“More than.” Dumb question, I’m practically pouring the stuff into his hand. Once again, around this man, my fine intentions fall by the wayside. “It’s great.”
Fuck, Gerald edges like a pro. Even the press of his lubed finger against my hole as he devours my mouth feels like a casual afterthought. Like he’s not already been there, he plays around it at first, flirting with my balls, my taint, my rapidly recovering dick. Then he acts like he’s forgotten about it altogether. His tongue finds particular fascination with my left nipple. Next it’s the turn of his teeth with my right. For all the effect it has on him, I might as well not be touching his dick, whereas my own dick is practically begging.
So, when it comes, that finger breaching me again almost seems like an accident. Two fingers, a few agonising minutes later, toy with me. Three and he’s not breaking sweat, but at least he’s somewhat affected, judging by the wetness leaking from his cock. Whereas I’m a splayed-open, gaping puddle of want.
“Ready for you,” I breathe. Subtlety has never been my strong suit. “Really, like,reallyready.”
Leisurely, Gerald sits up, the better to admire his handiwork. “Yeah. I think you’re getting there.”
Maddeningly unhurried, he strokes his big cock. This soulmate he’s holding himself back for, this future guy who gets to see him do this every night? He’ll be one very lucky sod.
“But I think you need some more attention down here first.”
“You think?” I squirm. His dick’s big, for sure. However, not to put too fine a point on it, my furrow’s been ploughed as often as the next man’s and, I suspect, a hell of a lot more times than Gerald’s. Which is to say I know when I’m good to go. “You don’t think… um… three is?—“
“Yeah, I do.” He licks his lips. “Plenty. But I wasn’t planning on using my hand.”
Best. Rimming. Ever.
He works up to it, of course. Like the rest of his bag of torture tricks, he doesn’t simply dive in. Oh no, Gerald watches me wriggle and beg and then taunts me. Starting with my balls, rolling each one around his tongue like a peach stone. Then lubing his dick some more, then tonguing the end of mine, then shoving a pillow under my arse before sitting back to ensure he’s got me exactly how he wants. When he finally eats me out like I’m the last pot of tiramisu in the fridge, my entire consciousness is funnelled into a pulsing painful rod.
At the point I’m reduced to a weeping lake of want, he sits up again, wiping his mouth on the back of his hand. My gut clenches with a fresh round of desperation. If he doesn’t fuck me in the next ten seconds, I’ll brain him. “So are you going to show me how you use that thing, Big G, or are you just going to tease me with it?”
Looking down at himself, he gives himself another long, fuckinglanguorousstroke, like he’s bloody debating the issue. Then he smiles up at me from under his lashes. There’s a lot of mischief packed into that crooked little curve. He has five seconds left before I combust.
“If you don’t want to be edged, Dr Alvin,” he says in that clotted cream voice, the one that feels like he’s still sucking on my balls, “then you’re going to have to get out of my bed.”
He strokes himself some more, gliding his fist up and down, up and down, up and down. My wails of protest, my writhing, thrusting, and all-out begging might as well not be happening. I feel like I’ve climbed to the top of Everest and then forgotten to take the summit photos. “You’re torturing me here, Big G. Never mind competing at Crufts, you should host an edging contest.”
Throwing his head back, he laughs. Finally, finally, he unwraps the condom. He rolls it down over his dick with practised ease. “What would be the point of that? No one would come.”
Only Gerald could simultaneously make me laugh and almost ejaculate. He has this… perfect timing, as if he’s got my personal emotional blueprint etched into his mind. Mind you, I stop with a punched-out groan when he breaches me. Another hard thrust and he’s in up to the hilt. From then on, each of my own breaths becomes a negotiation, worked around the weight of him. I’m full, so full of Gerald, so anchored down by him, that for once, I can’t express how I feel. After all the build-up, after that first violent thrust, he’s surprisingly, unexpectedly gentle. He kisses me, long and sweet, and the chaos in my head dims. The world feels softer and slower while he moves inside me, my limbs syrupy and warm. Maybe it's not him but me. Maybe I’m growing up at last, slowing down, appreciating that there’s other ways of doing things, that sex can be more than knees digging into tarmac.
“Okay?” Gerald whispers, his mouth on mine curling into a smile. “You like celebrating with me?” On a low moan, he thrusts a little deeper. Who am I kidding? It’s Gerald making me feel this way. “Because I really like celebrating with you.”
With the next kiss there’s a shift in tone. Our kidding around, my teasing, our jokes, his playful edging, feel like a lifetime ago. What we’re doing here has nothing to do with ranking charts, celebrating, or fucking. It’s asking to be remembered. Like we’ve switched without warning from a pop song to a slow dance, and the only rhythm we’re moving to is his body in sync with mine. When he looks at me like this, when he rolls his hips so tenderly, for the first time in my life, words abandon me. I let them drift away, and instead, I capture his mouth on mine as we have unhurried, lazy sex.
I imagine having sex with someone you love must feel like this.
CHAPTER 24
GERALD
In the still quiet of the night, wrapped up with this man, I talk about my dad. Alaric has already shared his insecurities, big and small. It seems only fair I share one in return, and this is the only one I have which matters. It weighs heavy on my mind, like a too-tight shirt I’ve got used to wearing, except thick and woollen, not feather soft navy satin. Since Alaric moved in, I’m the happiest I’ve been for a long time, yet even in lighter, brilliant moments, like winning through to Crufts, this family rift—entirely of my own making—overshadows it.
“My mum died following a car crash. They were returning from a holiday in Cornwall. Staying with friends.” Despite the story being inside me for years, it’s not a graceful, rehearsed telling. It’s messy and awkward with lots of pauses and swallows. And so much easier in the dark. Sensibly, Alaric lets it unfold at its own pace.
“Dad was driving. It was a bank holiday weekend, lots of traffic, lots of crazy drivers trying mad overtaking manoeuvres to beat the queues. You know how it is.”
Alaric nods. He’s worked extra shifts in the Emergency Department for years; he’s seen all of humanity, at its best and its worst.
“Anyhow, a driver going the other way attempted to overtake a car towing a caravan. He was driving up the hill. My parents’ car was coming over the brow in the opposite direction. There wasn’t enough room for the guy to pull back in, and not enough time for Dad to slow down.” A familiar pressure builds in my throat. “My dad swerved just before they hit—to protect yourself is a natural instinct, apparently, though I don’t think he had much time to consider. There was a three-way collision between my parents’ car, the caravan-towing car, and the other driver.”
I blow out a long breath and blink a few times. I’m not worried I’ll cry. I never do, even though the tears wait there in hope, clogging up my sinuses. Only a fool would mistake my dry face as strength. A strong man would have resolved the issues with his dad years ago, not let them fester.
I plough on. “My dad walked away with severe whiplash, a fractured sternum, and some cuts and bruises. The reckless driver died of massive internal bleeding at the scene, and my mum died a week later in hospital from a non-survivable head injury. The coroner ruled the deceased driver to be one hundred percent at fault. All the witnesses agreed.”
Alaric doesn’t rush to fill the silence. Instead he waits until the weight of the story settles between us. I’ve never fully related all the details to anyone before. But I’ve stopped pretending my attraction to Alaric is only physical, even if it’s mostly one-sided and knowing I shouldn’t become too attached. Yet he’s the first person to whom I’ve ever felt close enough to unload. Already, in the long, quiet minutes that follow, I feel less alone.
