Chapter 18
Finn
Okay, I lied. When I said Wham’s “Last Christmas” was the only decent modern Christmas song, I was wrong. “Driving Home for Christmas” is also a fucking banger. It’s so perfectly apt for this moment right now that I’ve looped it to play three times in a row.
Pi’s ferrying us and his dog to my parents’ house in Newquay because, and I quote, “It’s not that I don’t trust you to drive us safely, Eggs, it’s just that I don’t trust anyone but me to drive.”
It’s fine. His white Honda Civic is the more sensible option over my pretty blue Subaru Impreza anyway.
We can fit more luggage in the boot, including Logan’s Christmas presents and Trekkie’s dog bed, and besides, I can’t say I would’ve been super enthused to have his animal’s manky claws scuff up my leather.
But my car has a cracking sound system. Pi’s has a base model radio and factory spec speakers, and his engine doesn’t make cool revving sounds either.
Even though his vehicle resembles something my stepdad would drive, and his commitment to roadside vigilance knows no bounds, behind the wheel, Pi is the opposite of how I imagined he’d be.
In fact, he drives like he plays rugby: alert, aggressive, and fucking fast. I would’ve pegged him as a rule follower on the road—as he is in other areas of his life—but here we are bombing down the M5 at over ninety mph, weaving in and out of the slower cars, and yes, that means an alarming amount of undertaking too.
“Alright, princess,” I say, winding my chair back to a forty-five degree recline and putting my feet up on the dashboard. “You might want to ease up on the throttle. Pretty sure you just cut up the fuzz. Don’t be surprised if we see blue flashers going off in your mirrors.”
“Off, now,” he says, slapping my legs.
I take them off, tucking them into the footwell. “Did you manage to book a hotel?”
“Yeah, Headland, I think it’s called? It’s right on the cliffs. Breakfast’s included.”
“Bloody hell, pard. How’d you get in there?” I’ve lived my entire life in Newquay and I’ve never known that place to have vacancies this time of year.
He shrugs, eyes still on the road ahead. “Very, very last minute cancellation, I think. It was one of the only places I could find that allows dogs.”
“How much did that set you back?” I ask.
“You don’t wanna know.”
My stomach churns. The only reason he’s here, driving me home for the holidays, staying in a five-star hotel, is because I told him to. I didn’t even give him an alternative. I’d said, “Come,” and he’d said, “Okay.”
I’d then suggested he might want to look into accommodation, because the only other options were an airbed on the floor of my childhood bedroom or a tent on the beach.
“It’s a double room, by the way. I put your name down as the second guest, so you can stay with Trekkie and me or at your mum and dad’s, whatever you’d prefer.”
“I think you know the answer to that question.”
He spares me a glance, which flits to the general direction of my lap before refocusing back on the road. “Remind me of our itinerary again.”
No exaggeration, he’s asked me this at least five times already. Nothing changes, so I’m uncertain of his need for constant reiteration, but I provide it nonetheless.
“Arrive in Cornwall. Go see Logan, that’s the first thing.
” I couldn’t give a toss if none of the other items go to plan, so long as I see my boy as soon as humanly possible.
“Take him out somewhere. Ooh . . .” Wait, maybe the plans are changing.
Maybe this is why he keeps asking me. I am me, after all.
“We could take him to the hotel. I’m pretty sure they have a Santa there on Christmas Eve for the kids.
We could take Trekkie for a walk on the beach afterwards?
Go to Mum and Stu’s, get a Chinese—that’s full tradition now, can’t be messed with—then go to the pub, get smashed, go back to the hotel, suck your dick, go to bed . . .”
He side-eyes me but says nothing.
So I continue with the list. “Then wake up. Have fucking Headland Hotel fancy ass breakfast. Uh . . . go back to Jody’s, slob out on the sofa, eat a Toblerone, go to Mum’s, have Christmas dinner, go to the hotel—you can suck my cock this time—pass out, wake up, see Logan again, drive home to Bath.
Done. Sorted. Next problem.” I clap my hands like I’m ridding them of dust.
Pi laughs and nods. “Okay. Cool. I have one itinerary-adjacent question . . .”
“Shoot.”
“When—and I am talking about the future here, not necessarily about this week—do you want to fuck? Like properly fuck? And . . . how?”
I clear my throat to disguise the way my heart just jumped into it. “What . . . um . . . what do you mean by how?”
Pi is always so practical about everything in his life. Always planning ahead. I’ve noticed how much he loves routines and schedules and itineraries, and how he avoids anything that involves impulsive decision making. It makes sense that this mindset extends to sex.
I’m more of a run with it and see what happens type of guy, but I understand the benefits of doing things Pi’s way here. If it gets me laid, I’m all for it.
Besides, neither of us has gone this far with a dude before, and I’m aware there’s usually a degree of preparation to undertake prior to the event.
“Like . . . do you want to fuck me, or . . . the other way around?” he asks.
“I . . . both would be . . . nice. I’d like to try it both ways, I guess.”
“Same. I can’t stop remembering how it felt the other day when you were .
. .” He makes a gesture like Spider-Man fingers, then shakes his head as though he’s shaking the thought.
“I’ve been doing some research. On the logistics of anal sex and how to prep.
I ordered a dildo too, and a douche, and this, like, three-piece anal training kit. ”
“Oh, yeah?”
“They haven’t arrived yet, but . . . Anyway, I brought condoms and lube with me in case we wanted to try anything while we’re away, but I think we might need to work up to that.”
I nod, feeling a little lost for words, and shift my position in Pi’s passenger seat to make my newfound excitement for these next few days less obvious.
“It’s just that . . .” he continues, his eyes fixed on the road.
“I’ve been thinking about yesterday, about what we said in the bathroom, and Megan and Georgia, and if anything happens with Georgia and me and we decide to go exclusive, we—me and you, I mean—should probably stop .
. . fucking with each other. I don’t know if I can be the guy who cheats on his girlfriend. ”
Pi glances over at me, comprehension dawning on his face that I might have been offended by his words.
“In all honesty, I’m not sure I’m that guy either. As stupid as that sounds, because well, we’ve already been messing about behind Megan’s back, but . . .” Fuck, there is no non-embarrassing way to say this. “I really, really, fucking want you.”
It’s his turn to be silent.
I puff out a long sigh. “I want you like I’ve never wanted anybody or anything else. You do something to me, Pi, and I can’t wrap my head around what it is, but if I don’t get to fuck you soon, I’m gonna start flipping tables or something, you know?”
He nods. “So . . . if I’m not the type of guy to cheat on his girlfriend, that leaves me two options. One, I don’t get into anything with Georgia, and I stay single for a while longer, orrr . . .”
I hold my breath. Sit upright.
“We do everything we can before that moment arrives. If it arrives . . .” he says.
“Cram it in?” I suggest.
“Literally.”
“Fuck each other out of our systems?”
Pi holds up a hand, like he’s got nothing to hide. I take this to mean, “Yes. Let’s hump each other’s brains out until we get bored and resume regular adult life.”
“I mean, there’s a decent chance that nothing will happen with Georgia and me. I don’t exactly have a great track record with relationships, but I wanted to get my thoughts out there, just in case it does.”
I rub a palm over the front of my jeans. Out the window, large brown banks of wall give way to flat greenery as Pi leaves the M5 to join the A30. We’re about halfway.
“Pray tell, Lord Campbell,” I say, putting on a desperately awful Bridgerton inspired accent. “How does one prepare for up the bum fun times?”
“Well, okay, so douching, yeah . . .”
By the time we arrive in Newquay, just over an hour later, I have been well and truly filled in—pun intended—on the “logistics” of butt fucking.
In theory, I understand how to clean and ready myself for a guest appearance.
I know about the devices that can help me limber up and stretch, and I’m aware of anal trainers, and poppers, and what kind of lube to use.
I’m absolutely bricked, and Pi’s tenting worse than I am, so we make a teeny adjustment to the itinerary and head straight to the hotel to check into Pi’s room. He has a view of the car park, not the ocean, but we hardly notice it.
Pi flicks on the shower to wash away the journey, and we step in together.
I push him against the tiles, and he pushes me back.
We kiss, fuck our own hands, fuck each other’s hands, and because I’m learning his subtle, silent cues, when I sense he’s closing in on his orgasm, I drop to my knees and take his load on my face.
He does the same to me, maintaining eye contact the entire time.
I pour every spare ounce of concentration into memorising each line and curve of his face dripping with my cum.
“Fucking hell,” I whisper, dragging my thumb through it and rubbing it over his lips. His tongue pops out and swipes along the pad, and every cell in my body contracts with renewed want.
We wash using the hotel’s complimentary shower gel and shampoo, then dry and get dressed in our cheesy festive jumpers and hats, and I direct Pi to Jody’s ground-floor flat on the edge of town.
“Dad!” Logan screams, running up to cuddle me the second we open the doors of Pi’s Honda.