Page 78 of Catcher's Lock

The first wave pulses down his throat as a hot splash hits my thigh, and I shout my release to the ceiling. I’m still spurting when he sags in my grip, and I pull back, painting his lips and jaw with the aftershocks.

“Jesus fucking Christ,” I pant, studying the wreck of himthrough sated eyes.

He coughs hoarsely as he wavers, and I belatedly gather enough brain cells to help him stumble to his feet, wishing there was enough room in the tub for me to join him there instead. Bracing his arms on either side of my lolling head, he stares down at me, something deep and primal shining in his gaze.

“C’mere and let me lick you clean,” I say, taking his face in my hands—gentle now, with a gratitude that edges on pain. His tongue swipes out to gather the cum on his lips, but when I go to kiss him, he stops me with a hand on my chest.

“You’re not a piece of shit,” he says. “I shouldn’t have called you that.”

“Why not? It’s usually true.” And I’d usually care, except my whole body tingles with the aftermath of pleasure, and I can barely hold myself standing.

“No it’s not. Look at me.Look at me. You are not a piece of shit. You’re worth something. You’re worth something tome. I need you to hear that.”

Fuck. He’s really gonna make me do this now.

“I hear you.” When he doesn’t reply, I blow out a breath and try to push him away. “Ihearyou. I’m not a piece of shit. But we should really get ourselves cleaned up before we lose the last of the hot water.”

Instead of backing off, he moves his hand to my throat, pinning me in place and feeding me my own cum with delicate, devastating kisses until I lower my defenses and let myself believe him for a little while.

“Are you okay?” I ask an eternity later when the water has, in fact, run cold, but we can’t seem to let each other go long enough to drag ourselves out of the shower. “I wasn’t too rough?”

Rubbing his throat tentatively, he shakes his head. “Not toorough. I liked it. Ilovedit.”

“Me too,” I admit, offering a dry smile. “But you got awfully serious for a minute there.After. Want to tell me what you were thinking?”

“I…why does this feel so fucking fragile, Quill? I’m afraid to shine too bright a light on it and discover it’s only made of shadows.” He traces the tattoo of an anglerfish on my thigh. “Not everything survives the scrutiny of the sun.”

I tug him from the shower and pull a towel off the hook, then wrap it around us both to stop his shivers.

“Who’s the sun in this equation? Cheyenne? My family? Fuck that.” Pulling his head into the crook of my neck, I whisper the rest into his ear. “You’rethe fucking sun, Rocket. Shine bright and slay my creatures from the deep. I’m ready to be rid of them.”

Famous last words.

Because I’m lying awake hours later, long after Josha has gone heavy and dream-drenched beside me, and my demons are the only thing keeping me company.

I feelfucking fragile.

Restless thoughts skitter through my brain, skipping maliciously over the better parts of the day to dredge up old regrets and lay out new fears for incessant inspection.

Tomorrow will be the first day of my fledgling sobriety, and I hate the panic that beats behind my ribs at the prospect. This isn’t three weeks of a forced hiatus in county jail. This isn’t my parents at their wit’s end, tossing me in rehab to get me out of their way while they’re on tour. It’s not as simple astaking iteasy for a few daysbecause Josha’s starting to look at me with real fear instead of disappointment.

This is spending every day sober for the rest of my life, and I have no idea what that looks like. The problem with using substances to escape the worst parts of yourself is that they’re allright therewaiting when you sober up.

It’s supposed to be easier when it’s my choice, but if there’s one thing I know about myself, it’s that I maketerriblechoices. Every fucking time. How the fuck am I supposed to make the right one over and over every time foryears?

It’s so impossible my mind can’t close around it.

Cheyenne’s recriminations—and Josha’s subsequent rebuke—chorus all of my insecurities, fastening their heavy anchors to my family’s impending return. I got off easy on the phone with them today, and it was stupidly naive to think I’d made it through the worst of it. What happens when their relief wears off and they start asking real questions?

What will I do if Josha decides I’m too much trouble? Or fucks me out of his system and realizes I was never more than a doomed adolescent crush? “We can’t spend the next four days in bed.” What the fuck am I supposed to do with myself when I’m stripped of all my toxic armor, and I have to make an actual plan for a future I’m terrified to believe in?

As much as I wish I could, it’s not fair to ask Josha to be everything for me. He has a life, and all I can do is hope he’ll make room for me in it. I still need a life of my own. One with a job that lasts more than a week or two and hobbies that don’t include picking fights or drowning myself in a bottle or flying high on pills.

I need to be a whole person—his Star-Lord—strong enough to stand at his side.

At 3 a.m., I slink into his childhood bedroom, praying that ifI wrap myself in its nostalgia, my brain will let me rest.

At 5 a.m., I give up and scribble a note on a gas station receipt, then head out into the predawn to search for a distraction.