Page 52 of When I'm Gone

“You going to come with me to take them over or wait for me back home?”

Long, elegant fingers tap on the labradorite as he weighs his options. I’m itching for him to open the art supplies waiting for him amongst the presents we brought back from Chicago. He was already overwhelmed enough, so I made the call to just pack them—not wanting him to worry about having the perfect reaction in front of my parents. Now that we’re back though, I want him to have his stuff. A lot of it is genetic stuff, like what they’d buy for the five of us. Gift cards for stocking stuffers, an occasional tablet or new phone when it was your turn. Without fail, Mom always got him art supplies, though. Cautious of the fact she had no idea when he’d actually be opening them, any time she’d travel for work, there’d always be something for him that caught her eye. Watercolors or sketchbooks or paintbrushes, it was always something nice. He’s so fucking talented, but it’s weird I haven’t seen him so much as doodling with a pencil since he came back. Minus coloring with Sage, that is. But Brady said it was near constant when he was living with their parents, so I’m hoping he just needs some stuff to inspire him.

I startle when he speaks, already forgetting that I askedhim something. “If I come, does it have to be a thing? I just want to be where you are.”

My heart stutters and trips over itself. “No, I’ll make sure he keeps it light. I want to be where you are too, Easton. More than I understand, sometimes.”

That earns me another kiss that lasts longer than he probably meant for it to, but I can’t put it off any longer. I’m guilty enough as is, ditching my best friend on his birthday, so we need to take him the damn cinnamon rolls. I shoot him a quick text before we walk out the door, because Brady’s chances of not making a big deal of this are already pretty slim so I feel like I have to give him a warning. He deserves a fighting chance. He’s a fucking softie, though. It may have to be a short visit.

When he answers the door, he does a pretty good job of keeping his cool, even calmly acknowledging Easton in a way that’s not overwhelming to him.

Then he sees the tray in my hand, and I lose all hope. He looks down at them, apparently recognizing what this is immediately then at his brother with misty eyes. “You didn’t…” he starts.

“Nope,” Easton interrupts. “Sure didn’t.”

It’s about as obvious of a lie as I’ve ever seen, seeing as I’ve spent every birthday with Brady since we were twenty years old and I’ve never done it before, and he knows he hasn’t told me about this but thankfully he doesn’t push.

“Thanks, Ace,” he chokes out, looking at Easton.

I clap him on the shoulder and partially shove him backwards before this gets to be too much for Easton. “No problem, Bray. Madden?”

He blinks a few times before nodding. “Yeah. Madden. I’ll go put some of these on plates, I guess. Get it fired up.”

I claim the middle seat on the couch and pull Easton down to my left after grabbing a couple of controllers. Hisliving room is the fucking definition of a bachelor pad until some more furniture gets delivered. Nothing but a worn out pleather couch and the best TV money can buy. At least I talked him out of painting the walls navy blue. I don’t know what the color we decided on is called, but we argued in front of the poor impressionable Sherwin Williams section until an employee told us that marital squabbles over decor are not uncommon. We walked out with whatever was in his hand, and ended up with a smoky blue-green color. Not that we were embarrassed by people assuming we were married, that’s almost as old as our friendship, but that was forty-five minutes of our lives we’d never be getting back.

Easton starts tracing my tattoos again, but when I look over at him, he doesn’t seem to be all that aware of it. Like someone handed him a roll of bubble wrap or something. For some reason, I like that. For something as simple as the random, half-thought, impulsive designs covering my body can help keep him from being overwhelmed.

Brady brings back the cinnamon rolls, that are fucking delicious, that we snack on in between games. None of us talk much, but we’re all aware of the cease-fire and can exist together without small talk.

We hang out for a couple of hours, and when we’re on the way out, I think I hear a muttered happy birthday from Easton just as he slips out the door behind me.

And because I’m nothing if not a man of my word, within five minutes of us getting home, Easton is on top of my lap, panting. His lust-filled blue eyes are enraptured by the sight of our cocks sliding together. And me? As hot of a picture as we make together—literally the hottest I’ve ever seen—it’s Easton I can’t stop looking at. The way he pulls his bottom lip into his teeth to quiet the noises trying to come out of him when I roll my hand over our heads, the way he’s holding on to me like he needs the purchase to keep himfrom floating into outer space. The hazy look in his eyes each time he looks up at me, like he can’t believe his good luck. Fucking hell, I’m the lucky one.

Being the person he trusts to take him apart is a hell of a thing to wrap my head around.

“Such a good boy,” I grind out between clenched teeth. “You gonna come for me, sweetheart?”

He whines my name, barely heard over our combined breathing and nods frantically. He needs to get there because I’m about to ruin the whole Easton’s pleasure is my first priority thing if he doesn’t, like, now. I’m almost certain my beautiful Chaos has a hidden praise kink, and I don’t have much of a choice except to go for it and hope for the best. I tighten my grip and up the pace until my eyes barely stay in my sockets, and use my other hand to pull his chin up so he’s got nowhere to look but right at me.

I can feel his thighs quivering, and his cock is leaking like a faucet. He’s so close, I need him to fall over the edge. “My perfect boy,” I growl. “Let it out, Easton. Come for me.”

He gasps as the first rope of cum shoots from his dick, my name falling from his abused lips like a dying man’s prayer for salvation. It’s enough to make my own release barrel through me, frying all my nerve endings and making my vision go a bit fuzzy. “Fucking hell,” I pant as I wring out the last of our orgasms.

All of Easton’s strength leaves him, making him collapse on my chest. When he settles with his nose at the base of my throat, the spot he prefers anytime I’m holding him awake or otherwise, my stomach swoops. I like him there way too much for my own good.

“Uh-huh,” he exhales. I’m learning all kinds of fun things about Easton, but I’m stupidly obsessed with the way he tries to burrow into my skin when I rub his back, like he’s desperate to get as close to me as he possibly can. We’resticky with dried cum that’s currently drying on my abs and shirt, but it’s perfect. This was the part I always hated with anyone else, the coming down. I knew well enough that it was good form to cuddle long enough for the happy chemicals to wear off. Nobody likes feeling cheap and used, but it felt like a box I had to check to make peace with my conscience. With Easton, I’m hesitant to let him go at all, which seems to be a shared mentality.

Before I can think to stop myself, I say, “You’re such a cuddler, how did you make it all these years with such an asshole?”

Easton sits up, and for a second I think I went too far, but he only puts enough space between us to look me in the eye. “It was easier when I didn’t know this was an option. You read me really well, sometimes better than I do myself. It’s like you knew I needed a lot of affection, and the second you showed me that, there’s no going back. I don’t think I could live like that again.”

Throat tight, I lean forward and kiss the top of his head. “You don’t have to live like that again, sweetheart. For whatever it’s worth, being the person who can show you what it’s like to have your needs met is not something I take lightly.”

A small smile has his dimples poking out. “We’re kinda sappy, huh?”

Only Easton could bring all this out in me, it makes me wonder how long I’ve been coasting through my life without really feeling anything. “Super sappy,” I return with a grin.

He’s so soft-spoken sometimes, even with me, so I’m not surprised when his voice comes out barely above a whisper. “I like it. That you let me talk about my feelings and make them seem important.”

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