“What are you making?”
“Pasta. Don’t get excited. It’s not going to be up to your standards. I’ve got a jar of something the woman at the deli swore by, and I’m going to put it on top of penne.”
“Connor.”
“Mm.”
“I am not going to insult your pasta. I am going to eat it gratefully and I am not going to say a single critical thing about the sauce.”
“You’re scaring me now.”
“I am beingserious, Connor.”
“That’s what’s scaring me, love.”
Connor brought the bowls through to the table in the corner of the kitchen, where the afternoon light came in through the window above the sink and laid a long warm stripe across the wood. Vidal sat with his sling propped on a folded napkin and ate left-handed while Connor topped up his water and pretended not to watch him.
The pasta was perfectly fine. Vidal told him so. Connor took the compliment with the suspicion of a man who had been bracing for a lecture about parmesan rinds, and after a moment he reached across the table and laid his hand on top of Vidal’s.
“You alright, sweetheart?”
“I am better now that I am here.”
“That’s not what I asked.”
Vidal looked down at Connor’s knuckles. There was a small white scar across the base of his thumb that Vidal had asked about once and been told was a pawn-shop story for another night.
“I do not wish to talk about it, Connor.”
“Alright.”
“I should like to come to bed with you instead, if that suits.”
Connor’s thumb pressed against the fluttering pulse at the inside of Vidal’s wrist. “That suits.”
Connor’s bedroom was at the back of the flat. The blinds were half-drawn against the afternoon. He stood Vidal at the foot of the bed, holding him by his hips, and undid the buttons of his linen shirt one by one, working around the sling without comment or hurry.
“Lift your arms.”
Vidal lifted his good arm. Connor eased the shirt off his shoulder, fed it carefully down his sling-bound side, and dropped it on the chair. The crucifix at Vidal’s throat caught the light and he watched Connor’s eyes follow it down to the hollow above his sternum, before they came back up to his face.
“Trousers off.”
Vidal let out a long-suffering sigh. “Connor, you are going to have to be more romantic than this.”
“Get them off, sweetheart, and I’ll be as romantic as you like.”
Vidal undid his belt one-handed, with a theatrical sigh, and Connor took over at the buttons with the same economy he had used on the shirt. The trousers came down, and the boxers soon followed. By the time Vidal was naked except for the sling and the crucifix, Connor had not so much as kissed him, and Vidal’s cock was already half-hard against his thigh from the sheer concentrated attention of the older man.
Connor pushed him backwards gently until the back of Vidal’s calves met the edge of the mattress. “Sit. I’ll get the pillows.”
He stacked three pillows against the headboard, propped Vidal back against them so the sling sat comfortably across his chest, and then stepped away from the bed to take off his own clothes. He worked the button on his jeans, sliding the denim down his thighs. Keeping his shorts on, he climbed onto the bed in them, bracketed Vidal’s ankles between his knees, and bent his head to the inside of Vidal’s right ankle.
“Connor.”
“Mm-hm.”
“Why are you still in your underwear?Oh…”
