Page 7 of My Family

He comes with a muffled scream against my hand, his body convulsing, clenching around me in waves that rip a groan from me. I feel the hot spill against the desk, feel his knees buckle, and I hold him up with one arm across his stomach while the other stays pressed over his mouth.

Three more strokes. Two. One.

"F-fuck, baby," I whisper. I can't control it. I bury myself deep and let go, and the orgasm tears through me with a violence that blanks my mind to everything, leaving nothing but the heat of his body and the sound of his breathing and the terrifying certainty that I would burn the world down for this boy.

We stay collapsed against the desk for a long time. His chest rises and falls, and my forehead rests between his shoulder blades, and we breathe together in the quiet. I can feel his pulse through his back, slowing gradually from frantic to steady, matching mine, the way it always does.

I pull out slowly. Carefully. He hisses, and I press my lips to the back of his neck in silent apology, one hand rubbing slow circles on his hip. The room smells like us.

"Stay," I tell him, but gently now.

"Do you think I'm a dog?" he asks, playfully. I chuckle.

"I don't need to answer that, do I, puppy?"

He stays, cheek still resting against the desk, breathing slow and deep, his body loose. Liam exists in a state of perpetual motion, legs bouncing, fingers drumming, every muscle coiled for a sprint. But right now he's still. Emptied. Peaceful.

I reach into the bottom drawer. Tissues, wet wipes, the travel-size packs I buy from the commissary, the unscented kind because the scented ones make Liam sneeze. I clean him first.

"You good, baby?" I ask.

"Mmm." The sound comes from somewhere deep in his chest, satisfied. "More than good. I'm deceased. You've killed me. Write my eulogy."

"Liam Marsal. Died as he lived: being dramatic."

He laughs, soft and muffled against the desk.

I uncap the ointment.

My fingers trace the marks I left. Distinct lines, raised and red, crossing the curve of his ass in parallel strokes. They'll fade in a day or two. I smooth the ointment along each one, and he flinches at the cool touch, then pushes back into it, seeking more contact. I take my time. Follow the lines of his body with my fingertips, and I feel the flinch soften into a sigh, and the sigh into a quiet hum.

"Was it okay?" I ask.

He lifts his head and twists to look at me. His eyes are soft.

"It was perfect," he says. "You're perfect. The snow cones were also perfect, by the way. No regrets."

"You're impossible."

"And yet, here you are. Rubbing ointment on my ass. Voluntarily."

I huff a laugh despite myself and cap the tube. He straightens carefully, wincing theatrically. He pulls his grays and briefs up, adjusting his shirt, running a hand through hair that's beyond saving. I tuck my shirt in, straighten the khakis, check my belt, and remember it's still on the floor. I pick it up. He watches with his signature naughty smirk.

A year ago, I was a different person.

Not unrecognizable. The discipline, the focus, the rigidity I'd built around myself to survive three years of incarceration for something I didn't do. I had the nursing program, the five-year plan, the career in correctional healthcare mapped out. I had Griff's respect. I had my routines, my rules, and my spotless record. I had absolute control over every aspect of my existence, and I was miserable.

Then this boy walked through the gates. Messy hair. Blue eyes. Tattoos that looked like he'd let a drunk friend practice on him, which, knowing his history, is probably exactly what happened.

He was chaos incarnate, restless, mouthy, self-destructive in ways that made my jaw clench and my chest ache. He got under my skin like a splinter that wouldn't come out, made me lose my temper, my composure, my carefully maintained distance from everything that could hurt me.

He made me feel. That was the unforgivable thing. After three years of controlled numbness, of channeling every emotion into discipline and achievement, he walked in and detonated everything, and in the rubble I found something I hadn't expected.

Joy. The kind that lives in a snowball fight, in a stolen kiss, in the sound of his laugh echoing down a hallway.

"Hey." His voice pulls me back. He's standing by the door, dressed, mostly presentable, a red mark on his neck that he'll need to explain or hide. His head is tilted, that puppy-dog look he doesn't know he has. "You okay? You went somewhere."

"I'm here," I say. "Come here." I extend my arms to him.