I instantly let go, but he shakes his head. “No, no. Keep going. Please.”
That’s how I like my consent—enthusiastic, right down to him giving up a little dampness. A bead of precome glistens in his slit, shining like his eyes, and I rub it with the pad of my thumb, then lick it.
“F-fuck.” Dair’s hold on me tightens, biceps tensing. They’re bigger than I expected, proof his work can get physical, I guess. I land a kiss on one of those neat bulges with no way to predict his reaction.
Dair melts.
I’m not always a slow learner. Give me the right incentive and I never forget a lesson. That melting reaction means I test what caused it—I kiss the twin of that bicep, sucking a little, and Dair looks down at the hand job I’m giving him at the same time.
I stare down too, watching my thick fingers ring his dick, and I need to find more words that mean the same as pretty. I can’t keep thinking it about each part of him. He’s more than that. I’ve already found hidden strength and felt more care in the last half hour than I can remember in the last four months. He’s also smart enough to reach for something slippery to make this even better. And he’s funny, laughing at himself for almost overbalancing.
I’ve already caught him twice. I won’t let him fall, but I do release my grip on his dick to let him spill bath oil into my palm. Then we’re going at it again, mouths locked together, my turn to spread slickness. His cock is rock hard. Slimmer than mine, but if I am one thing, it’s in proportion. So is he, and I like the way his shaft feels silky hot under my hand and shiny with something that smells sweetly herbal.
I could wank him like this forever, only my dick wants inside him so badly it aches. I shift to release some pressure, which doesn’t help me but does something for Dair, who rocks down against me, then shoves up into my hand, shuddering. He does it again, like he’s riding me for real, shoving into my hand harder. Faster. His arms lock around my neck, his groan so deep I feel as well as hear it, and my belly is wet before I grasp what just happened.
I was just getting this party started.
Now I wonder if it’s over.
Dair releases his death grip on me. Looks down, and when he looks up, I don’t care if that’s it for this evening. It doesn’t matter that I wanted to blow and rim him before fucking him until he forgets everything bad that’s happened to him.Dair has stars in his eyes, and I like being the reason for them.
He’s also a touch embarrassed.
“Told you it had been a while.” He gets busy with a facecloth, wiping away streaks of spunk from a belly built by manual labour, and murmurs, “You’re very good with your hands.” He drops the facecloth into the tub to grapple with my belt buckle, only pausing to ask, “Can I?”
Fuck yes, he can.
My phone ringing is a piss-poor way to find out that Flynn does know how to return calls. Dair must see his name floating on the screen.
“Flynn calling.” He slides from my lap. “I’ll let you take it.” He grabs his shirt and then is gone, and I’ve never wanted to answer a call less.
Yeah, I’ve wondered about Flynn. Worried about him, even, right up until he gave that rival firm his permission to clear my living quarters.
I pick up my phone, aware that my hand trembles.
Dair’s hands had shaken too until they touched me. Mine do now for a different reason—I’m so fucking angry that he’s raced away, as if me hearing from Flynn is more important than him.
I couldn’t give a single shit what Flynn wants.
I don’t care. Not even a little. I can’t, not after tonight’s reminder of what real care feels like, so I silence his call and think hard before finally responding with my own clear as crystal message. Once I’m done, I button my own shirt, only to get slapped in the chest by more care once I leave the bathroom.
It comes in the form of fluffy cotton—Dair shoves a neatly folded stack of towels into my arms. “I have far too many for one person.” He loops something around one of my wrists. It isn’t soft and supple leather. It’s a canvas tote bag that Dair makes sure I have hold of before saying, “Some cups and glasses. I wrapped them in tea towels in case he didn’t leave you with any of those, either.” He freezes. “Unless you don’t like the idea of using secondhand stuff?”
“No, no.” Secondhand is exactly my price bracket. “It’s good.”
It’s so much more than good. I tuck the towels under my arm and peer inside a bag that doesn’t just hold things for me to drink from. “Tea bags.”
“Twining’s English Breakfast.” He freezes again. “I’ve got builder’s tea if you prefer. Or I might have some coffee somewhere. I’m not a fan.” His nose wrinkles. “Alice wasn’t either, but she did like a wee sweet treat.”
He’s slipped a packet of chocolate Hobnobs into the bag too. And teaspoons.
“You don’t need to give me all this. Sounds like you’ve given away too much already.”
He withdraws, even though he doesn’t move a muscle. It’s a reminder of hanging out at my aunt’s allotment. That patch of council-owned land where she grew veg was also where ferns would curl up tight if I poked at them. That’s what Dair does in this dim hallway—he somehow curls tight, all because I’ve mentioned what he’s been poked and prodded into giving up in a courtroom.
I wish I’d known him sooner to stand between him and what sounds like a whole family of Flynns. Instead, I try to soothe him like he just did for me, and I do it by being honest about some of my own decisions.
“Anyone else coming home to find their place empty apart from a bed and a few pots and pans would have acted like a functioning adult. Would have already gone shopping to replace the basics.” Worried eyes meet mine, but he seems a little less tightly clenched, so I tell him what I should have in the first place. “Thank you. This will keep me going until I can sort myself out. I’ll do that when I get back next weekend.”
