Page 60 of The Little Shop of Curiosities, The Music Box Part 2

I push his slutty, sensible little sweater up his body until its bunches around his chest and tug his neatly pressed shirt from the waistband of his boring trousers, searching for skin. I’m practically mounting him as I bend him backwards over the heavy wooden workbench and lift his leg to hook it over my hip.

“Fuck, Sam,” he gasps, and lets go of my hair to brace his hands against the desk. Herbs and other ingredients as well as books and paperwork go flying in all directions, littering the floor. His head drops back and he groans as I attach my mouth to his neck and suck hard.

Bloody hell, I feel like a horny teenager again. There’s just something about him I can’t get enough of.

He shoves my jacket off my shoulders and I drop it behind me without a second thought. Then I feel him fumble with my belt and unzip my trousers, pushing them over my hips and letting them fall, the belt buckle clattering against the floor as they pool around my ankles and leave me in my boxers and shirt.

“Fuck, Prickles,” I pant against his throat, hurriedly unfastening his trousers and sliding my hand into his boxers, my fingers wrapping around his hard cock and stroking firmly.

He moans loudly and guides my face back to his so he can take my mouth again.

“Ahem.”

We both freeze, mouths still attached, my hard dick—still thankfully in my underwear—pressed up against him and my hand in his pants.

“Ahem.”

The sound comes again, and we both turn our faces slowly to see an old man wearing a tweed jacket over a neat sweater, shirt, and tie combo, not unlike those Harrison favours.

He’s watching us with merry eyes beneath a pair of brows so bushy they look like they require scaffolding, and his mouth is pursed like he’s trying to hold in laughter.

I hear Harrison sigh loudly. “Don’t you know how to knock, Grumps?”

The old man grins. “Don’t you know how to lock a door?”

“I thought it was locked,” he grumbles.

“You know your dad had a meltdown about you moving to London in the first place. He’ll probably have a conniption if he thinks you’re leaving doors open for some burglar to break in here and maul you.” He looks at me.

“He’s not a burglar and the bloody door wasn’t open.” Harrison frowns. “And he brought me a flower.”

“A flower? Is that all it takes?” Those powder-puff eyebrows rise. “Bloody hell, Harrison,” he tuts, “at least play a little hard to get.”

“That’s rich coming from the man trying to star in his own version of Last Tango in Devon.”

“I’ve always fancied myself as more of a James Dean than a Marlon Brando,” he muses loftily. “Rebel without a cause and all that.”

“The tweed doesn’t exactly scream bad boy, and I hardly think a mobility scooter is an adequate substitution for a Harley-Davidson,” Harrison says dryly.

“Actually, I think the motorbike in that film was actually a 1955 Triumph TR5 Trophy,” I mutter.

The old man cackles in delight and turns his attention to me. “As you seem to be feeling up my grandson, I do believe introductions are in order.”

“Grandson?” I blink.

Harrison leans in and whispers in my ear. “Sam, you might want to let go of my dick.”

I squeak and withdraw my hand from his boxers, then reach down to pull up my trousers.

“I’ll go first, shall I?” the old man says. “Wallace Ames, Harrison’s grandfather.”

“Sam.” I hold out my hand, accidentally dropping my trousers once more, then snap my hand back as if it’s been burned when I remember I’ve just had it wrapped around his grandson’s cock. “Um…” I wrestle with my trousers, trying to pull them back up again and stumbling slightly when I accidentally tread on the hem of one of the legs. “Sam Stone.”

“Ah, yes. Sam the Psychic PI.”

“I’m beginning to think I should just have that printed up on business cards.”

He cackles again. “Right then. I’ll head up and put the kettle on. You both join me when you’ve had a chance to tidy yourself up a bit, and Harry, pick that mugwort up. You’re not going to be able to use it for brewing teas now that it’s been on the floor, but you can still add it to dream bags. Waste not, want not.”