Total pages in book: 79
Estimated words: 75663 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 378(@200wpm)___ 303(@250wpm)___ 252(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 75663 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 378(@200wpm)___ 303(@250wpm)___ 252(@300wpm)
“So what’s new?” Mom asked. “What have you been working on? Do you have any idea how long you’ll be staying?”
All questions I had a difficult time answering. It wasn’t as if I could tell her I was painting Isaac naked, or the two of us together, or all the ways I wanted to worship his body and have Isaac worship mine.
My home being in Manhattan was another obstacle. I’d needed away, but I hadn’t made a decision about it being permanent or not. I had friends there, contacts. Outside of my family, my whole life was in New York, and now that Isaac and I were together, would he expect me to move? Did I want to?
Everything was so fucked up, and there were a million things to consider.
But the reward was Isaac.
“I’m not sure, Mom. Right now I’m just taking everything one day at a time. As far as work is concerned, I’m…following my heart.” I didn’t know how else to put it.
“You always do, sweet boy. That’s what I love most about you—that big beating heart of yours. I’ll let you get back to it. Tell your brother to call Dad, okay?”
My chest tightened at those words. “I’ll tell him,” I replied, then, “Hey, Mom? I love you.”
“I love you too, Lane.” She made a kissing noise, and then the line disconnected.
I tried to ignore the guilt that thickened like sludge in my gut. When I got back to my easel, I couldn’t make myself paint. I just stood there, brush in hand, staring and willing my fingers to work. When they didn’t, I cleaned up my supplies, showered, and got dressed. My hair was getting too long, and I kept telling myself I’d get a trim but hadn’t gotten around to it yet.
To keep myself busy, I decided to cook dinner. Isaac had a grill on his balcony, so I went out, got it going for homemade garlic and onion burgers. I chopped up the vegetables for a quick salad, finishing just as he came home.
“You’re going to spoil me.” Isaac loosened his tie, walked over, and pressed me against the counter. He kissed and touched me all the time, like he couldn’t get his fill or his body was addicted to mine. Like I was a treasure to him, and damned if that didn’t make me feel good.
He leaned in, taking my mouth with his. I let him. Most of the time, Isaac led the way when it came to sex or affection between us, and I was content to follow. His tongue swept past my lips, fingers digging into my hips while he drank at my mouth as if he was in a desert and I was the only water he’d had in days.
Like always, my dick began to harden as he licked and gently sucked his way down my neck. He hadn’t marked me again since that first day, but I knew it wasn’t from lack of want.
“You taste so good…smell so good…feel so good. Now that I can touch you, I don’t ever want to stop.”
How in the fuck had I gone my whole life without hearing him speak to me that way? Now that I’d heard it, those words were fuel to my soul. I couldn’t help smiling.
Isaac didn’t even need to look at me as he said, “See? You like praise and compliments from me.”
“Shut up.” It was incredibly inconvenient having him know me so well. “Let’s eat before it gets cold.”
He washed his hands, and then we made our plates and sat down at the table together. It was a habit from growing up. Mom had always expected us to eat at the table as a family and talk about our days. It was something I’d fallen out of in Manhattan. Even when I was in a relationship, we didn’t sit to share our meals this way, but Isaac and I did it automatically.
“Did you get any painting done today?” he asked. “What? You’re smiling.”
“I was just thinking about how I didn’t eat like this when I was with anyone else—sitting together, asking about work…and then you asked.”
He shrugged. “Me neither.” But then, Isaac hadn’t been in any relationships.
“I got quite a bit done earlier in the day. Not so much the past little while.”
He nodded, and when I asked about his day, he went into accounts and numbers and all sorts of things he loved and understood in ways my more creative brain didn’t. When he finished, he asked, “What’s wrong?”
“Mom called.” I took a bite of my burger.
Isaac’s gaze flicked away. We could do what we were doing, pretend nothing else mattered, but the guilt was always there. This was the first time we’d been reminded of it in such a personal way. “What did she say?”
“She wants you to call Dad…your dad… Maybe I shouldn’t call him Dad anymore?”