Four years, I waited. Four long fucking years of aborted dates, awkward dates, abbreviated dates, agonisingly awful dates. Dates where the date didn’t even show up. Dates where I didn’t even show up. “I think I was hoping someone would come along who was exactly like me,” I confess. “Another intense, difficult, pernickety human being.” Saying it out loud, it sounds even crazier. “How the fuck would that have ever worked?”
“It would have been a bloody bonfire, G. I’m exactly right for you, no one else, and I already know that you’re exactly right for me.”
Alaric plants breathless, big wet kisses all over my face, as if checking every part of it is there. “And even though you told me you’d stay celibate until Mr Right pitched up,” he carries on, “who I hated, by the way. I should have worked out that you have far too much integrity to go back on something like that. You were as good as telling me how much you wanted me, and I didn’t listen.”
He’s talking and kissing simultaneously, nipping at my neck and my ears, even licking my eyebrows. They’re quite the mouthful all on their own, but Alaric can probably whistle while eating spaghetti, too. “You waited four fucking years, Big G. Why didn’t I clock that you wouldn’t flush that level of commitment to a cause down the pan just because a horny toerag like me wiggles his arse at you on the dancefloor?”
I slip a hand down the back of his jeans, copping a feel. “It’s a lovely arse.”
“Yes, I know, but,” he slaps his forehead, “I still didn’t get it.”
The lovely arse wriggles a bit more. It’s all mine, and I have a growing need to claim it. Pulling his face to mine, I rasp, “Get it now?”
Hot and needy, our mouths clash for real. Everything tangible—walls, windows, space, and time—blur to abstract. Lips bruise, teeth graze, the kiss curls low in my gut, pulling a filthy, feral sound from my throat that has nothing to do with words. Alaric thrusts against me, messy and desperate, I thrust back.
“Get rid of this.” I tug off his red sweater. “Everything.”
My brain shuts off as my hands wrestle his fly. Those jeans are disappearing right now. And his tight little briefs, I’ll rip them if I have to. I’m starving for him. I need this wriggling arse as if he’s been away from me a year, not only a day. Maybe I’ll blow him, maybe I’ll spank him, maybe I’ll lick him out. Maybe he’ll lick me out. Maybe we’ll do all of that and more. But one thing’s for sure. By the end of this book club, I’m going to have my smooth, squirming, beautiful boy bollock naked in my lap with my cock buried so deep inside him that?—
“So if we circle back to Mae’s retrospective chapters, which provide a multifaceted perspective on…”
Strident tones cuts through my hunger. Distant. A tad nasal. Gratingly familiar.
And in this sexy setting? Very, very fucking wrong.
My eyes snap open.Circle back to Mae’s retrospective? That’s not my inner monologue.
Oh pissing bollocks.
Edward-not-Ed is discussing the profound impact of parental mental illness and its lasting fall out on the two major protagonists. The worst sex soundtrack ever invented. Worse than a Nickelback power ballad or even Money Box Live on Radio 4.
“Al.” I push him away urgently. “We have to…”
“Have to what, babe?” Alaric grinds in my lap, urgently pressing his heavy cock up into my belly. “You want these off? You want this dick in your mouth?”
“Yes, but…I…uh… don’t turn around—I said don’t turn around! I forgot to switch the…ah…shit. We’re on fucking camera.”
Alaric’s head whips around. Edward-not-Ed drones on aboutThe Deeper The OceanThe Uglier The Fishhaving parallels with southern Gothic literature. For all the attention he’s receiving, he might as well be outlining how paint dries on an oak skirting board. I’m not sure evenhe’saware of what he’s saying. Staring out of the screen, every single face is frozen in a horrified blend of incredulity, second-hand dismay, and a distinct whiff of suburban moral failure. Except for Gary’s big round one. He’s chortling like a fucking drain and wiping tears from his eyes.
Above them all, the red camera light pulses with betrayal. I slam my hand on the button, dowsing it, then attempt to slither under the table. Tricky with Alaric semi-naked in my lap. For five seconds, time stands still. Then, as if he hasn’t just had a front row seat for an unsolicited lap dance, Edward-not Ed cites examples of sardonic representations of Mark Twain.
“That’s it. We’re leaving Sutton Common tonight.” I push Alaric off my lap, my whiplashed dick now as shrivelled as if wrapped in ice. “We’re emigrating. Pack your bags.”
“No way! Shush! We’re styling this out.” Snorting a laugh, Alaric snuggles in next to me, pointing to the screen. “Look at them all; still riveted, waiting for the money shot. Membership will treble if this gets around; best book club in Sutton Common.”
I peep though my fingers. Patricia’s having a stab at refuting Edward-not -Ed’s claims that Twain wrote several excellent nuanced female characters, but her heart’s not in it. No one’s paying her any attention. It’s almost as if all eleven of them are waiting for me to turn my video back on.
“Sheesh,” Alaric continues, “have none of them ever seen two guys about to fuck before?”
“Um…probably not?”
“Listen: turn your video back on, turn your mic on, and style it out. This book club is your baby, you love it, and you’re better than all of them put together. I bet Edward-not-Ed can’t cha-cha in time to Jake Shears.”
“Does styling it out include melting into a river of mortification?”
Alaric kisses my forehead. “OMG, I’ve done way more embarrassing things than this. I once gave an online presentation at a surgical meeting, and when it came to sharing some dull research on my screen, I opened the wrong tab and treated all fifteen of the bosses to three seconds of a very drunk, very naked Stefan doing willy windmills to a background of Shaggy singing ‘It Wasn’t Me.’ Thank fuck they were all urologists.”
Heaving a few deep breaths, I count to ten, then unmute myself. And restart the video feed.
