Page 28 of A Man To Remember
He laughs, breathless. "Natural talent."
I lean down and press my mouth to his neck, tasting salt and Austin and something that's purely male. His pulse hammers against my lips, and I bite down gently, marking him.
Mine.
The thought should scare me, but it doesn't. Right now, in this moment, he is mine.
My hand on his cock.
My mouth on his throat.
My name falling from his lips.
"Jesse," he gasps, and I can feel him getting close. His cock is pulsing in my grip, swollen and desperate, leaking steadily now.
"Come for me," I whisper against his ear, and the words feel foreign on my tongue but right somehow. "I want to watch you come."
And he does.
Austin comes with a broken curse, his whole body going rigid as his cock erupts in my hand. Hot spurts of cum cover my fingers, his stomach, marking his chest like abstract art.
I stroke him through it, milking every drop. When he finally goes soft, collapsing back against the couch cushions, I find myself staring at my cum-covered hand like it holds the secrets of the universe.
"That was incredible," I say, and mean it. "You're incredible."
We clean up with tissues from Austin's coffee table, the domesticity of it surprisingly intimate. I pull a pillow onto my lap, suddenly self-conscious in the post-orgasm clarity, while Austin reaches for his shirt.
The silence isn't uncomfortable exactly, but it's loaded. Heavy with things neither of us is saying.
Austin settles back against the couch cushions, fully dressed again, and watches me with that photographer's eye that sees too much—one that makes me want to hide and be seen all at once.
"You've changed a lot since high school," he says finally.
The observation sits between us like a test I'm not sure how to pass. My fingers find the hem of my shirt, twisting the fabric.
"Yeah, well." I clear my throat. "Had to, really."
"Jamie mentioned... some things. Over the years." His voice is careful, like he's walking through a minefield. "Said you went through a rough patch."
"Rough patch." I let out a hollow laugh. That's one way to put it. "That's generous."
I lean forward, elbows on my knees, hands clasped. The position feels defensive, protective, but I can't seem to make myself sit back.
Austin waits. Doesn't push. Just watches with those dark eyes that have seen too much.
"I was a fucking mess back then, Austin. Like, completely gone."
The words taste like ash in my mouth. I've told this story before—in meetings, to sponsors, to therapists—but never to someone frombefore. Someone who knew me when I was still pretending everything was fine.
"Started when I was sixteen. Tore my rotator cuff during football season. Doctor gave me something for the pain, and..." I shrug, like it's simple. Like it wasn't the beginning of the end. "First time in my life I felt normal. Quiet up here." I tap my temple. "No anxiety, no pressure, no noise. Just... peace."
Austin nods, understanding flickering across his features. Does he really understand? I have no way of knowing.
"When the prescription ran out, I told the doctor I was still hurting. Got another bottle. Then another. When he finally cut me off..." I trail off, remembering the panic. The desperate scrambling. "Well, there are other ways to get pills. And when pills got too expensive, there were cheaper alternatives."
My throat tightens to the point where it's hard to swallow. I haven't talked about this part in years. Most people in recovery skip over the details, the progression. They jump straight to rock bottom, to the wake-up call. But Austin is listening like he actually wants to understand, not just hear the sanitized version.
"It escalated fast. Pills, coke, whatever I could get my hands on. Anything to make the world feel manageable." I glance at him, checking for judgment. I find none. "By senior year, I was high more often than I was sober. Failed most of my classes, barely graduated. Jamie used to cover for me when I was too fucked up to go to school."
