With a flourish, he pulls out his phone. “And the next time Gerald and his delightful four-legged partner, Elsa, perform it,” cue drumroll on the edge of the table, “will be in front of atelevision audience of roughly eight million. At the National Exhibition Centre in Birmingham. At none other than…Crufts!”
Fuck. Cold sweat beads on my back. “Not sure I needed to know that figure, babe,” I murmur, but I’m a lone voice lost amongst familiar high-pitched squealing (Alaric) and a mish mash of surprised but happy sounds coming from my dad and Sandra.
I’m caught between basking in the glory of their praise and wanting to sink beneath the table. Me and attention-seeking aren’t natural bedfellows, begging the question what the fuck I’m doing parading my shit at the world’s biggest fucking international dog show. Mind you, four months ago, having three people crammed around my kitchen table, laughing andenjoying themselves,was unimaginable too.
The cheesecake forgotten, they huddle around Alaric’s phone whilst he gives them the full video run down of me and Elsa at the regionals with the sound turned up to the max– a mix of Jake Shears and the Scissor Sisters’ thumping bass line. Over the top is Alaric’s voice sayingomg I can’t watch, andgo on Big G, andsock it to them, Elsa.
I watch him playing it to Dad for a second run through, all gappy smiles and glossy lips. He’s the plot twist I never saw coming, the course I never imagined steering. He doesn’t fit the mould. He’s not the guy I scripted. But somehow, this loud, weirdly wonderful, sexyunscriptedman fits me better than anything I ever imagined.
CHAPTER 29
ALARIC
Prior to dinner, Gerald’s eyes were two hollow holes in his face. Now they crinkle at the corners as if they’re waiting for his mouth to catch up. Arm in arm, we brush our teeth over the bathroom sink, me wearing the Reformation T-shirt smelling of Gerald and cooking, and him in his cosy jim-jams. Rubbing my cheek against his winceyette-covered shoulder, I breathe him in. Fucking delicious. New kink activated and not sorry.
Gerald spits into the sink, wipes his mouth, then dabs at mine. If that’s not the very definition of a boyfriend relationship, then I’m open to petitions for better ones. I’ll wait, and in the meantime, renew my efforts to move out of Sutton Common. If we keep this level of pretend-boyfriending up, he’ll never find his Mr Longterm. We’re barely apart unless we’re at work.
“OMG, Alan loves me so much.” I slip my hand down the back of Gerald’s pyjamas until it cups his bare bum. He’s got a great bum; hairy, muscular, and athletic. “Such a silver fox. He’s got a way of looking at you, that’s so—” I make a sound not dissimilar to one of my sexing noises. “There’s a twinkle there, that’s for sure.”
In the mirror, Gerald grins. That’s right,grins, like he can finally breathe properly again. “You know, babe, you could have just kept your thoughts about my dad to yourself, right?”
“Where’s the fun in that?”
Gerald shakes his head despairingly. “Anyhow, against the odds, he loves me, too.”
“He certainly does.” I kiss his shoulder through the fabric. “He never stopped.”
Dinner went spiffingly. Alan and Sandra were awesome. Almost as awesome as Gerald’s delicious bottom. We’re going to be seeing a hell of a lot more of Alan and Sandra. Naughtily, seeing as this area of Gerald’s body has been an unspoken no-go zone thus far, I run an experimental finger down his crack. “But I still think he loves me more.”
Gerald produces a long-suffering, resigned sound from his vast well of them before dipping his head down to kiss me. It’s an Arctic blast of peppermint toothpaste, to the point of assault, not that I’m complaining. Quite the opposite. On completion of a daring second trail of my finger along his crack, I remove my hand from inside his pyjamas, the better to deepen the kiss.
“Don’t stop.” Reaching for my wrist, he returns my hand to his bum. He even bends forward, spreading his thighs. “I like it.”
Wow, so I didn’t expect that. Heat licks over my skin as I tease his crease a little longer. Gerald’s breath hitches, and he drops his head, palms resting on the edge of the basin. Manoeuvring behind him, I tug his pyjamas down to mid-thigh. “Can I…would it be easier if I…?”
“Yeah.”
I reapply my finger, still lightly, but much more attentive to the positive effect it’s having. On both of us, to be fair. The quickening of his chest, the way his eyes drift closed, it’s hot as hell. Why have my fingers or, indeed, my cock, never travelledthis road before? Feeling bold, I skate lower still, smoothing over the soft skin of his taint.
“Nice,” Gerald breathes.
I watch him through the mirror, chewing on his lip, chin down as if he’s staring into the basin. A flush blooms across his cheeks, extending over the bridge of his nose. Testing the waters a fraction, I run my fingertip back up, with more intent. His lips part, his spine tightens, and I hear another sharp inhale. But he doesn’t pull away. The next time, I lick my middle finger, then brush a bit deeper still, skimming over his hole and back down to his taint.
“Still nice?”
“Yeah.” He shifts slightly. “Keep going.”
My other hand roams over his balls and his strong upper thighs. I skim over the head of his dick too; he’s hard and already damp. He pushes his arse out more, widening the shadowy groove between his cheeks. Just perfect for my cock. Taking hold of myself, I guide it between, mimicking the track of my finger. A rough sound rumbles up from Gerald’s chest.
“Still okay?”
“More than.” As my leaky tip ghosts over his hole, he shudders. “Do… do you ever do this properly?” His voice is edged with strain. “You know…uh…all the way?”
Gerald’s bashfulness is as cute as it’s unexpected. “Are you asking me if I like to occasionally stack a load in the dishwasher?”
He snorts a laugh. “I think that’s exactly what I’m asking.”
“I certainly do.” I push the point home by rubbing myself over his hole. “Not super often; most hook ups make the error of typecasting me, know what I mean?”
