Chapter 9 Jimmy
JIMMY
Finals are over. It should be a freeing thought, but dread is already seeping in, and I only left the exam hall ten minutes ago.
Have I done enough? Will I get a decent classification?
Does it even matter? Oh, shit, I have to be an adult now.
Get a full-time job, find somewhere to live. But first, I want to have fun.
Flynn’s coming over tomorrow, unless he’s changed his mind, but I want to do something tonight. I text a few friends to see if they’re up for going to the pub tonight, but they either still have exams or other plans.
I hit the gym next, but it’s not the same without my Barbell Soc buddies there.
Half the fun is the banter and mucking around.
The friendly rivalry and impromptu competitions of who can lift the most, or who can increase their normal load the most, in a month.
That kind of thing. I still do a full session; I’m not satisfied until the pull in my muscles tells me I’ve worked hard.
I cool down, then take a long shower in the changing rooms.
It hasn’t helped. The truth is, I don’t want to be alone today.
I find a quiet corner of campus and open my favourite hook-up app.
Except, instead of scrolling, I end up re-reading the two short communications I had with Flynn.
Before I’m aware of what I’m doing, I’m tapping out a message to him: ‘You do realise we STILL haven’t exchanged phone numbers, don’t you? ’
What am I doing? We have plans for tomorrow. I shouldn’t be seeking him out tonight because I don’t want to be alone. Not that I am asking him to come over. He’ll be tired from working on the farm all day. Fuck it. I send the message and then head off campus.
Halfway home, my phone pings. Flynn sent me his phone number. Grinning, I add it to my phone book and send him a text: ‘And now you have my number. Congrats!’
Flynn: I'm honoured.
Jimmy: You should be!
Flynn: How did your exam go?
Jimmy: Well, I think, thanks to you.
Flynn: I didn’t do much. You did all the hard work.
Jimmy: Trust me, you were a huge help. Am I stopping you from working?
Flynn: I get breaks.
Jimmy: Want to help me celebrate the end of my finals?
I keep checking my phone as I walk, but, for now, the conversation is over.
Either Flynn had to get back to work, or my question scared him off.
I hope it’s not the latter. Saturday was great.
Things were relaxed. There was the odd stutter, but overall, our interactions held the promise of a renewed friendship.
I don’t want to do anything to fuck it up.
I get home and shout to check to see if anyone else is in.
No reply. My housemates must be on campus, doing exams, or studying.
Most of them are moving out over the weekend, leaving me on my own for the summer.
I don’t blame them. Why hang around in a grotty student house if you’ve got somewhere else to go?
My phone buzzes.
Flynn: I’m coming over tomorrow. That’s still the plan, isn’t it?
Jimmy: Yeah, but I want to do something tonight. How does pizza and anime sound?
Flynn: I can’t promise I’ll be good company.
Jimmy: Something wrong?
Flynn: No. It’s been a long day, that’s all.
It’s mid-afternoon, but he’s been up since dawn.
Jimmy: I don’t mind. You can crash on my sofa if you’re too tired to drive home.
I’ve hit send before I realise what I’ve said. My sofa. The one we fucked on.
Flynn: I’ll come for a bit. I won’t stay late. Is that okay?
Phew. At least my stupid suggestion hasn’t put him off.
Jimmy: That’s fine.
Flynn: I’ll come over after I’m done for the day.
Jimmy: Looking forward to it.
Flynn: Me too.
Flynn arrives around seven, which is later than I was expecting. I’m not a farm expert, but I'm familiar with Angus’ schedule on the farm before Flynn took over. Although I guess it’s different. Angus helped out around uni, whereas it’s a full-time job for Flynn. He has a lot more to do.
“Congrats on finishing your exams.” He hands me a white paper bag.
I open it, inhaling the sweet scent of millionaire’s shortbread before I see it. I hug him, as I did on Saturday night before he left. A quick, one-hundred per cent platonic hug. He winces.
I frown, releasing him. “Are you okay?”
He touches his shoulder blade with his opposite hand. “Yeah. I think I pulled a muscle or something. It’s a bit sore.”
I gesture to the lounge. “Well, in that case, you should enter my surgery and let Doctor Jimmy take care of it for you.”
He arches a brow. “Doctor Jimmy?”
“One of my optional modules was on supporting injured athletes. I also spent the last two summers working at a sports physio centre. I learnt a thing or two about massages.” I crack my knuckles and wiggle my fingers at him.
He looks uncertain.
“It’ll help. I promise.”
“Okay.” He doesn’t sound convinced.
“Sit on the floor in front of the sofa.”
He does as I’ve asked without any hesitation or second-guessing. It’s me who pauses. It would be best if he were lying down, but I don’t have a massage table. I need to be able to apply firm pressure through his shoulder, which requires the advantage of height.
“Something wrong?” he asks, staring at me.
“No.” I sit behind him on the sofa, my legs on either side of him—my pulse quickens. Breathing becomes hard. “Is this okay?” My voice is a little strangled.
He glances from side to side at my thighs. “Yeah,” his voice is even softer.
“This shoulder?” I touch his right shoulder.
“Yes.”
“It will be a little uncomfortable.”
“Okay.”
I rub my hands together to warm them, and then massage his shoulders through his fitted T-shirt. He winces and tenses his right shoulder, where the muscles are stiff compared to his left side.
“Relax,” I urge.
He nods and bows his head.
At first, he winces with every movement of my hand, but, gradually, the tension in his right shoulder eases, and he stops reacting in a pained way.
“It's nice,” he whispers.
I smile. I’m glad the massage is helping. I’m enjoying doing it. If only he were topless, his skin glistening with massage oil. I’d give him a full-body massage if he asked. Not that he will. It will have to remain an unvoiced desire.
“Have you thought about doing this for a living?”
“Being a masseuse?”
“Sports massages.”
“Maybe. I prefer helping people in the gym. Knowing how to work out correctly minimises the chances of needing a sports therapist.”
“But you’re so good at it.”
I widen my smile to a grin. “I’m good at weightlifting, too.”
“I bet you are.” His voice has a dreamy quality to it now.
I’ve noticed him checking out my muscles. Does he appreciate all the effort I’ve put into getting buff?
“How is your shoulder now?”
“A lot better, thanks.”
“You need a follow-up appointment.”
“For another massage?”
“Yes.”
“Hmm… I’m here tomorrow…”
“I think I could fit you in.”
He chuckles. “Book me in.”
“Done.”
I should stop. I’ve done enough to loosen his shoulder up and ease his pain, at least for now. It might stiffen up again by morning. I don’t want to stop. I want to keep feeling his pliant muscles beneath my hands, even if his T-shirt is in the way, and make him feel good.
“So nice.” He groans.
The noise goes straight to my cock. Well, fuck. Now I have a semi-hard-on. I can’t stop massaging him now, or he’ll turn around and see that I’m aroused. I need my pulse to calm the fuck down. I need my cock to wilt, but it’s showing no signs of doing that.
“Has anyone ever given you a massage before?”
“No.”
“You’ve been missing out.”
“I have.”
I step up my massage game, aiming for maximum pleasure rather than easing pain.
The trouble is, the more relaxed he gets, the more turned on I get.
He flops his head back onto the sofa seat.
I gulp. His eyes are closed. Has he realised how close his head is to my crotch, or is he so relaxed that it hasn't entered his mind?
He opens his eyes in a fluttering motion.
Our stares lock. His lips are parted. I still my hands.
I could bend down and kiss him and, fuck, do I want to.
But I don’t move. I’m not even sure I’m breathing.
Does he want me to kiss him? The blue of his eyes is intense, the ring around them darker than ever. He’s beautiful.
“Hi,” I say, because I have to break the silence somehow and ‘hi’ is more sensible than a kiss.
“Hi.”
He’s not moving. Why isn’t he moving?
“Good massage?”
He upturns his lips into a content smile. “Yeah.”
“Relaxed?”
“Uh-huh. Very.”
“Want me to keep going?”
His mouth twitches. His pupils shrink a fraction. What is he thinking?
“Or I could call for pizza,” I offer.
He shakes his head. It’s a slight movement.
He raises his left hand and hooks his fingers around the back of my neck, applying a hint of pressure.
I swallow, lick my lips, and answer the gentle press of his fingers by bowing my head towards him.
Is he asking me to kiss him? Should I? Wanting to doesn’t make it sensible.
He’s still in love with Billy, even if he doesn’t want to admit it out loud.
That alone should stop me. But it doesn’t.
The soft warmth of his breath on my face, and then my lips brush his, and I kiss him.
He brushes his fingers over my lips and returns my kiss, his lips parting for my tongue.
His breath is minty, with an underlying hint of sweetness. His lips mould against mine.
I can’t get enough of him. I want more. I don’t want to break the kiss in case it prompts him to run away.
Not that he's stopping it, either. I rest my hand over the collar of his T-shirt, risking stroking my thumb back and forth over the skin above it.
He shivers and kisses me with renewed fervour.
Our tongues dance, our teeth clash, our lips move in perfect synchronicity.
Somehow, he moves without breaking the kiss.
He turns, so he’s kneeling upright between my legs, his arms around me, hugging me to him.
I put my arms around him, resting one hand between his collar bones and the other on the small of his back.
I apply pressure, closing the small gap that remained between us, so our chests and stomachs are pressed together.
Does he know I’m hard now? Does he know every fibre of my being is aching for him? Because of him.
Our lips have to part. We stare into each other’s eyes, breathing hard. I want him. I need him. I could get carried away with him. Only this time, I’d make it wonderful. Not sloppy and rushed and dulled by alcohol.
Is he going to pull away, or regret kissing me, or worse, run?
I need to say something. Do something. So I cup his cheek and kiss him again, worshipping his mouth with my tongue.
I run my hands over his back, wishing more than ever that he were topless.
Naked would be even better, our hot, wanting bodies pressed together.
But I’ll take what’s on offer right now.
Kissing as he strokes his hands over my back and shoulders, and runs his fingers across the stubble where I’ve shaved my hair, and up further still, to tangle into the section I’ve allowed to grow around three inches.
I don’t know what he’s thinking, or feeling, only that he’s kissing me as passionately as I’m kissing him.
Is he afraid to speak, too? Afraid that words will snap us back to cold reality?
I don’t need to speak to show him how much I want him.
I’m doing that with my lips, my tongue, and my hands.
I’m doing it in the way I’m pulling him against me.
My heart thrashes as I breathe the same air as him.
As I touch and taste him. I’ve wanted this for a long time, even as I tried to hate him.
His feelings for me—whatever they are—might be new, but mine are old.
I tried to shove them down. Tried to throttle and ignore them.
But now they’re all at the surface, and I’m powerless to do anything but give in to them.
What does he feel for me? Lust because I work out? I’m good with that. Everyone else I’ve slept with wanted me for my body or my looks. Why should Flynn be any different?
Am I a temporary replacement for Billy? Fuck. I shouldn’t think like that. It’s unfair. But what if it’s true? Do I want to be used like that? Do I care?
He breaks the kiss and rests his forehead against mine, breathing hard. “What are we doing?”
“Kissing. You are a fucking good kisser.”
A pretty blush creeps across his cheeks and nose. “So are you.”
“I’m good at other stuff, too.”
“I bet you are.” He licks his lips. Can he taste me on them? “But what are we doing?”
I chuckle. “I’m pretty sure I just answered that.”
“Jimmy.”
“Sorry. Does it feel wrong?”
“No.”
“Then does it matter?”
“I—I already came between you and Billy once. I don’t want to do that again.”
I press my finger over his lips. “I already told you. My relationship with Billy has been damaged for a long time, and it was never your fault.”
“It feels like it was.”
“I know. I’m sorry. But believe me. It wasn’t your fault.” But his thinking that it was is my fault. Setting the record straight would hurt him even more.
“We’re only just becoming friends again.”
“Is that all you want?” I’m itching to explore his throat with my lips, but I don’t. It wouldn’t be fair.
He whimpers. “No.”
“Nor do I.” I nudge his chin up, so I can kiss his throat. He shaves so smoothly. I always have a stubborn patch of dark stubble on my chin that I can never get rid of.
He twists his hands into my T-shirt. “Jimmy.”
“What do you want?”
“You.”
I sit upright and stare into his eyes. “Do you want to move this party to my room?”
“Yes.”