Art laughed. “That just seems like the Hawthorne way. Conquer early and then make a lot of noise.”
“I’m not the noisy one here,” Ryan defended himself. “That title belongs firmly to you, Arthur.”
“And I’ll wear that crown proudly,” Art said far too loudly. “Unless Graeme here wants to steal it from me. What do you say, Graeme? I bet you get really loud when you want to. I have you pegged for a screamer.”
“I, um….” Graeme’s face was bright red, and not from the June sun.
Ryan found it dead sexy, particularly because the blush came with a wide-eyed look of guilt. A thousand questions raced through his head as he contemplated just how innocent Graeme really was. He wouldn’t have been at all surprised if Graeme was a gay virgin. Although during the call with Mavis, someone named Damien had been mentioned.
Those thoughts sent shivers through him that were incredibly inappropriate for so early in the day on a beach filled with kids. He shoved them all aside by asking Art, “Where did you learn to be so loud? Not from summers down here in Brighton, I’m sure.”
“Mum and Dad packed us off to Whitby every year,” Art said. “I learned how to be a menace at the arcades overlooking the North Sea, thank you very much. If it weren’t for the gayness in the air here, I would say Whitby beats Brighton any day for a seaside escape.”
“Never!” Ryan laughed, reaching around Graeme to shove Art. “It’s Brighton or nothing.”
“You say that, but someday I’ll drag you up to Whitby and show you a thing or two,” Art said, pushing him back.
“Show me how inferior it is, you mean,” Ryan said.
They were acting like kids, but it was refreshing. He was still quiet, but Graeme seemed far more relaxed. He was doing a good job of tolerating his and Art’s pushing and shoving, too.
“What about you, Graeme? Where did your family go for summer holidays?” he asked, trying to sober up and consider their third.
Graeme huffed a laugh. “Mum and Dad didn’t believe in summer holidays,” he said. “Or at least not summer holidays at the seaside in places like this. We did go hiking in the Lake District one year, but mostly they liked to take us around to see old churches.”
“Old churches?” Art asked incredulously, then shuddered exaggeratedly and huffed his disapproval.
“You’re an archeologist,” Ryan called him out on his fake horror. “You would love that.”
“Some churches have lovely gardens,” Graeme defended his family, smiling. “I always like being outdoors.”
“Ah, you’re a naturist, are you?” Art asked teasingly, using the wrong term on purpose.
Graeme caught the deliberate mistake. “Wouldn’t you love that,” he said.
Ryan and Art both called out “Oh!” in response to Graeme’s banter. It felt incredible to have him playing along in the same game he and Art had been engaged in since Art had come to Hawthorne House.
“We’ll corrupt this one yet,” Art said, bumping his shoulder against Graeme’s before taking another bite of his fish.
As much as Ryan had doubted it before, once they disposed of the rubbish from their lunch and moved on to walk off some of the calories by taking off their shoes and squishing through the wet sand where the water lapped at the beach, he was ready to admit that Brighton had been an excellent idea. Graeme relaxed more than Ryan had ever seen him do. Art kicked water at both of them whenever he could, of course. Ryan splashed back, half out of protectiveness for Graeme and half because it was just so much fun to mess with Art.
At one point, Art’s teasing and splashing got so bad that Ryan rounded on him, lifting him off his feet and throwing him down onto the softer sand.
“You’re an absolute menace to society,” he laughed, tackling Art and pinning him down.
“Yes, please, Daddy,” Art replied breathlessly, eyes bright with lust as he gazed up at Ryan.
It completely did his head in. It was the middle of the afternoon on a public beach, the sun beating down, and the way Art went limp and open under him had Ryan aching to slam his mouth over Art’s just as they were, or flip him to his stomach, yank his borrowed jeans down, and fuck him until he begged for mercy. None of which would have been in the same universe as appropriate for their current situation. They would be arrested, twenty-first century or not. And there was Graeme to think about as well.
Ryan pulled back reluctantly, balancing on his knees in the shifting sands, and glanced up at Graeme. As only felt right, the sun blazed behind Graeme, making it look like he wore a halo. Ryan held a hand to his eyes and said, “Sorry about this mischief-maker.”
“He’s just having fun,” Graeme said with a shrug. “I’m having fun, too.”
God fucking dammit! Art and Graeme needed to stop using his libido as the rope in a massive tug-o-war! One minute he was ready to get sticky with Art and the next he wanted to go somewhere and have a nice, long cuddle with Graeme. It was making a complete mess of his head.
“I’ll race you to the pier,” Art said, scrambling to his feet and starting off across the sand.
“What are we, twelve?” Ryan called after him, still on his knees, arms outstretched.
