Page 31 of My Family

His mouth is on my shoulder, my neck, my cheek, shifting locations every second like he can't get enough of my skin. I feel his teeth graze my earlobe as his hand speeds up. We're both leaking, the mess spreading, slippery and hot. He groans, and I moan.

"Look at me," he says, and I force my eyes open. He's right there, pupils blown, lips parted, so beautiful it hurts. He kisses me and I arch into him, helpless, grinding against his palm.

"Fuck, Daddy…" I whimper. I'm close, so close, and he knows it, squeezing just a bit harder, twisting his wrist the way he knows I like. It's not enough, it's too much, I lose track of which. I'm dizzy, my whole body humming, every nerve tuned to the friction between us.

He pulls back from the kiss, breathing ragged, and presses his forehead to mine. "You're so good, my baby. You're so good for me."

I shatter. I come hard, hips jerking, splattering over both of us. He doesn't let up, keeps stroking, and a second later he's coming too, painting my stomach and chest, his whole body going taut. He bites into my neck to muffle the sound, but I hear the gasp anyway.

We stay like that for a while, stuck together, his arm around my back, my head nestled into his collarbone. Our heartbeats thump in sync. The air smells like sweat and sex. I fucking love it.

I start to giggle, which makes his chest shake. "That was so fucking messy."

"You can clean it up, pet," he says and he wipes some of the mess off with his fingers, then smears it onto my cheek, a stripe across my face like war paint.

I make a big show of licking it off, slowly. He pulls me close and kisses me again, softer.

We don't rush. Neither of us wants to break the spell, but the clock on the wall is merciless, ticking closer and closer to the end of rec time.

"Go, baby. I'll see you soon," he says.

"I'll miss you so much!" I exclaim, dramatic.

"Me too, baby. Me too."

Chapter 12. Liam

I always knew I was a depressed little shit, but knowing something in theory and living it in practice are two completely different things.

I'm in a great mood because my dad called me.

I go to the phone room, which is usually the place everybody wants to be, because that's where you get to talk to the outside world, but I almost never go, because I have nobody to call. This time, though, they come to find me and tell me I have an incoming call, so I go and wait.

Sometimes Ethan does his shift there, making sure nobody goes over the ten minutes we're allowed. Unfortunately this time it isn't him. It's a new guard I've never seen, hair pulled back and a resting bitch face, like most of the rookies still trying to establish that we'll respect them.

When it's my turn, I pick up the phone looking like everything is fine. To anyone watching, I'm chill, no problems, nothing going on, absofuckinglutely fine. The truth is I'm shaking on the inside, my hands trembling slightly, the same feeling that I'm going to pass out or come apart at the seams, like those little cracks that show up in asphalt right before the whole thing collapses.

"Liam." My dad's voice. Sounding upbeat, as if this is just another call, another father and son bonding experience we have all the time. As if it hasn't been months since we last spoke. "Hey, man."

I only ever used to hear my dad sound like that after several beers, a bottle or two of wine, and a couple of glasses of whiskey. But he'd quit all of that a while back. Or at least that's what he said.

"Dad, is everything okay?" I ask, and a horrible thought starts gnawing at me, like a rat in the walls at three in the morning: he called because something is very wrong. Maybe he's dying. Maybe cancer. Maybe a stroke.

"Yeah, everything's good. I called to tell you I'm coming to visit on the next visiting day. That work for you?"

My heart slams into my ribs. I can't even believe those words. The last time I saw him was last year, around my birthday, early December.

"Seriously?" is all I manage to say. Like an idiot, which I basically always am.

"Of course. I miss you, man." He laughs, and for a second I remember the days we used to go fishing when I was little, before everything got really bad. "You can count on it."

"I'd love that," I say, and it's true. It's ridiculously fucking true.

"Then it's settled. Next visiting day, I'll be there."

Fuck. Now I have this terrible thing called hope.

On visiting day, I'm shaking worse than when I'd gone a week without drugs. I can't even hold a fork steady. Sitting at the breakfast table with everybody, I'm terrified they'll think I'm refusing to eat again — when I'm actually doing so much better with treatment, thank you very much — it's just nerves.