Chapter 7 #2
Evan’s palm landed on the nape of Finn’s neck.
His grip was firm, fingers pressing into the tendons on either side of Finn’s spine, and the whole dynamic shifted.
Finn was between them now. Rae on her knees in front of him, Evan behind him, palm on his neck, Evan’s body pressed to his spine.
Evan’s cock was hard through the fabric, and Finn ground into it and Evan’s breath caught at his ear.
“You’re so good.” Low. Rough. A voice Finn had never heard from him. “Taking everything we give you.”
Finn’s knees buckled. Not from the words.
From the fact that Evan Tremblay, who had been running from this for years, was standing behind him in a space with the curtain open and his palm on Finn’s neck and his voice saying you’re so good with the authority of a man who had stopped asking for permission.
Finn had wanted this. Had pushed for it, schemed for it, waited for it.
And now Evan’s grip was on his neck and Evan’s voice was in his ear and the wanting had become having, and having was so much bigger than wanting had ever been.
Evan caught him, his arm wrapping around Finn’s chest from behind, holding him upright.
Rae pulled off and looked up at both of them, her gaze bright, her lips wet, and she smiled and stood and kissed Finn’s cheek and then kissed Evan’s cheek too.
The three of them stood there for a second in the amber glow of someone else’s spare room.
Rae touched Finn’s jaw once, her thumb tracing the line of it. “He’s yours,” she said to Evan. Then she dressed and left, the curtain swishing shut behind her.
Evan turned Finn around. His palms on Finn’s waist, his gaze so intense it bordered on something Finn didn’t have a word for, his breathing ragged.
Evan pushed Finn until his knees hit the edge of the daybed and Finn sat, looking up at him.
Evan stood over him and Finn could see his cock straining in his slacks, could see the flush climbing his throat past his loosened collar.
Evan reached down and ran his thumb across Finn’s lower lip, pressing into the swell of it, and Finn’s lips parted on reflex.
“Touch yourself,” Evan said.
Finn wrapped his fist around his cock. He was so hard it ached, slick from Rae’s tongue, and he stroked himself while Evan stood over him and watched.
Long strokes, root to tip, his thumb circling the head on every pass, spreading the wet there.
Evan’s fingers found the side of Finn’s neck, his thumb on Finn’s jaw, tilting his face up.
“Eyes on me.”
Finn looked at him. Evan’s face in the amber light, his collar loosened, his chest heaving, his thumb pressing to the hinge of Finn’s jaw.
Finn stroked faster, his hips rocking up into his own fist, his breath going ragged, and Evan watched every second of it.
Evan’s other palm went to Finn’s hair, gripped, pulled his head so his throat was exposed, and the tug sent a bolt of heat straight through Finn’s gut.
“Come for me. Now.”
Finn came. His whole body seized, his spine arching off the daybed, spilling over his own fist and onto his stomach, Evan’s grip in his hair and on his jaw the only things holding him to the earth. The noise he made had Evan’s name somewhere in the middle of it.
Evan caught him when he pitched forward.
Pulled him to his chest, Finn’s face pressed to Evan’s shirt, Evan’s palm at the nape of his neck.
Finn was shaking. Not from cold. From the overload of having been the center of two people’s attention and then one person’s command, and the one person was Evan, who had just said come for me in a voice that Finn was going to hear every time he closed his attention for the rest of his life.
A staff member in a gray shirt appeared at the curtain with a warm towel and a glass of water. Efficient, discreet, no eye contact longer than necessary. Evan took both, cleaned Finn with the towel, held the water to his lips. Finn drank. Evan’s fingers stayed in his hair the whole time.
No names exchanged.
Finn’s apartment. The couch. Both of them changed into T-shirts and sweats, the drive home having been silent in the good way, Finn’s palm on the console between them and Evan’s pinky hooked over his.
The TV was off. The apartment was dim, just the kitchen light spilling through the doorway. Finn’s shoulder was warm at Evan’s and his pulse had finally slowed and he was scared.
Scared of this. The couch. The silence. Evan’s pinky hooked over his in the truck. The way Evan had held the water to his lips and cleaned him with a towel and hadn’t said a word about it afterward because the care was just there, embedded, not performed.
Finn had chased Evan. Had been patient and stubborn and certain. Had told himself that if he could just get Evan to stop running, everything would fall into place.
He had not accounted for the part where he got what he wanted and it terrified him.
The chase had been safe. That was the thing Finn hadn’t understood until right now, sitting on this couch with Evan’s shoulder warm at his.
Chasing someone meant you couldn’t lose them, because you never had them.
You could want from a distance forever and the worst that happened was the distance stayed.
But Evan’s pinky had been hooked over his in the truck, and Evan had held water to his lips, and Evan had said come for me with his thumb pressing Finn’s face up, and now Finn had something that could be taken away.
Evan could wake up guarded again. Could decide the risk was too high, the gap too wide, the program too important.
Could go back to the hallway nods and the professional voice, and Finn would be standing on the other side of a line that had been open and was now closed, and the difference between that and never having the line open at all was the difference between missing something and mourning it.
Finn had never been scared of losing anyone before.
Not Ashley, not the guy from last spring, not any of the hookups or the people who had passed through his life and left no mark.
He had been the one who left. He had been the one who decided when it was over.
He had never sat on a couch next to someone and known how much it would cost to lose them. And he did not like it.
“I don’t want to be a secret,” Finn said to the dim apartment, not looking at Evan, his voice low enough that he could pretend he hadn’t said it if Evan didn’t respond.
Evan’s palm found Finn’s knee. Warm, each individual finger pressing through the fabric of his sweats.
“It doesn’t mean anything.” Evan’s voice was low. “That’s the problem.”
Finn turned his head and looked at him. Evan was looking at the far wall, his jaw working, his profile in the spill from the kitchen light.
“That’s the opposite of a problem,” Finn said.
Evan didn’t answer. His palm stayed on Finn’s knee. His thumb traced once, and then stopped, and the stopping was worse than if he’d pulled away entirely.
Finn leaned his head against the couch, closed his eyes, and held on to something he hadn’t named yet and did not let go.