Chapter 27
ALARIC
If Gerald buffs that countertop one more time, I’ll be able to pluck my eyebrows in it.
But never the gloriously untamed slugbrows; Gerald’s not getting rid of those.
They’re like his lion’s mane. Anyhow, dinner prep started at two; Alan and Sandra aren’t due until seven and it’s only four o’clock now.
The lasagne is already cooked and only needs reheating, the fresh salad ingredients are chopped, divided into labelled Tupperware pots and ready to be mixed, and the vinaigrette dressing is done (and it’s pretty awesome IMHO).
The holy trinity of bread, butter, and garlic, aka Gerald’s unmatched homemade garlic bread, is wrapped in cling film, oven and Alaric ready.
Yet still, Gerald paces like a caged animal, fussing over minutiae as if a slightly creased paper serviette might unravel the entire evening.
I’m not a fan of this version of Gerald.
The Gerald keeping me from leaving miserable Sutton Common—despite several superlative flats throwing themselves at my feet—is unruffled, insanely competent, and in control.
What with him so off kilter, it’s a godsend he’s had me by his side, offering valuable advice and providing the crucial service of chief food taster from my perch at the breakfast bar.
But another three hours of this and he’ll be as jittery as me after coming off a run of nights fuelled purely by vape juice and hospital grade caffeine. It’s not a pretty sight.
Currently, he’s muttering to himself under his breath as he stacks the dishwasher.
I can’t decide if it’s a pep talk, an incantation, or a prayer.
Who cares? He looks bloody lovely bent over, all ropey muscles and seriousness, restocking the dishwasher salt levels like the conscientious white goods owner he is.
Out rehearsing with Elsa prior to cooking (I was lolling in bed, seeing as I have a challenging and important day job), he’s wearing his navy sweatpants.
They make his packet even more appetising than his lasagne.
His neon lime T-shirt with creating enemies since the Reformation emblazoned across the front was a tiny gift from me, and unapologetically very, very niche.
He’s going to slay at book club dressed in that.
Anyhow, for the last five minutes, I’ve been petting my dick and wondering how I got so lucky to have a landlord who not only laughs at my jokes and overlooks me playing with myself in the kitchen whilst he’s stressing out but is so bloody scrummy with it.
Slipping from my stool, I communicate my appreciation of him through the medium of encircling his waist with my arms and rubbing my semi up against his arse.
“Stop that! I’m trying to stack a load in the dishwasher.”
It’s only a half-hearted grumble, so I thrust a bit and add in some top-notch porn star moaning. “Me too, big boy. Me too.”
He chuckles, which I take as permission to grip his hips and thrust some more. “We haven’t got time for hanky panky, Al. They’ll be here in three hours.”
“Hanky panky?” He’s more adorable by the minute. “Which era have we time-travelled to, the Reformation?” I slip my thumbs inside his waistband, teasing it down an inch. “And it’s me back here, don’t forget. Three minutes is probably more than sufficient.”
Gerald shakes his head, his face hidden in the depths of the dishwasher, but I know he’s trying not to laugh.
Pushing my luck, I coax the sweatpants down further, enough for his dick to swing free and for me to insinuate my clothed cock into the crease separating his two perfect bare arse cheeks.
The cutlery caddy rattles as he drops the salt packet.
“Still trying to put a load in the dishwasher, Dr Alvin,” he points out in the clotted cream growl that signals he’s getting super frisky too. In a second, he’ll instruct me to strip or kneel or go wait for him on the sofa.
“As am I, Mr Mason.”
Gerald snorts again as I reach around, cup his balls, and carry on rutting against his arse. He sighs as if in pain, which by now I recognise as a familiar precursor to some next level sexing. My cunning plan to chill him out is taking root.
First, though, having decided that me writhing behind him poses a danger to the integrity of his meticulously stacked crockery, he abandons the remainder of his dishwasher maintenance. I step back, allowing him room to stand. Closing the appliance door, he turns to face me.
“Come here.” With a stern expression, he crooks his finger. Obediently, I take a pace forward again. “Get naked.”
Hallelujah. This is precisely the kind of household chore I can get on board with.
Three seconds later, and the kitchen looks like a grenade detonated in the laundry basket.
But mission accomplished, reward hopefully activated.
I walk into his arms, anticipating a divine snog followed by some best-in-breed sexing.
Sure enough, his mouth meets mine in a kiss both tender and filthy as fuck.
The warm palm of one of his big hands dropping to my bare bum pulls me even closer.
Smack! His other palm lands fast and hot on my arse cheek. For a nanosecond, I don’t register what’s happening—and then smack again!
“Fuc—“ With a sharp bloom of pain, stunned nerve endings flare to life.
His gentle mouth smothers my squeal. I get two heartbeats of respite, and then he spanks again.
And again. Like a lightning crack, my arse stings and pulses, hurts and hums. Blood roars through my ears; pain and pleasure blur into one.
I flinch and gasp, leaning in for more. Pins and needles shoot up my spine.
My balls tighten. My dick is hard, almost as hard as pretending this thing with Gerald is merely a fling, when for a few days now, a confused little voice in my head has been testing out that unfamiliar relationship word.
As suddenly as it started, it’s over. With exquisite care, Gerald strokes and kneads my smarting bum.
I sag into him. He croons a whole bunch of soothing words, over and over, things like babe and sweetheart and gorgeous boy and something else that sounds awfully like my little hobbit, but I can only assume I’m mishearing.
No matter, because it means that I don’t have to say anything at all.
Which is just as well, because one more of those spankings and not only would I have jizzed all over him but blurted out some of the crazy notions queuing up on my tongue.
“Okay?” he whispers as his mouth coasts over my damp eyelids. At the same time, his hand curls around my dick. Nanoseconds from hosing, all I can do is nod. My explosive orgasm answers on my behalf.
“That was for being so fucking lovely,” he says around our kisses. “Especially today, when I’ve needed it the most.” And then, if those words weren’t enough to rocket me sky high, he completely destroys any shred of equilibrium I have left, by whispering, “And for being such a very good boy.”