Tugging Andrew forward by his hips, Isaac bent toward his slick and throbbing cock, and sucked it between his lips. Andrew cried out, though he managed to choke it back from being loud enough to alert the people passing outside. His eyes fell closed and he reached forward with both hands to hold Isaac’s head.
The contact made Isaac twitch and pulse between his own legs again, having Andrew undone before him, unraveled in his grasp, all his. He sucked him down, fingers squeezing Andrew’s ass as he held him in place, tongue never ceasing its languid movements as he sucked and took Andrew in deeper, until a shudder ran through him, the hands on Isaac’s head shaking—
“I-I…I’m—”
And Isaac held him there to swallow back everything Andrew spilled.
When Isaac finally pulled off, licking his lips of the remnants, Andrew’s panting breath filled the room. His hands holding Isaac’s head turned to gentle strokes of his fingers carding through Isaac’s hair.
Gentle. Tender.
Intimate.
Isaac looked up, their eyes meeting with a warmth passing between them, that kept passing between them, that Isaac wasn’t sure what to do with. They were just fooling around, but Isaac was growing more and more addicted every time they did.
He couldn’t have said who leaned in first, but it was definitely Andrew’s decision to climb into his lap. Isaac barely felt the weight with how grounding it was to hold him.
The kiss was slow, too slow, too deep a connection to fool himself into thinking this wasn’t more than sex. They didn’t say anything about it though. Eventually, Andrew got up. They cleaned themselves, disposing of the evidence in Andrew’s wastebasket, and dressed again, perfectly presentable before Candace returned from her errands.
Isaacwashomenow,the hour growing late, and the afterglow long since faded to remind him of why he’d been angry with Andrew in the first place. There had been no family dinner yet, not with the Wens, just him and Dalton—and Luke and Kathleen.
Neither of them stayed with Isaac, they both had their own places, but sometimes Luke would crash if he was working on a project, and Kathleen tended to linger with Dalton around, none of them used to the found family he’d helped them realize they had.
There was an area of the warehouse that had originally been a garage. Luke used it for fixing up old cars, and Isaac planned security runs there when he was sick of sitting in his office. Sincethat’s where they’d chosen to hang their hats tonight, that’s where Kathleen and Dalton were too.
It was still a warehouse, was the point, business by day and safe house turned apartment by night, with very little warmth. Dalton looked happy enough to be there, but Isaac wondered if it was enough.
Dalton and Luke were rebuilding the engine on a 1969 Ford Mustang Boss 429—Luke’s dream car. He’d talked about fixing one up for years, but it was Dalton who’d pushed him to finally start. The parts weren’t hot—well, not any of the ones Luke had acquired recently—but Dalton didn’t care either way. He just chatted with Luke while they worked, giving the right oos and ahs, and occasionally got pulled into conversations with Kathleen who sat on a loveseat in the corner doing paperwork
Even now, as Dalton wiped off some of the grease to take a break, Kathleen called him over to inspect his hands.
“Sweetie, after tonight, I’m going to have to give these poor things some TLC. You pick the time and the color; I’ll bring the manicure supplies.”
Dalton giggled. “Definitely your electric blue, Aunt Katy.”
Watching them from a table covered in schematics and notes for tomorrow, Isaac wondered if he’d know when itwasenough. He’d gone so long without anything, always fighting for more, wanting and taking more. Now that he was trying to live his life differently, when did he get to relax and be done wanting? How would he know the difference?
Part of him kept waiting for Dalton to vanish and all the good in his life to vanish with him. Once this case was over, once he and Andrew were back to being just competitors, that’s what would happen to them, wouldn’t it? The past always caught up eventually.
The starkest reminder of that was in the headline of the newspaper resting beside his blueprints:Jareth Boyega Dead by Lethal Injection.
He wasn’t the only inmate on death row who’d escaped at Christmas—his brother, Jericho, would have been too if he hadn’t left the city long before anyone could arrest him—but he was the only one who’d been mere months from the final curtain, and Isaac was the reason he’d gone back to jail. That didn’t weigh his death on Isaac’s conscience, but it did draw a hard line between who he’d been and who he wanted to be.
That, a handful of the usual death threats, and a note from Willow G that had arrived with the paper.
Seriously, Arty, are you back in the game?
Even what was effectively the criminal hotline assumed he was playing double agent.
“What’s up, Dad?” Dalton asked, stepping into his line of sight. He was smudged and dirty, carrying three empty beer bottles, two of which Isaac knew were Luke’s, waiting to be replaced with fresh ones.
“Planning for tomorrow.” Isaac gestured at the table, casually slipping the paper and note beneath the schematics.
“Anything I can help with?” The bottles clanked as Dalton set them down to glance over the controlled chaos of how Isaac worked.
“Not until I have the initial guidelines for you to hand to Vallancourt.”
“Okay. Anything I can help with concerning what you werereallythinking about? Like Andrew?”
