offered an academic scholarship to Paxton University, where I was continuing my streak of a 4.0 GPA and majoring in my passion.

I wanted to be able to help kids like me, kids who needed a healthy escape from a less-than-desirable reality. I wanted to be the source of good in someone's life, like Shel Silverstein and all those other authors had been for me. I wanted to create and inspire and give back.

I pulled my notebook out from underneath my bed and flipped to the current poem I was working on. Then I let go of all my worries and put my pen to the paper.

I should've held on to that one worry I always had about being late, because when I surfaced from hyper-focusing on my writing, it was 5:10 and I was fucking late .

"Shit, shit, shit," I said, slamming my notebook shut, flinging it under my bed, and grabbing my phone, jacket, and keys. I checked my messages when I started my car up, and there was one from Brody.

Brody:

You still coming tonight?

Once again, it sounded like a come-on. I was beginning to think he was doing this on purpose. Crafty fucker.

Me:

Sorry, on my way!

Then I put the pedal to the metal and stayed within the legal parameters of the speed limit because I could not afford a ticket. I rushed out of the car when I got to Jamie's— Brody's —and the door swung open before I was even up the front steps.

Brody was definitely trying to tempt me into touching him. He was wearing a tight white t-shirt that outlined every single muscle and made me think it was from when he was twelve or something because lord was it tight. I could see his nipples and the barbells running through them, and because I was so much shorter than him, they were basically eye-level. I hadn't realized they'd put me in a trance until Brody leaned down until his gaze snagged mine, and the mischief lighting up those beautiful gray eyes made my stomach flutter.

"Hey," he said, lips pulling up in a knowing smile. "I can draw you a map, if that'll help."

I licked my lips, not following the conversation. "A map to what?"

"My eyes," he said.

"Oh, stuff it," I muttered. But excitement was making my heart pound, because he was so fucking sexy when he was playful like this. It immediately made me wonder if he was this playful during sex, and a different kind of excitement had my palms sweating.

Brody laughed and moved aside to let me in, then led me down to the basement. I tried not to look at his firm ass in those sweatpants he kept wearing, but it was a lost cause.

"Do you want anything? Water, soda, juice?" Brody asked once we were downstairs. "I know all that reading is hard on your throat." He walked over to the mini-fridge—where I was delighted to see the cactus still sat—and pulled it open.

"Um…water is fine," I replied. Without warning, a bottle of water was flying through the air right at my face, and I had to thank my recently discovered cat self for catching it before it could make contact.

"How come you were late?" he asked, taking up his usual spot on the end of the couch, and seeing him there again, after what we'd done the last time I was here, short-circuited my brain. "Isaac?"

"Uh, yeah. What now?"

"I asked how come you were late? You're usually early. Did something happen?" And oh, the concern in his voice was the sweetest sound to ever fall from his lips. Aside from the orgasm-inducing primal groans he made while coming three feet away from me and growling my name.

"No," I said, sitting down. "I was…working on something and lost track of time."

"What were you working on?" Brody was completely relaxed against the couch and actually looked curious.

"Oh…just some writing stuff."

"What kind of writing stuff?"

"Just some…poems and short stories."

"What are they about?"

"Um…have you ever read Shel Silverstein?" I asked, and then smacked my hand over my eyes because I'd spoken without thinking. "Sorry!" I rushed out. "I'm so sorry—I wasn't thinking, that was so fucking insensitive Brody?—"

"Isaac."

I lowered my hand as an embarrassed flush spread across my entire face. Brody looked mildly amused and in no way offended, but I still felt like shit.

"It's fine, Isaac. I can read, you know. It's just a lot harder for me. Takes longer to try and piece together letters and words that look backwards or jumbled up. And no, I've never read his books but I liked looking at the pictures," he said with a small smile. "Tell me about your work."

I sighed, trying to make the guilt dissipate. "Well, it's a series of interconnected stories and poems about all different kinds of animals that have trouble doing what usually comes naturally to them because they were never shown how or they were just born different. They work through their issues and other animals come and help them…Christ it sounds so stupid, but I always wanted to write children's books, so that's what it is."

I forced myself to look at Brody, despite my utter embarrassment, and found him smiling warmly at me. Part of me wished he would just laugh at me instead.

"It doesn't sound stupid at all. It sounds like you're creating something fun and meaningful. Maybe you could read me some of it sometime." I swear I was imagining that hopeful tone.

"Yeah," I said. "Maybe."

And thankfully he didn't say anything more about it. He handed me the textbook, and this time while I read for him, neither of us interrupted with inappropriate shenanigans. Much to my disappointment.

I probably should have just left when we were done, but there was something that had been bothering me for a while now. Maybe bothering wasn't the right word, but the question had been nagging at me for weeks, and now that we seemed to be getting…I don't know, closer, I wanted to know the answer even more. Because I still had this drive to help him, to comfort him, to understand him. A drive I didn't fully understand myself, but I couldn't deny its existence all the same.

"Can I ask you something?" I said, closing the book and setting it on the coffee table.

Brody looked at me with one eyebrow raised. "You can ask me anything."

That was a slippery slope. I held his gaze, determined to get an answer today. "What made you so upset that first day? Because the you I've come to know," and really like, "is nothing like the you who was beating up a vending machine."

"I—" He paused, biting his lip and looking away. I wanted him to talk to me, to open up to me like I'd been unable to do with him, and I know that made me a hypocrite, but maybe I'd be ready to at some point. If he wanted to hear about it. And who did he have to talk to about things that went wrong in his life? He'd admitted he didn't have any friends. So, who, Bri? Talking to Bri was like trying to walk through an open field littered with hidden pit traps full of sharpened sticks.

"Please, Brody. Please let me in."

His eyes snapped back to mine, and something passed between us. I felt it down to my core, that deep longing for someone to understand. Someone to trust. And knowing it wasn't just me who needed to let down my walls only made what was happening between us all the more compelling. Slightly intoxicating. Mildly alarming, but in a way that had anticipation thrumming through me rather than dread.

Brody sighed, holding eye contact, and said, "All right. That day…that morning, I found out that my dad died." My throat constricted, but I didn't say anything. I could tell he had a lot more to say. "And you're not from around here, but if you were, you'd know that he's not—he wasn't —a good man." A deep breath in, and then, "When I was nine, my mom passed away. Cervical cancer. And after that…well, after that, my dad just kind of—I dunno, didn't care about anything anymore. Not even me and Bri. He got into drugs—hard drugs—and then got into selling those drugs, and then got arrested and sent to prison for twenty five years."

"Oh my fucking god," I whispered. I didn't realize I'd reached out my hand toward Brody until his eyes flicked down, and when I saw what I was doing I?—

I didn't want to pull back. But I let my hand fall when Brody kept going, sensing he needed to get this out. He stared at a spot on the couch between us and said, "Bri and I were adopted by our uncle—my mom's brother—right after he was sentenced and…I dunno. I had a lot of trouble controlling my anger as I got older. I acted out a lot, did a lot of stupid shit that got me into trouble, but I started to get my act together about five years ago. Twenty felt a little old to still be stealing from people and getting into fights, and that was never the life I wanted for myself. I wanted something I could be proud of, that my mom would have been proud of, so I stopped fucking around and applied for college. The day I got accepted was one of the best days of my life because I was so sure I would be denied. My mom always wanted Bri and I to go to college, and she would have been really happy for me.

"But I always felt like I had the same poison running through my veins that had made my dad be such a piece of shit, and when my uncle told me he'd died, I just…lost it." Then those eyes raised to mine and pinned me in place.

"And Isaac…it's not an excuse for any of the shit I put you through, but I wasn't myself that day. I was so fucking angry with him for just leaving us all behind again, even though we'd never wanted him there in the first place. I know it doesn't make any sense, but that's how I felt. And when I saw you, I…" He huffed out a laugh that was humorless. "Well, to be honest, I wanted to fuck you. Wanted to rile you up in some kind of way, and I got so drunk at Jamie's party that I wasn't thinking right. But there was something about you that…I don't know, it was like I could see the pain in your eyes, some of which I'd brought to the surface, pain that matched my own, and it made me hate myself even more, but I wanted to hate myself that day. I just…I'm so fucking sorry, Isaac. I was so careless with you?—"

"Stop," I said hoarsely. "Just…stop." My throat felt like it was closing up, and the anguish in his eyes made me feel like I was about to break down. There was a hole in my chest, a gaping chasm his words had fractured open. "Brody, you…God, I've been so fucking mean to you," I choked out as every single interaction started rolling over me and battering against me like violent waves. "I don't even know how you can stand to be around me. And you've been…you've been so fucking nice and I know you didn't mean to trigger me that day, and if we're being honest here then you should know that no one has ever made me feel as safe as you do, Brody. So don't—please don't apologize anymore. I know you're sorry, and I know I'm messed up, but I can't have you thinking you're a piece of shit because of my issues. Because you were going through something that fucked you up."

Brody was leaning forward now, hands resting on his thighs as he laced and unlaced his fingers. When he spoke, it was almost solemn. "I just wish I'd met you on any other day but that one."

I wanted to take him in my arms—which was ridiculous considering how big he was compared to me—and hold him as tight as I could. And really, what was stopping me? The urge to go to him, to comfort him, was overwhelming, and for once I wasn't afraid of what touching him might mean. Only part of my trauma was based on consent, on all my nos and stops being ignored when I never thought they would be. But Brody—after realizing his mistake—had only been showing me how seriously he took my needs. Had been waiting patiently for me to say yes, had never tried to push me at all. And right now, I fucking needed to touch him.

"Brody," I said, waiting for him to look at me. I stood up, feeling a little shaky, and when he raised his eyes to mine, I said, "Can I…hug you?"

He looked startled at first, gray eyes searching mine, back and forth, looking for any ounce of doubt. But he wouldn't find it. I needed to hold him like I needed air. "Is that really what you want, Isaac?"

I nodded. "I need to…" Touch you. Feel you. "To hold you."

He stared at me with so much intensity I started feeling dizzy. Then he rasped, "You never needed to ask."

Three feet felt like three miles, and when I stood in front of him and he stared up at me, when he slowly leaned back into the couch, his arms at his sides, fists clenched, I slid my right knee onto the outside of his thigh, then swung my other leg over him, inhaling sharply when his body heat singed right through my clothes. My palms came up to steady myself against his chest, and the firm, hot flesh beneath my fingers jumped as if he'd been electrocuted, his heartbeat strong and fast. Every place we touched was tingling, sparking, like all my nerve-endings were going crazy. His eyes were so close now—closer than they'd ever been—that I could see the brown dots near the pupils, could see clouds of grays and whites and even blues swirling around in a heady mix of colors. His chest wasn't moving beneath my hands, as if he'd stopped breathing, and when I leaned forward and slid my hands higher, when I rested my chest against his and wrapped my arms around his neck, when I nudged my face into the crook of his neck, he took a deep, shuddering breath and his entire body trembled beneath mine.

Safe safe you're safe my body hummed.

His arms were still resting on either side of our legs, and I wanted him to hold me back so badly. I wanted to feel the weight of his embrace, for him to tether me to him, so I whispered against his skin, "Hold me, Brody. It's okay."

He groaned and wrapped his arms around my torso, tighter than I'd ever hoped for, his big hands curling around my ribcage on either side of my body. He nuzzled his cheek against my hair, and his hands began moving up and down in a soothing motion that sent delicious waves of calming heat sliding over me. And he smelled so fucking good. His skin was soft against my lips, my nose, and I couldn't stop inhaling him, that spicy exotic scent mixed with his skin and sweat. He felt so good beneath me, enveloping me, and I let my body melt against his. Nothing felt more right in my entire life than being here, in his arms.

Brody moved one hand from my side to rub long lines down my back, pressing firmly and making my entire body turn to rubber. And when he started speaking in my ear, his voice deep and soft and reassuring, rumbling through his chest to mine, I would have floated away if he wasn't holding me to his body.

"You're such a beautiful boy, Isaac. So sweet and funny and good. You make me feel good, did you know that? You're not mean. Not at all. You're smart and creative and stubborn. So goddamn stubborn. You're soft and generous and so fucking pretty it hurts sometimes just to look at you. But I'd rather feel the ache of what you do to me than anything else in this fucked up world. Nobody but you would approach someone losing it on a vending machine. Nobody but you would try to give away the money that they needed more. Nobody but you has ever made me want to lose myself inside of them. I just want you to trust me. I want to show you that you can trust me, because I never want to see you cry again. Not because of me, or anyone else."

I wasn't sure when I had, in fact, started to cry. But his words had dug their way beneath old wounds and spread a balm over them all. No one had ever given me words like these. No one had ever seen me the way Brody did. And the warmth that suffused every atom of my being as he spoke was almost too much to bear. When I sniffled against his neck, Brody's hands stopped moving and he gently—so fucking gently—grasped my head and pulled me back. He looked devastated when he saw the tears, began wiping them away with soft brushes of his fingers, until I unwrapped my hands from around him and held his hands still, shaking my head.

"Sweetheart, I'm so?—"

I pressed my fingers over his mouth and said, "Don't. I'm not sad, I just…I've never had anyone say such nice things to me." And then my attention was drawn to the sensation of his lips against my skin, lips that I had watched almost obsessively for weeks, lips that were so soft and warm I was dying to feel them against my own. I had no idea what it would even feel like, to kiss someone. No idea how to do it. But I wanted to.

Slowly, I started to pull my fingers away, but not before tracing his lush bottom lip. My eyes were riveted to what I was doing, and I felt like I'd been drugged, like there was alcohol slowly pulsing through my veins, slowing me down and making everything hazy. I slid along that swell of flesh, stopping to feel the silver ring. His lips were wet, the ring glistening, and as I traced it up, my finger slipped between his parted lips into the wet, soft heat of his mouth. I moaned at the sensation, and when he sucked my finger inside and gently bit down on the tip, a searing jolt of arousal had me jerking my hips into his lower stomach. I watched, mesmerized, as he let go with his teeth and swirled that soft tongue around my finger. I was rock hard now, and every stroke of his tongue was making me throb in agony.

"Brody," I whimpered, looking up into his eyes. They were filled with heat and longing and promise, and I wanted him to fulfill that promise. I needed him to.

He let go of my finger, and I brought it to my own mouth, wondering how that had felt. Wanting to taste him. He watched me suck on the tip, his eyes half-lidded, his hands flying to my hips and pressing me down. I could feel his erection in the crease of my ass as he groaned at the contact, long and thick and so fucking hard. "What do you need, sweetheart? Tell me what you need."

Him. I just needed him, any way I could get him.