Chapter 23
ALARIC
We clean up with quick separate showers, then lie alongside each other, a pillow each.
Gerald blew me—expertly—and he hoovered up every last drop afterwards.
My dignity left three long luxurious snogs ago, around the time Gerald held my jaw totally still in his giant paw, kissed my eyelids, and told me I was his very pretty, very good boy.
Again. Nope, not ever going to analyse my response to that.
I’m not embarrassed to admit I came embarrassingly fast. I was on the edge ever since he declined my offer of a celebratory blow on the car journey back to Sutton Common because it breached the Highway Code.
So I talked about doing it instead, explaining my technique in painstaking detail and fondling myself at the same time.
By the time we arrived back at the flat we were both fit to burst. I could have come simply from rubbing myself up against Gerald’s satin shirt with him still in it.
Not that he’d have allowed that, either.
Drowsily, I realise that it’s not hosing like a fourteen-year-old watching repeat episodes of Skins that’s troubling me. Far more bothersome is this—this quiet, sensual, post-blow petting session which I can’t locate the strength of will to bring to a close.
They’re by far the most dangerous, these post-orgasm slow kisses.
Everyone knows that. Historically, I’ve avoided them; I should be avoiding them now.
They’re treacherously addictive, like Gerald Mason himself.
They attract feelings, and no way am I going to let myself fall for a guy who’s only killing time whilst waiting for his Mr Right to usurp me.
After all, I’m only killing time too, until I get the fuck out of Sutton Common.
But what eats away at me even more than kissing Gerald when I should be back in my own room, is the guilt.
He’s got all these worthy, aspirational morals and resolutions.
For so long, Gerald’s been holding out for a man deserving of his care and his love and his top-drawer, expert sexing.
And then I pitch up, weak willed, persistent, horny, and clearly his type (from how he’s always admiring my skinny arse), and corrupt him.
When he won first prize, I literally threw myself at him.
He let me maul him in front of all those people because he’s too well-mannered to say no.
And now he’s too revved up to say no, seeing as he hasn’t sexed anyone for four fucking years.
Gerald’s so full of pent-up spunk, he’d probably recreate that peach scene out of Call Me By Your Name if only the Sutton Common branch of Sainsbury’s sold organic peaches.
Watching him do that would be so, so hot. Perhaps I should ask him or buy some peaches from North End Road market on my way home from work. I could take the stones out and leave them dotted around his bedroom.
We caress and fondle and snuggle and cross eyes at each other for a good fifteen minutes before I remember my own manners.
He hasn’t come yet, and so my hand finds its way down to his ginormous cock.
How I’ve managed to overlook it for the last quarter hour when it’s parked between us like a bloody skyscraper, I have no idea.
“We should do something about this,” I murmur, diving into his personal space for more kisses. “Unless we’ve celebrated you enough,” my guilt adds, fingers crossed.
Gerald’s cock is damp and hot and so fucking heavy. As I give it a sharp tug, he groans.
“You’ll know when I’ve had enough,” he rasps. “It won’t be tonight.”
Thank fuck for that. Scooping some of the precum spilling from his slit, I spread it around the silky, circumcised head.
His brown eyes flutter closed with a pleasured, half smile pulling at his lips.
I kiss them—again—stroking him gently. Honey flows through my insides, hot and sweet and thick as I watch him sink into my touch.
No one would describe Gerald as pretty; he’s a road map of harsh angles and sharp lines.
You could hang laundry from his nose. But, at this moment, he’s the prettiest thing I’ve ever seen.
I urgently need to lighten the whole fucking dangerous intensity ASAP. Diminish this whole episode back down to a super awesome, mutual getting off and nothing more.
“When you were in the hospital,” I whisper, on a long slow glide of my fist, “I couldn’t help overhearing your medical history.
” As he makes a frustrated sound, I give him a more gentle, slippery pull.
“And it’s super cool to know your tetanus vaccinations are all up to date.
And that you sorted your achy wisdom tooth.
But,” I tap my thumb against his slit, “this is the part that interested me the most. I couldn’t stop thinking about it.
I couldn’t stop thinking how I wanted to see it, check the urologist had done a thorough job. ”
“Yeah?” Grunting a laugh, he thrusts up, ever so slightly, into my fist. “You like them circumcised?”
I like them all ways, to be honest. “Yeah. When I first blew you, I was going to joke the lack of willy warmer down here was unforeskeen, but it would have been a really crap gag and totally ruin the sexy, ‘landlord with benefits’ vibe we’ve been cultivating in this little flat of yours.
” More wetness leaks from his tip as he growls another shaky laugh. “So, I’ll ruin it now.”
“It’s still sexy.” Gerald’s tongue rediscovers my mouth. Taking control again, he rolls me onto my back, blanketing me with his warmth. His cock, still in my hand, lies flat on my belly alongside my own, already swelling again. “You talking is always sexy, Alaric.”
“At three a.m.?”
“Any time. I like the challenge of shutting you up.”
Steady, unhurried, Gerald’s up on one elbow.
His other hand caresses my hip and thigh, down to my calf.
Heat lingers where his fingertips graze over my skin as if he’s reading it, learning it.
Every stroke says I’m here, I want you, I know exactly how to touch you.
And that’s despite the distraction of my experienced hand playing his cock.
“Shall I tell you what I can’t stop thinking about?” He licks a stripe across my ear. “How ragingly slutty these legs are.” His fingers twirl slow, deliberate circles up my thigh and my hand action falters. “They’re just begging to be thrown over my shoulders.”
“How did you know?”
Leaning across me, he helps himself to lube and a condom from a bedside drawer.
Still, there’s no rush to his movements, no urgency in his voice.
“I wasn’t going to fuck you,” he carries on, conversationally, like he’s announcing he’s not adding mayonnaise to his salad.
“Because we’re not anything to each other than housemates, needing to get off.
” His brown gaze flits over mine. “Are we?”
“Housemates celebrating,” I answer. “That’s all.” It’s the party line, and I’m sticking to it. In all other directions, I remind myself, danger lies in wait.
“But I’ve changed my mind. Is that okay?” He flips open the cap on the lube. “Is it okay if we do more?”
“More than.” Dumb question, I’m practically pouring the stuff into his hand. Once again, around this man, my fine intentions fall by the wayside. “It’s great.”
Fuck, Gerald edges like a pro. Even the press of his lubed finger against my hole as he devours my mouth feels like a casual afterthought.
Like he’s not already been there, he plays around it at first, flirting with my balls, my taint, my rapidly recovering dick.
Then he acts like he’s forgotten about it altogether.
His tongue finds particular fascination with my left nipple.
Next it’s the turn of his teeth with my right.
For all the effect it has on him, I might as well not be touching his dick, whereas my own dick is practically begging.
So, when it comes, that finger breaching me again almost seems like an accident.
Two fingers, a few agonising minutes later, toy with me.
Three and he’s not breaking sweat, but at least he’s somewhat affected, judging by the wetness leaking from his cock.
Whereas I’m a splayed-open, gaping puddle of want.
“Ready for you,” I breathe. Subtlety has never been my strong suit. “Really, like, really ready.”
Leisurely, Gerald sits up, the better to admire his handiwork. “Yeah. I think you’re getting there.”
Maddeningly unhurried, he strokes his big cock. This soulmate he’s holding himself back for, this future guy who gets to see him do this every night? He’ll be one very lucky sod.
“But I think you need some more attention down here first.”
“You think?” I squirm. His dick’s big, for sure. However, not to put too fine a point on it, my furrow’s been ploughed as often as the next man’s and, I suspect, a hell of a lot more times than Gerald’s. Which is to say I know when I’m good to go. “You don’t think… um… three is—“
“Yeah, I do.” He licks his lips. “Plenty. But I wasn’t planning on using my hand.”
Best. Rimming. Ever.
He works up to it, of course. Like the rest of his bag of torture tricks, he doesn’t simply dive in.
Oh no, Gerald watches me wriggle and beg and then taunts me.
Starting with my balls, rolling each one around his tongue like a peach stone.
Then lubing his dick some more, then tonguing the end of mine, then shoving a pillow under my arse before sitting back to ensure he’s got me exactly how he wants.
When he finally eats me out like I’m the last pot of tiramisu in the fridge, my entire consciousness is funnelled into a pulsing painful rod.
At the point I’m reduced to a weeping lake of want, he sits up again, wiping his mouth on the back of his hand.
My gut clenches with a fresh round of desperation.
If he doesn’t fuck me in the next ten seconds, I’ll brain him.
“So are you going to show me how you use that thing, Big G, or are you just going to tease me with it?”
Looking down at himself, he gives himself another long, fucking languorous stroke, like he’s bloody debating the issue. Then he smiles up at me from under his lashes. There’s a lot of mischief packed into that crooked little curve. He has five seconds left before I combust.
“If you don’t want to be edged, Dr Alvin,” he says in that clotted cream voice, the one that feels like he’s still sucking on my balls, “then you’re going to have to get out of my bed.”
He strokes himself some more, gliding his fist up and down, up and down, up and down.
My wails of protest, my writhing, thrusting, and all-out begging might as well not be happening.
I feel like I’ve climbed to the top of Everest and then forgotten to take the summit photos.
“You’re torturing me here, Big G. Never mind competing at Crufts, you should host an edging contest.”
Throwing his head back, he laughs. Finally, finally, he unwraps the condom. He rolls it down over his dick with practised ease. “What would be the point of that? No one would come.”
Only Gerald could simultaneously make me laugh and almost ejaculate.
He has this… perfect timing, as if he’s got my personal emotional blueprint etched into his mind.
Mind you, I stop with a punched-out groan when he breaches me.
Another hard thrust and he’s in up to the hilt.
From then on, each of my own breaths becomes a negotiation, worked around the weight of him.
I’m full, so full of Gerald, so anchored down by him, that for once, I can’t express how I feel.
After all the build-up, after that first violent thrust, he’s surprisingly, unexpectedly gentle.
He kisses me, long and sweet, and the chaos in my head dims. The world feels softer and slower while he moves inside me, my limbs syrupy and warm.
Maybe it's not him but me. Maybe I’m growing up at last, slowing down, appreciating that there’s other ways of doing things, that sex can be more than knees digging into tarmac.
“Okay?” Gerald whispers, his mouth on mine curling into a smile. “You like celebrating with me?” On a low moan, he thrusts a little deeper. Who am I kidding? It’s Gerald making me feel this way. “Because I really like celebrating with you.”
With the next kiss there’s a shift in tone.
Our kidding around, my teasing, our jokes, his playful edging, feel like a lifetime ago.
What we’re doing here has nothing to do with ranking charts, celebrating, or fucking.
It’s asking to be remembered. Like we’ve switched without warning from a pop song to a slow dance, and the only rhythm we’re moving to is his body in sync with mine.
When he looks at me like this, when he rolls his hips so tenderly, for the first time in my life, words abandon me.
I let them drift away, and instead, I capture his mouth on mine as we have unhurried, lazy sex.
I imagine having sex with someone you love must feel like this.