“I don’t want to,” Wyatt admitted. Wasn’t telling the truth supposed to lift a weight from your shoulders or something? Because it didn’t work. Probably because he was telling the truth to the wrong person. It wasn’t Izzy he needed to unburden himself to, it was Dad.
“Why not?” Izzy asked curiously.
“I’m not good with new people,” Wyatt said. Izzy squeezed his hand. “I’m not good with stress. Have you ever seen Alain Donadieu?”
Izzy gave him a blank look.
“He’s been on specials on the Food Network,” Wyatt said. “Doesn’t matter. Anyway, he’s the chef, the one in Paris. And he yells at his crew a lot. Like, alot. He throws things too.”
“He sounds like a dick.”
Wyatt laughed softly. “I mean, not really? He’s probably a really nice guy most of the time. But kitchens can be really high pressure. You need thick skin to work with chefs like that, and I don’t have thick skin. And it’d be living in a whole different country, where I don’t know anyone, and I don’t even speak any French, and…and myfamilywouldn’t be there.” Panic gripped his chest, squeezing on his ribs, and Wyatt fought to take a breath. “The thought of it just makes me scared, you know?”
And he wasn’t sure that Izzy did know, but Izzy nodded and said, “Yeah.”
“So yeah,” Wyatt said, drawing another shaking breath. “I’m taking a lot of Ativan right now.”
“Does it help you?”
“I don’t know,” Wyatt said. “I can’t even tell sometimes.”
They fell silent, their fingers still tangled together, and Wyatt relaxed as Izzy gently rubbed his thumb over the back of his hand over and over again.
* * * *
“I’ve never done this before,” Izzy said.
In the moonlight slanting through the blinds of his bedroom window, his pale skin was striped. Like cell bars, Wyatt thought wildly from underneath him.
“You don’t have to if you don’t want to,” he said.
Izzy cocked an eyebrow. “I never said I didn’t want to.”
And then he was shifting down Wyatt’s body from the kisses they’d just shared, and sliding back into the space between Wyatt’s knees.
Wyatt had never felt more exposed in his life. Part of him was afraid to even look at Izzy, but he was more afraid of missing a single detail. So he kept his gaze on Izzy, on the light sliding over the planes of his body, over his gleaming skin and his tattoos.
“Scoot down a bit,” Izzy said. “Maybe sit with your feet on the floor?”
Wyatt scrambled to obey, trying not to come spontaneously when Izzy shifted off the bed and went to his knees on the floor. He knelt there, his hands on Wyatt’s thighs. And then, very slowly, he shifted Wyatt’s knees apart and leaned in.
The first hot breath against his aching dick made Wyatt fight not to jerk his hips forward in response. He didn’t want to jab Izzy in the eye. Izzy smirked up at him, licked his lips in the moonlight, and then opened his mouth.
Holyshit.
The noise that escaped Wyatt wasn’t like one he’d ever made before, and he was sure he’d be embarrassed by it later, but right now the only thing that mattered was that Izzy had his mouth around the head of Wyatt’s dick, and his tongue was pressing into the slit. Then he curled his fingers around Wyatt’s shaft, and bobbed his head forward.
Hot and tight and wet, and Wyatt made that noise again. “Izzy. Shit, shit!” He panted for breath. “I’m gonna come!”
Izzy leaned back. He licked his lips again. “Isn’t that the point?”
Okay, yeah. Wyatt blinked down at him. “I guess.”
Izzy grinned.
“What’s it taste like?” Wyatt asked, his heart pounding.
Izzy shrugged his shoulders. “Like dick?”
