Page 65 of My Best Friend Is Broken
Liam’s eyes widen. He stares down at my cock like he has never seen one. He looks at it like it is a bottle of water and he is very, very thirsty.
Any remaining blood I had elsewhere, all drains to my cock. I have never been so hard in my life.
Liam reaches out tentatively. Reverently. As if he is not sure he should touch something holy.
His fingers touch me softly. So softly I barely feel it. Nevertheless, a grunt reverberates in my throat, and my hips twitch.
Liam’s eyes widen even more. He is staring at my cock as if he is trying to memorize every detail. His hand slides up my length. Slowly, carefully, sensually.
I wonder if this is the first time he has ever touched a cock consensually? I push the thought away. I want this moment to be about us. Liam is far, far more than his past and his trauma.
He is my Liam, and he is touching me. Exploring me with an intense look of rapture on his face, as if he can’t quite believe he is getting to do this. Stroking me so gently I’m going to implode.
Outside, the sky is lightening. The room is filled with pink tones and half-light. Everything looks ethereal. As if this is a moment outside of time and space.
Liam looks up at me, eyes wide and dark enough to reflect the light of the rising sun. His features are shaped in lines of awe and bliss and a profound joy.
My hips lift off the bed, and I cum. Hard. So hard that it feels like falling.
Euphoria and ecstasy pull me apart and the only thing I am aware of are Liam’s eyes.
Idon’t remember falling back to sleep. But I wake up to the sound of Liam humming.
It’s such an ordinary sound, so beautifully mundane, that for a moment I think I’m dreaming. But no, he’s definitely there beside me, warm and solid and real, making soft musical sounds under his breath while he does something on his phone.
The late morning light filtering through the curtains catches the lighter strands in his hair, and I can see he’s scrolling through something, probably emails or news, the kind of normal morning routine that feels miraculous after weeks of careful distance and broken sleep.
He’s back in my bed. Actually back, not just seeking comfort during a nightmare or during the dark, lonely hours of the night, but choosing to be here. Choosingto share this space with me like he knows it’s where he belongs.
I must make some sound, contentment, maybe, or just the shift of waking up properly, because he turns to look at me with a smile that’s soft and unguarded in the morning light.
“Morning,” he says, and his voice has a teasing tone to it, intimate and private. He follows it with a wink and an, “Again.”
I chuckle and roll my eyes, even though my heart is so full it’s bursting.
I stretch, careful of my bandaged arm, and catch him watching the movement with careful concern rather than the uneasy trepidation that’s marked so many of our interactions lately. “Sleep well?”
“Better than I have in weeks.” He sets his phone aside and turns toward me properly, propping his head on his hand. “You?”
“Best sleep I’ve had in years.”
It’s true. Something about having him here beside me, relaxed and willing rather than desperate and lost, has quieted the constant low-level anxiety that’s been my companion since he went away. Liam is back. He’s safe, he’s choosing to be here, and for the first time in too long, the world feels manageable.
“I was thinking,” Liam says, his fingers finding mine under the covers. “Breakfast. Proper breakfast. Eggs, toast, maybe even bacon if we have any.”
“Feeling domestic?” I tease, but I’m already calculating what’s in the fridge, already looking forward to the simple pleasure of cooking for him again.
“Feeling like I want to do normal things with you.” His thumb traces over my knuckles, such a small touch but loaded with meaning. “Like I want to remember what it feels like to just... be together without everything being complicated.”
I bring his hand to my lips and press a soft kiss to his palm. “I can definitely manage breakfast. Though you might have to help, this arm is going to be awkward for a few days.”
“Actually,” he says, and there’s something different in his voice now, a note of determination I haven’t heard in a long time. “I was thinking about that. About your appointment with the doctor today.”
I’d almost forgotten about that, the need to get proper stitches for the cut on my arm, to see Dr. Torrino and get professionally patched up. The kind of medical attention that comes with no questions asked and absolute discretion.
“What about it?”
“Can I come with you?”
