“Top level sexing, Big G,” he declares after I extract myself from my koala of a housemate and clean us up with a bunch of tissues. I don’t feel like clambering out of bed, but if I don’t,Alaric will happily lie in it the entire night. At the same time, I huff a laugh. Top level sexing is better than nothing. If that’s all he’s offering, then I’ll take it until it’s no more.
“You rubbed one off against my leg. I didn’t do anything.”
“Still top level.” He snuggles into me. “It’s a quality leg. And better than a spanking, though I’m up for that too.” Momentarily, he lifts his chin, his blue gaze resting on mine. “If it’s the kind of thing you like?”
Is it? Maybe. I’ve never spanked anyone in my life. I’ve never sent anyone a dick pic either, until tonight. With so many attractive men hanging around, I felt a pressing need to remind him what he’d be missing if he didn’t come home with me.
“I don’t know.” I kiss his nose. “Before now, I’ve never been in a relationship with someone who’s in dire need of an occasional one.”
“Rude.” Happily, Alaric settles down again. “Well, I’m up for it if you are. Perhaps you should surprise me sometime.”
My dick’s in favour of the idea, even though it’s only a few minutes since I came. In the ensuing quiet, I listen to the rhythmic rise and fall of Alaric’s chest.
Just as I think he’s asleep, he whispers into the dark, “Is this what you think we have, Big G? A relationship?”
His tone is hard to interpret. Neutral, maybe? Which is heaps better than scornful.Even so, my tongue when I respond is thick and slow. “I don’t know,” I reply honestly, “but it’s starting to feel that way. An unconventional one, at least.”
Silence presses on my ears, like pressure underwater, before he shifts against me. “I’ve never had one. So I have no idea.”
As the hush of the night wraps around us, Alaric’s head lies hot and heavy on my chest. I’ve never especially liked sleeping cuddled up with someone. Once the business is done, I tend to roll over, back to my side. Somehow, that’s changed.
“I think you should invite your dad and Sandra over for dinner,” Alaric says just as I’m drifting off. “Cook something nice. You could tell him about Crufts, maybe have a couple of glasses of wine, for Dutch courage.” He hesitates a beat. “You should just thrash the whole thing out, you know? Tell him the truth about how you felt when your mum died, exactly like you told me. Explain why you’ve been a dick and how you don’t want to be anymore.”
My fingers glide through the strands of his fine hair. He’s right, of course. He’s right about a lot of things.
“How do you think he’ll react?” Alaric asks.
“He’ll be absolutely fine.” I picture my dad’s kind, hopeful face. He’ll bring a nice wine and put on a smart jacket. Sandra will insist she makes a pudding, even if I maintain that she doesn’t need to, then refuse to take the leftovers home with her. “If anything, he’ll blame himself.”
“Well.” Alaric’s breath tickles my chest hairs when he speaks. “Maybe he is a little to blame, for not bringing it up with you sooner. For letting it linger so long.”
“Nah.” I shake my head, not that he can see me in the dark. “Not really. I didn’t exactly make it easy for him. I’m a grown-up—I’m on solids, as he used to say. I should have got over myself years ago. We’d have grieved much more healthily together than apart.”
“Yeah, perhaps.” There’s a flicker of hesitation. “I… I can be there if you want? Unless you prefer I make myself scarce? Because I can do that equally as well. I won’t interfere, but if I’m there, then I can, you know, fill in the conversational lulls? Smooth everything over? Make small talk with Sandra?” He snuffles a laugh. “Those things are kind of within my skill set; I don’t know if you’ve picked up on that ever.”
I give his hair a gentle tug, unable to imagine preparing dinner for my dad without Alaric making himself a nuisance inthe kitchen and keeping our guests laughing. Dinner wouldn’t be happening at all if he hadn’t moved in with me. If he thinks my dad’s visits are stilted now, he should have seen them before he turned up. “I would love you to be there.” I brush my mouth against the top of his head, and he gives me a little squeeze in return. “Play your cards right and I’ll even let you wash up.”
CHAPTER 27
ALARIC
If Gerald buffs that countertop one more time, I’ll be able to pluck my eyebrows in it. But never the gloriously untamed slugbrows; Gerald’s not getting rid of those. They’re like his lion’s mane. Anyhow, dinner prep started at two; Alan and Sandra aren’t due until seven and it’s only four o’clock now. The lasagne is already cooked and only needs reheating, the fresh salad ingredients are chopped, divided into labelled Tupperware pots and ready to be mixed, and the vinaigrette dressing is done (and it’s pretty awesome IMHO). The holy trinity of bread, butter, and garlic, aka Gerald’s unmatched homemade garlic bread, is wrapped in cling film, oven and Alaric ready.
Yet still, Gerald paces like a caged animal, fussing over minutiae as if a slightly creased paper serviette might unravel the entire evening. I’m not a fan of this version of Gerald. The Gerald keeping me from leaving miserable Sutton Common—despite several superlative flats throwing themselves at my feet—is unruffled, insanely competent, and in control.
What with him so off kilter, it’s a godsend he’s had me by his side, offering valuable advice and providing the crucial service ofchief food taster from my perch at the breakfast bar. But another three hours of this and he’ll be as jittery as me after coming off a run of nights fuelled purely by vape juice and hospital grade caffeine. It’s not a pretty sight.
Currently, he’s muttering to himself under his breath as he stacks the dishwasher. I can’t decide if it’s a pep talk, an incantation, or a prayer. Who cares? He looks bloody lovely bent over, all ropey muscles and seriousness, restocking the dishwasher salt levels like the conscientious white goods owner he is. Out rehearsing with Elsa prior to cooking (I was lolling in bed, seeing as I have a challenging and important day job), he’s wearing his navy sweatpants. They make his packet even more appetising than his lasagne. His neon lime T-shirt withcreating enemies since the Reformationemblazoned across the front was a tiny gift from me, and unapologetically very, very niche. He’s going to slay at book club dressed in that.
Anyhow, for the last five minutes, I’ve been petting my dick and wondering how I got so lucky to have a landlord who not only laughs at my jokes and overlooks me playing with myself in the kitchen whilst he’s stressing out but is so bloody scrummy with it. Slipping from my stool, I communicate my appreciation of him through the medium of encircling his waist with my arms and rubbing my semi up against his arse.
“Stop that! I’m trying to stack a load in the dishwasher.”
It’s only a half-hearted grumble, so I thrust a bit and add in some top-notch porn star moaning. “Me too, big boy. Me too.”
He chuckles, which I take as permission to grip his hips and thrust some more. “We haven’t got time for hanky panky, Al. They’ll be here in three hours.”
“Hanky panky?” He’s more adorable by the minute. “Which era have we time-travelled to, the Reformation?” I slip my thumbs inside his waistband, teasing it down an inch. “And it’sme back here, don’t forget. Three minutes is probably more than sufficient.”
