Gerald shakes his head, his face hidden in the depths of the dishwasher, but I know he’s trying not to laugh. Pushing my luck, I coax the sweatpants down further, enough for his dick to swing free and for me to insinuate my clothed cock into the crease separating his two perfect bare arse cheeks. The cutlery caddy rattles as he drops the salt packet.
“Still trying to put a load in the dishwasher, Dr Alvin,” he points out in the clotted cream growl that signals he’s getting super frisky too. In a second, he’ll instruct me to strip or kneel or go wait for him on the sofa.
“As am I,Mr Mason.”
Gerald snorts again as I reach around, cup his balls, and carry on rutting against his arse. He sighs as if in pain, which by now I recognise as a familiar precursor to some next level sexing. My cunning plan to chill him out is taking root.
First, though, having decided that me writhing behind him poses a danger to the integrity of his meticulously stacked crockery, he abandons the remainder of his dishwasher maintenance. I step back, allowing him room to stand. Closing the appliance door, he turns to face me.
“Come here.” With a stern expression, he crooks his finger. Obediently, I take a pace forward again. “Get naked.”
Hallelujah. This is precisely the kind of household chore I can get on board with.
Three seconds later, and the kitchen looks like a grenade detonated in the laundry basket. But mission accomplished, reward hopefully activated. I walk into his arms, anticipating a divine snog followed by some best-in-breed sexing. Sure enough, his mouth meets mine in a kiss both tender and filthy as fuck. The warm palm of one of his big hands dropping to my bare bum pulls me even closer.
Smack!His other palm lands fast and hot on my arse cheek. For a nanosecond, I don’t register what’s happening—and thensmackagain!
“Fuc—“ With a sharp bloom of pain, stunned nerve endings flare to life.
His gentle mouth smothers my squeal. I get two heartbeats of respite, and then he spanks again. And again. Like a lightning crack, my arse stings and pulses, hurts and hums. Blood roars through my ears; pain and pleasure blur into one. I flinch and gasp, leaning in for more. Pins and needles shoot up my spine. My balls tighten. My dick is hard, almost as hard as pretending this thing with Gerald is merely a fling, when for a few days now, a confused little voice in my head has been testing out that unfamiliarrelationshipword.
As suddenly as it started, it’s over. With exquisite care, Gerald strokes and kneads my smarting bum. I sag into him. He croons a whole bunch of soothing words, over and over, things likebabeandsweetheartandgorgeous boyand something else that sounds awfully likemy little hobbit,but I can only assume I’m mishearing. No matter, because it means that I don’t have to say anything at all. Which is just as well, because one more of those spankings and not only would I have jizzed all over him but blurted out some of the crazy notions queuing up on my tongue.
“Okay?” he whispers as his mouth coasts over my damp eyelids. At the same time, his hand curls around my dick. Nanoseconds from hosing, all I can do is nod. My explosive orgasm answers on my behalf.
“That was for being so fucking lovely,” he says around our kisses. “Especially today, when I’ve needed it the most.” And then, if those words weren’t enough to rocket me sky high, he completely destroys any shred of equilibrium I have left, by whispering, “And for being such a very good boy.”
CHAPTER 28
GERALD
Five minutes to go, and despite spending the preceding hours in bed, indulging in what Alaric calls awesome sexing, I’m still twitching like I’m trying to outrun my own nerves. The awesome sexer himself—we’ve comprehensibly established we’re both fans of an occasional spanking—is now dressed and sprawled on the sofa, answering Stefan’s latest barrage of texts.
Marcus and Stefan’s lives are a soap opera I find myself reluctantly glued to. The latest episode unfolded this afternoon when Stefan’s drama queen of a fiancé packed his bags and walked out. Broadly, this is good news; Stefan is better off without him. Alaric has spent the last half hour comforting, bitching, reassuring, and generally being an excellent friend. He’s promised to call in on Stefan after work tomorrow night, to cheer him up. That’s an integral part of his skill set too.
I need to tell him how I feel, how I think we’ve gone beyond the whole landlord with benefits thing. But more overtly this time, and maybe tonight. Or at least show him, though how my eyes don’t give me away every time I fucking look at him, I have no idea. The pantomime of pretending this is a no-strings thinghas gone way beyond its sell by date. I should sit him down and lay it all out. Float out thatrelationshipword again.
A fork slips from my clammy hand to clatter across the floor tiles. “Damn.”
Abandoning Stefan, Alaric pads across to where I’m buffing the cutlery for a third time with a tea towel. Truth be told, I’m being a bit of a drama queen myself. “Hey, calm down.” He wraps his arm around my waist, giving me a squeeze. I wonder if he’ll be this tactile in front of my dad. Probably, I decide, realising I won’t mind.
“It’s only your dad.” Alaric rests his head against my shoulder. “You’ve been on stage in the West End, for fuck’s sake! And dog danced your way into Crufts!”
“I know.” I sigh, rubbing my jaw. “I’m being ridiculous.”
“Everything will be fine,” he promises. “I’m here, for starters.”
Yes, but for how long?
The doorbell sounds, and my heart nearly stops. I let Alaric answer, giving myself a minute to calm the fuck down. Alaric’s right. I don’t lack confidence in any other sphere of my life. All will be fine in this one. It’s only my dad coming for dinner, for heaven’s sake.
Dad’s nervous too, running his palm across his jaw and through his hair, mimicking my own gestures. Bustling around us, Alaric’s thrust a glass of red into his hand before he’s scarcely removed his coat. The flat feels comically small with four people in it. We’re stepping aside for each other and apologising for squeezing past like we’re on the set of a TV soap and I’m about to drop the tray of lasagne on the floor. Downing his wine in three quick swallows, Dad coos over the cooking smells, Sandra asks if there’s anything she can do to help, and Alaric insists she reveal from where she bought her spotty scarf, because it’sabsolutely divineand he wants one, like, yesterday.
Before I know it, Dad’s uncorking a second bottle of red, the lasagne tray remains intact between my sweaty palms, and we’re crammed around my tiny table playing Jenga with our elbows. One wrong move and Sandra’s going to find my garlic bread in her lap.
“This is very cosy,” Alaric remarks as he snakes his arm through the narrow gap between his wine glass and Sandra’s, to reach the salad dressing. Even under this table, there’s enough space for his bare foot not to be twisted around mine. Not that I’ll ever push it away.
“Lovely, though,” insists my dad stoutly. His gaze ping pongs between the two of us. “Is it…ah…is there something to celebrate?”
