Paper Roses (Confetti Hitched #3)

Chapter 8

eight

. . .

jed

As we get out of the taxi, I stagger a little. “Jesus, what was in those drinks my mother served?”

Artie snorts and I sneak a look at him. He’s standing on the pavement, the wind blowing his hair around and bringing colour to his sharp cheekbones. His eyes are bleary and he’s swaying like he’s on the deck of a ship in a storm.

My mother had started making cocktails when Adam and I finished mending the fence. After several emotional toasts on her part, Artie and I had looked at each other and silently agreed to drink our guilt away.

The taxi drives off, taking my ballast with it, and I sway for a second. “Has there been an earthquake?” I hiccup and sway again. “It’s awfully naughty that someone didn’t in-inform us.”

I blink as Artie raises my arm and slots himself under it. “What are you doing?” I ask.

“S-supporting you,” he slurs. “Isn’t that what a very good spouse does? Like putting out your slippers and your p-pipe.”

“I’m trying not to smoke anymore.” I try a lecherous wink. “Well, not unless I’m on fire.” Something about that strikes me as funny, and I laugh.

Artie laughs too, and I’m not sure in the end who’s holding the other one up, just that we’re standing very close together.

Finally, after the giggles have eased, we stagger up the steps holding on to the railing. I nearly hit my head on the door as Artie sticks his hand into my jeans pocket.

“What are you doing ?” I didn’t know my voice could go that high.

“Looking for the key,” he says very seriously and slowly. “It must be here somewhere.”

“You won’t find it in there. Jesus Christ ,” I squeak as his fingers find my cock. “Definitely not there.”

“What’s this?” he mutters. “It’s too big for a key.”

I snort. “You’re so good for my ego.” My cock is pulsing, and I shove closer to his hand, grunting as he strokes it. It feels like lightning in my balls, and something is telling me this is a bad idea, but I can’t for the life of me work out why—not when he’s so close and I can smell his sweet scent, and his hand has the perfect pressure.

I lose my balance as he suddenly squeals and pulls his hand out my pocket. He reels back against the door like he’s been shot. I look around anxiously, but there’s no sign of an intruder.

“Oh my god,” he says loudly. “I just had my hand on your penis .”

“I thought you meant to do it.” That strikes me as tremendously funny, and once again, I’m laughing helplessly.

“Your cock was in my hand,” he says, staring at his palm as if my cock might materialise there.

“Why is that a surprise?” I move towards him, but come up short when something stops me. I twist and turn, struggling to get free, panic seizing me. “Help,” I shout. “Help.” Then I realise it’s my jumper caught on the doorknob. “Oh no. Don’t worry,” I call as I free myself. “Everything is okay. Everything is great .”

“My fingers were wrapped around your penis,” Artie mutters.

“Wasn’t that the point?”

He blinks. “Well no. I was looking for the key. I thought I was searching in my own pocket. I didn’t expect to find a stray cock in there.” We exchange glances, and he breaks into peals of laughter. “Stray cock,” he splutters. “Cluck cluck.”

It takes us ages to get ourselves together, but finally Artie finds the key and opens the door. I lurch through it into the hallway aware of him following me. “God, it’s spooky in here.”

For some reason, I’m elongating my O’s and it makes me sound like Scooby Doo. I start to laugh but then stop because it definitely feels spooky in here. Everywhere is so dark. Then I realise I haven’t turned on the lights and hasten to rectify the fact.

Artie turns to me, blinking in the sudden glare of light. “What’s that song?”

I realise I’ve been humming absentmindedly and then brighten. “It’s Frank Sinatra’s ‘Strangers in the Night’.”

He stares at me, his eyes so big he looks like a cartoon Artie. “I like it.”

“Do you really?” I lift my hand and draw my fingers through his hair. It’s soft on my skin, and I feel a powerful urge to pull him closer.

“Yes.” He gives a loud sigh as I hug him. His body is slender and warm, and I want to live inside him.

“What’s the matter?” I demand, ever ready and happy to make it better. “What’s the matter?” I repeat when he doesn’t answer.

“I’ll never get a bloke. I’m so boring .”

Blood roars in my ears when I think of him with another bloke. “You are not boring,” I say fiercely.

“I can’t help it. I just like that old-style music and old films. I’ve always wanted to dance like on Strictly Come Dancing .”

“You like Strictly ?” I breathe.

He flashes a glance at me. “See what I mean? I suppose you think that’s silly and?—”

“I love Strictly ,” I say far too loudly.

He blinks. “Do you?”

“Yes, of course. It’s amazing.” I’m filled with excitement and seize his hand. “We shall watch it together. It’s so—” I hiccup. “—boring to watch it on my own. What do you love best?”

He edges closer to me, eyes wide. “I love the colours and the costumes. They’re so bright. And I love the way the dancer leads his partner around the floor. It’s so commanding.”

“I like the music,” I confess, very aware that this must be the drink talking. I’ve never confessed this to anyone. Mick used to laugh at me. He preferred techno.

“I’ll teach you to dance,” I say grandly. He stares up at me with stars in his eyes, and I wonder if anyone has ever looked at me like this. The thought is cloudy and drifts away even as I try to concentrate.

I hold out my hand to him. “Will you do me the honour?” I say, bowing. The floor wavers and I lurch forward, but Artie’s hand keeps me from faceplanting. “So sorry. I think the builders have done something to this floor,” I say crossly, glaring at the offending article. “I shall have a very strong word in the morning.” I trail off. “What was I saying?”

“You were going to teach me to dance,” Artie says breathlessly.

“Yes, indeed.” I bounce on the balls of my feet.

I step forward, taking his hand again in a hopefully authoritative way. The attempt is marred, as I’m seeing double at the moment, so I end up swaying into him.

“Come closer,” I order. I swallow hard as he immediately obeys, his trust obvious.

My fingers curl around his, and I’m overwhelmed by the sense that he’s mine and mine alone. I slide my other hand around his narrow waist. His jumper has ridden up and his skin is like hot silk against my fingertips.

I lick my lips, trying to remember what I’m supposed to be doing. It’s hard when his scent is weaving around me like a fever dream.

“We’ll start with a simple box step,” I announce, and he nods.

I look down and get caught by his gaze. His eyes are so light that he looks like a magic creature, and I’m unable to look away.

“What was I saying?” I whisper into the gap between our mouths. When did we get so close?

“I don’t know.” His words are soft.

I abruptly give up. Why am I fighting this attraction between us so hard? My brain is too fuddled to make sense of it, and his mouth looks so full and tempting, his lips pillowy and soft.

“Stop me,” I mutter.

He shakes his head, his hands grasping my jacket and pulling me nearer. My heart begins pounding in a rhythm I can feel in my cock. I close my eyes in anticipation, but then they fly open as Artie abruptly shoves me away.

“What’s that noise?” he hisses, holding tightly to my hand.

I hold still, listening more carefully. I startle, whipping my head towards the stairs as I hear an eerie creaking and rustling.

“Oh my god, it’s a ghost ,” Artie says, shrinking behind me.

I puff out my chest. “I will protect you,” I announce rather grandly. I reach out to brace against the wall, and stagger. “Where’s the fucking wall gone? Who moved it?” I say fretfully.

“You did.” Artie snorts and starts to laugh. “You said no one needed a w-wall there.”

“Well, I was wrong. Take a note, Mr Walker.”

“I will, Mr Walker.”

That makes me happy, and it seems to make him feel the same, so we grin at each other.

Then the eerie noise sounds again, and we both freeze.

“What the hell is that?” My racing heartbeat seems to be making my drink haze disappear.

“I’m scared,” Artie whispers. “What if it’s the ghost of my stepmother?”

“Then I shall tell her what a witch she was.” I draw myself up. “And I shall demand to know why she treated such a wonderful person so badly.”

He stares at me as though I’ve just shinned up a ladder and hung the moon. I raise my chin. That look always gets to me.

“Come out!” I shout. “Laura, I would like to—” I hiccup again. “I would like to tell you that I’ve seen your wedding photo, and you had very wonky eyebrows.”

“Oh my god ,” Artie breathes.

That sounds good, so I carry on. “You had very thin lips. You looked like…” I pause for inspiration. “Like you would have resembled the head gremlin in Gremlins if you’d had time to pluck your eyebrows properly.”

Artie snorts and I grin at him.

I continue in a louder voice. “I’m going to go and exor-exor—” I try to remember the word. “I’m going to exercise you!”

Artie shakes his head, looking awed. “She didn’t even like aerobics. She said…” He stops for a few seconds, as if forgetting what he was going to say, before triumphantly finishing, “She said women in leotards were an abomination.”

“How dare she. My mother had a leotard in the eighties. And legwarmers.”

He gasps. “Your mother is not an abomination.”

“Thank you.” I pause. “Although she is rather scary.”

He pats my arm. “Sh-she’s lovely.” He runs his hand down my arm almost dreamily. “You have very big muscles.”

“Thank you. I shall show you what I can do with them.” I draw in a breath. “Wait here,” I instruct him. I lurch towards the source of the noise, which seems to be coming from the kitchen.

Something flutters and I punch out at it. “Take that!” I shout. I register that I’m hitting air just as I spin and fall over. “What the fuck?” I mutter.

Everything is spinning, so I lie down and stare at the ceiling. I think I’m supposed to be doing something, but I don’t know what.

Movement makes me raise my head, but I relax as Artie settles next to me. I raise my arm, and he curls up next to me, pillowing his head on my shoulder. He snuggles closer, and I clasp him tightly, loving the feel of him against me. Alarm bells ring in my head, but I ignore them. He feels so nice in my arms. So right.

He stirs. “It’s okay. I don’t think there’s a ghost, after all. You just punched the plastic sheet over the kitchen door.”

“Did I? Are you sure?”

“Yes. You’ve torn it down.”

My sluggish brain ponders this. “Meh, it had it coming.”

He chuckles, and I keep him close. I love being with him. I make a protesting sound when he sits up. “Where are you going?”

“I think we should go to bed.”

“Really? Why can’t we stay here?”

“The builders might have a shock in the morning.”

I stretch out. The floor is very hard, and I am becoming aware that I’m lying on a cement floor after having punched a glorified shower curtain.

“Shit,” I mutter. I sit up and my head begins to thump. “Oh dear.”

Artie nods, clutching his temples. “I don’t feel so hot.”

“Neither do I. This is why I rarely drink.” I hesitate. “Do you think the answer might be to drink more?”

“Probably not.”

“We’re going to feel terrible in the morning.”

He gives a pitiful moan. “I’m not feeling so great now. What was in those drinks?”

“Lost dreams and a vat of grenadine.” I blanch. “Did I really just try to teach you to dance the quickstep?”

“You got a bit derailed, but it was a very nice idea.” He pets my head gently.

“I’m sure it was, but it’s a bit puzzling because I’m not actually very good at dancing.” I pause. “Maybe don’t try and do it that way if you ever make Strictly .”

He snorts. “My hero.”

I struggle to my feet and hold out my hand to him. He puts his in mine obediently and when our fingers twine it feels so right. I pull him up, but he’s lighter than I estimate, and we both fall against the wall.

“ Ouf .” I groan as he lands against me, and I bang my head.

He looks up at me with those big eyes and I don’t know whether it’s the alcohol, or whether it’s because I’ve been waiting to do this for what seems like forever, but I lean down and finally take his lips with mine.

We’ve shared a few kisses over the last few weeks, and so now I know the feel of him in my arms, his tight body, the scent of his cologne, and the silkiness of his skin. But this kiss is different, because there’s no one to pretend for.

His lips are full and soft, and he stays still for a stunned second. For a moment, I think I’ve made a mistake. But then he surges up and kisses me back, winding his arms around my neck and urging my mouth to go deeper…harder.

I eat at his mouth, revelling in his soft, pillowy lips, and I realise the growling noise I hear is coming from me. He opens his lips and his hands roaming up my chest feel like fire on my skin. I suck on his tongue, grabbing his narrow hips and hauling him closer so I can grind my aching dick into him.

At first, I think the ringing I hear is my pulse pounding in my ears. But Artie suddenly pulls away, reaches into his coat pocket, and pulls out his phone.

“Daisy?” he says hoarsely, his hair mussed and his cheeks cherry red.

Forty percent of me is reeling at what I just did, but unfortunately, the other sixty percent is urging me to do it again. The sight of him isn’t helping matters.

He offers me an apologetic face as he listens to his stepsister. I wave a hand at him to carry on. My drunken brain needs to come back online and remind me that I am a fucking idiot who just mauled my fake husband who also happens to be my assistant.

I take a deep breath and then another, feeling myself settle.

Artie hums and listens to Daisy, making consoling sounds. I straighten, running my hand through my hair and pulling my jumper back into place.

Artie is responsible for my disarray. This fact has the potential to derail all my calming work so far, so I take some more deep breaths.

Assistant , I say in my head. Assistant.

He finishes his call.

“Everything okay?” I say, my voice thick.

He studies me for a long few seconds, and I ready myself for questions and demands—those are what typically happen when I’m with a man and he’s disappointed with me.

But Artie only taps his lip thoughtfully with his phone. I note that his lips are swollen, and I realise that it’s because of what my mouth did to him. An electric shock zaps down my spine.

“I’m tired,” he says. “Are you?”

I try to pull myself together. His question is so far from what I thought he’d say that it takes me a few seconds to register his words.

“I am,” I say hoarsely, the incipient hangover beginning to pull at my bones. “Artie, I?—”

He holds up his hand firmly. “It’s okay,” he says.

I relax immediately at the surety in his voice. “You don’t want me to apologise?”

Something flares in his eyes. “No, I do not .” He comes close and takes my face in his hands. “I know you were thinking of Mick, and it got out of control,” he says earnestly and so sweetly that it makes my heart sore. “Please don’t feel bad for that. I know how much you loved him. Now I need sleep, if it’s even possible in this house.” He starts up the stairs.

I stare after him, flabbergasted. I’d never once thought of Mick during, before, or after that kiss.

The first time I slept with a man after Mick’s death, I threw up and lay shivering and crying on the bathroom floor all night. But after kissing Artie, I feel nothing except a lingering desire to do it again very soon.

I vow to revisit the thought when I’m completely sober. I start up the stairs after him and then nearly bang into him on the landing. He’s standing staring ahead as if struck by lightning.

“What is it?” I say wildly, wondering if he has actually seen a ghost and not a plastic curtain.

“There’s only one bed.”

“I beg your pardon?”

He turns and clutches my jumper, staring up at me. “Don’t you remember? Eric said they’d had to abandon doing up your room because of water damage. We’ve only got one bed.”

I groan. “I’d forgotten all about it.”

“Me too. The fifteen vats of your mum’s amaretto sours helped.”

“They do induce serious memory loss. I should have warned you.”

“I doubt you could have stopped me.”

“True. You’d downed three in the time it took me to cross the kitchen.”

He snorts and slaps my stomach lightly. “Stop it. You lie.”

“I can’t believe I forgot about the bed.” Although, I have to admit that the idea strikes me with a bolt of heat I really shouldn’t be feeling.

“Well, we were more focused on deceiving the entirety of your nearest and dearest.”

I rub my face with an unsteady hand. “I know. It’s just getting worse. Ma was on about throwing a party for the extended family.”

“I’m so?—”

I point a finger at him. “Don’t you dare say sorry. Getting married was my plan.”

He presses his lips together like he wants to protest. But then he nods, and I pat his shoulder, dragging my hand away before it lingers.

“It’s not a problem,” I say. “You sleep in the bed. I’ll grab a duvet and sleep on the floor.”

“On the floor ,” he says in a horrified voice. “No way are you sleeping on the floor. It’s freezing in this house.”

“I’ll be fine.” Before I can move, he places his hand on my arm. The pressure is gentle, but it holds me in place like an iron bar.

“You can sleep in the bed with me,” he says firmly.

“Pardon?” I say hoarsely.

He opens the bedroom door and I follow him.

It’s a large space created by knocking two rooms together. There’s a dressing room and an en suite, and everything smells pleasantly of paint and new carpet. It looks lovely, with a set of French windows that lead onto a small balcony overlooking a wild garden and Wimbledon Common. At the moment the only furniture is the big oak bed that was delivered yesterday, two bedside tables, and an old armchair upholstered in orange velvet. There’s still enough room for the sofa and coffee table Artie ordered last week.

He switches on the lamps, creating a warm glow, then crosses to the window and draws the temporary curtains. Suddenly, I feel like we’ve been enclosed in a bubble of light and warmth.

“You’ve gone very quiet,” he observes.

“I can’t share a bed with you.”

“Why?” His face suddenly looks stricken. “Oh my god, is it because of Mick? Because in that case, I totally understand. I know you said you didn’t sleep with anyone and?—”

I hold my hand up to stop him. I’m astonished that I’d admitted that fact to him. A lifetime of being close-mouthed is being completely derailed by Arthur Campbell.

“It’s nothing to do with Mick. That hadn’t even occurred to me. It’s just that we’re faking marriage, and I don’t want to put you in a position where?—”

I stop because he just rolled his eyes. My sweet and shy assistant just rolled his eyes at me, and incredibly, it makes me want to laugh. Laugh and hug him.

“It’s just a mattress and some sheets,” he says. “This will only be for the next few days until your room is ready. We can do this.” An evangelical gleam appears in his eyes. “I will not let my stepmonster win.”

“Who?”

“That’s Daisy’s name for her.”

“Why did they hate each other?”

“Because Daisy was madly in love with her girlfriend, Paige, and Laura couldn’t deal with it. Laura broke them up. She told Paige that Daisy needed her mother, and she’d cut her off if Paige didn’t dump her. Daisy never forgave Laura and moved out the next day.”

“Laura’s sounding worse the more I hear about her.”

“You’ll have a better opinion of black mould than her by the end of the week.”

I snort and watch him disappear into the bathroom. Water comes on and I listen to the sound of him brushing his teeth. “Can we really do this?” I call.

He appears in the doorway, his toothbrush in his mouth as he brushes. Removing it, he gives me a foamy smile. “Of course we can.” He crashes back into the bathroom. “Get into bed,” he calls. “It’s cold. It feels like autumn is already here.” When he returns, he notices that I’m still standing in the same place and asks, “What are you doing?”

I gesture at the bathroom. “Waiting to brush my teeth.”

“Oh. Be my guest,” he says brightly and edges past me. “Sorry to be so awkward. I’ve never shared a room with anyone before.”

I stop dead. “Why not?”

“Well, I’ve only had the one boyfriend. The one who went to America.”

I nod, gritting my teeth at the mention of the man. Something winds me up whenever Artie speaks about him.

“I lived with his family when I got kicked out,” Artie continues. “But they wouldn’t let us share, so I had to sleep in the spare room.”

“I see,” I say quickly. I head into the bathroom as Artie starts to undress.

When I return, all my blood leaves my brain and vanishes in a downward direction as I discover Artie’s still not in bed. He’s completely naked, his clothes scattered on the floor, and he’s bending over the bed to draw back the duvet.

I itemise his long, lean torso, skin I know is silky to the touch, sharp hipbones, and a full, round, little arse. My hands clench, and I stifle a groan.

He slides under the covers and gives a moan of happiness. “God, that’s nice.”

“Don’t you—” I clear my throat. “Don’t you want to put something on?” I say hoarsely.

“Why?” He blinks at me like a drunken owl and then waves a languid hand. “I don’t know where my pyjamas are, and honestly, the room is spinning a little. I’ll just lie here quietly. You don’t mind, do you?” His eyes widen. “Do you?”

“No,” I say faintly. “You go right ahead.”

I retreat to the bathroom again, trying to banish the sight of his loveliness from my brain. My breathing is rough and my cock is rebelling, refusing to go down. After several minutes, I decide it’s safe enough to go back into the bedroom.

I find him lying in the bed, his eyes closed and long, dark eyelashes shadowing his flushed cheeks. I startle when they blink open. “There you are,” he says, in sleepy delight. “Come to bed.”

He scans me as I come close, and his gaze freezes on my boxers. I furtively adjust the legs, but only manage to expose more of my torso, putting my groin on display.

“You have a V,” he whispers, his eyes still stoking a fire on my skin.

“Pardon?” I squeak.

He waves at my crotch. “I can’t get one no matter what I do. I’m too thin. You have a lovely body.”

I count down from ten to calm my cock again. It’s been up and down more times tonight than a navy flagpole.

“Are you okay on that side?” he asks.

“What?” I say, blinking at the change of subject.

Artie looks at me patiently. “Are you okay with that side of the bed? I always sleep on the left.”

My side is closest to the door, and I nod. “Yes, it’s fine.”

The room is chilly, and I dive under the covers gratefully. The sheets are soft and warm and smell of cedar and his skin. My cock stiffens again, and I resign myself to spending a long, wakeful night.

“Okay?” he asks.

I pull the covers to my neck, feeling like a maiden aunt. “Yes,” I say. My voice is higher than usual, but he doesn’t seem to notice.

“I really liked seeing your family photos.”

I turn my head on the pillow to find him staring contemplatively at the ceiling. “Pardon?”

His sleepy smile makes my heart clench. He turns on his side, pillowing his head on his arm. His hair flops over his forehead, and his eyes are night-time soft. It feels so intimate to lie like this together.

“Your mum’s photos were lovely. I saw loads of you as a little boy. There was the sweetest one of you in the bath.”

I groan. “Please never mention that at work.”

His laughter is as warm as the sheets around us, and I sink more deeply into them, finally relaxing.

“Maybe I won’t,” he says, playfully patting my hand and skimming his fingers down my arm. It leaves trails of fire, and I swallow hard.

“You’re very close to Adam, aren’t you?”

I lie on my side to face him. The sheets wrap around my waist, and I notice his glance slide over my chest. “I am. He’s incredibly irritating, but he’s always been my best friend.”

“That’s nice. I’m glad you had that. What’s your favourite childhood memory of him?”

I think back. “He used to tag along with me everywhere, and my mum insisted that I had to include him. Whenever I played on the Xbox, I’d switch his controller off. He’d play for ages, and I only had to throw in a few well-dones to keep the peace. Now I’m wondering if I could use that method in some way with Rafferty.” I smile at his laughter. “Why did you want to know that?”

He shrugs. “I was an only child. Even when Daisy came along, she still spent a lot of time with her dad.”

“Were you lonely?”

He wrinkles his nose, which is far cuter than I’d like to admit. “Maybe, but I had my books. You’re never lonely when you have a book world to lose yourself in.”

“I’m a reader, too,” I say, delighted. “What was your favourite book as a child?”

“Definitely ‘Voyage of the Dawn Treader’ by CS Lewis. Prince Caspian was very daring and take-charge in that one, although nobody ever told me how to pronounce new words, so I went around for a long while saying things were very pictureskew.”

I start to laugh, and he grins at me. Our gazes hold for a moment, the ghost of the smile still in his eyes, and I hold my breath. The space between us feels impossibly small and the heat of his body warms the bed. I don’t know whether to be disappointed or relieved when he leans over and clicks the lamp.

The room falls into darkness, and I jump when his hand finds mine. He squeezes it. “Thank you for tonight,” he whispers.

“For what?” I ask hoarsely. Is he thanking me for the kiss earlier?

“For the quickstep.”

“If I’m being honest, I don’t think we even got to that, and it was more of a slow fumble. You’ll certainly never get a ten from Shirley.”

He chuckles and it’s a beautiful sound in the darkness. “And for lending me your family tonight. I know it was fake, but it was awfully nice to be with a family who really love each other. Nice,” he repeats.

“You’re welcome,” I whisper.

What is it about Artie that arouses this odd dichotomy within me? I want to shag him senseless, but also encase him in bubble wrap to keep him safe.

I lie listening to his soft breathing and fall asleep before I can decipher the mystery.

I come awake from a dream, feeling tight and hot, my body strumming with need. The alcohol buzz is gone, and a hangover is on my horizon, but I’m still wrapped in the remains of my dream. All I can recall of it is a body against mine, the sound of groans in my ear, and the tight grip around my cock as I pushed my way into the man’s body.

I palm my cock, unsurprised to find it hard and aching. My boxers are wet from precome, and I arch into my grip, giving a choked grunt as my dick slides through my fingers.

A breathy sigh sounds next to my ear, and I nearly levitate off the bed.

I look around frantically but then relax when I see Artie and remember where I am. As my heart rate subsides, I observe him curiously. He sleeps very tidily on his side, his head pillowed on one arm, while the other arm stretches towards me, palm up. The neatness of the pose is so very him, and I fight a smile at the thought.

The smile dies as I study his beautiful, sharp-boned face. Moonlight streams through the thin curtains and makes his brown hair look pale in places. His usual neat style is a messy tumble over his forehead. His full lips part slightly, and I have a sudden flash from my dream of the man closing his mouth over the head of my cock and sucking. He’d looked up, his blue eyes glinting and?—

I stiffen. It had been him . Artie. I just had a sex dream about my fake husband.

Guilt doesn’t come. Perhaps it’s crowded out by the images in my head. Bodies fucking hard, the slap of flesh and his throaty groans in my ear. Without thinking, I reach down and take my cock out of my boxers. It’s rock hard, the head slick with seed. I sneak a glance at Artie, who’s still sleeping the slumber of the innocent.

This is so wrong, but I need it. I need to come so badly, and I can be quiet. I’ve always been quiet during sex much to the dismay of some partners. I bite my lip. He doesn’t have to know.

Before I can talk myself out of it, I lick my palm, getting it nice and wet. When I slide it back over my cock, relief makes me arch, and I start the quick, familiar motions, the wetness of my precome slicking the way.

I bite my lip, but I can’t suppress the slick sound of my cock against my palm. I raise my other hand to tweak my nipple. The pain is sharp, and I squeeze my eyes shut.

They fly open when I hear a throaty moan and Artie rolls into me.

“What the—?” I groan loudly as his hand slides over mine, his long fingers cool against my hot skin. “What are you doing ?”

“Let me,” he whispers. “ Please .”

“This is not—” I grunt as his fingers squeeze, the sublime pressure making my eyes cross. My hand falls away, and I arch into his touch. “God, that’s so fucking good ,” I grit out.

His grip is perfect—tight and hot—and I arch my back, trying to get closer. The noise is obscene in the quiet room with the schlick-schlick slap of flesh. He pushes his fist down to the root, sliding back my foreskin, allowing the head to pulse in the cold air.

I shiver and open my eyes. His gaze is slumberous and silver in the dim light. His cheeks are flushed, his cock hard against my thigh. Our gazes hold as he pushes his hips into me, daubing my skin with wetness.

“Yes,” I gasp. “God, yes. Rub off on me. Use me, Artie.” I cup his arse cheek, applying pressure. He groans, his eyes sliding shut and his hand pausing on my cock as he rubs against me.

“ Ungh , that’s so good,” he moans.

I grunt as his hand tightens on my dick. “Easy, sweetheart,” I whisper, not even pausing to marvel at the endearment.

He opens his eyes. “Sorry.”

“You don’t ever have to be sorry,” I say fervently.

Then my eyes slam shut as his left hand gets into the game, cupping my balls with a gentle grip.

“Fuck,” I hiss.

He moans in approval, lowering his mouth to my chest to find my nipple. As he sucks, it’s like someone attached a hotwire from his mouth to my balls. My spine tingles and I open my legs, lifting up so his finger can trace my hole.

“Yes,” I breathe.

He gives an accompanying groan, rutting against my thigh as he pets my entrance. “Can I?”

“You can do anything.” I suck in a sharp breath, the air sizzling in my lungs. I spread my legs wide as he pushes his finger in. He goes gently without lube, but I’ve always liked a bit of pain with my sex, and I grab his hand, forcing his finger deeper inside.

His full lips part as he pants gently, and his eyes are wild as he writhes against me. He’s wrapped his legs around my thigh so he can push harder, and I encourage him with broken groans as I arch into the finger penetrating me.

His other hand moves on my cock in a tight, forceful grip that turns me on more than anything. I feel my balls tighten.

“Going to come,” I gasp.

“Do it,” he says, watching me avidly, licking his lips. “I want to see.”

He firms his grip, and my buttocks tighten as I come all over his hand.

“Jesus.” I fall back onto the mattress. “Jesus Christ.” I’m breathing like I’ve run a marathon. Even though I’ve just come my brains out, my dick gives a hopeful twitch as I watch him bring his come-covered hand to his mouth. He darts a look at me and then licks his fingers delicately.

“Mmm,” he says throatily.

I groan, aware of how hard he is as he rocks against me.

“Come here,” I demand, rising and pushing him onto his back. “You took care of me so well,” I whisper, hovering over him. He swallows hard, and I kiss him to taste the tartness of my come on his tongue. I pull back. “Now I’m going to take care of you.”

I watch, awed, as he spreads his legs and lies back, giving me carte blanche. I lower myself, and he arches up to me, his slim body a beautiful line. His cock is slim and long, red-tipped and angry-looking. Precome slides from his slit. I sweep down and lick it, taking the taste to the back of my tongue.

“You taste delicious,” I growl.

He fists the sheets, his whole body mine to look at. Mine , I repeat silently. He’s so beautiful to me it’s almost overwhelming, and I commit the sight of him to my memory.

“Please,” he groans. “Oh please , Jed.”

I lean down to take his cock into my mouth, sucking it with ease down the back of my throat. He’s so primed, it only takes a few hard sucks and he’s screaming out my name and flooding my mouth with come. I gulp it down greedily before pulling off and licking every drop from his cock as he whines and writhes on the sheets.

Only then do I fall back on the bed, savouring the taste of him. “Jesus,” I say dazedly. “ Jesus .”

“Mmm,” Artie says in a hoarse whisper. “That was so lovely.”

He snuggles up to me, and I feel a kiss on my shoulder. Within seconds, his breathing evens out and his body goes lax in sleep. I stare at him in disbelief and a certain amount of amusement. Oh, to be young again and sleep at the drop of a hat.

I ponder my feelings cautiously. I should feel awful. My usual bout of disloyalty to Mick should be battling with worry over taking advantage of Artie. I should be worrying about tomorrow, too. I should probably also be wondering if my mother’s cocktails have some sort of sex agent embedded in them.

But all that worry sounds very tiring, so I roll into Artie, wrapping my arms around him, nestling my face in his neck, and inhaling the sweet scent of his hair. Worry can wait. I drop off the edge of the waking world with his warm body in my arms.