Chapter Eighteen
Cillian
Jules falls asleep mid-complaint, face tucked into Mathieu’s neck.
I knew it. He’s been trudging around with hardly a spark left all evening. I lean over him, making sure he’s asleep, then rearrange the blankets over him and Mathieu. Mathieu watches as I reach in and ease Jules’s dirty boxers off. I fold them but hesitate before reaching back in again.
Mathieu raises an eyebrow and holds out his hand for the boxers. I hand them over, and Mathieu wipes Jules with a clean bit of fabric, kissing Jules’s hair as he does.
“I’ll be a few minutes,” I murmur, taking them back from Mathieu.
“Enjoy yourself.”
Seán, Yasop and Willow are talking amongst themselves at the far side of the fire.
Seán glances at me as I stand. I have Jules’s underwear bundled in my far hand and angle my body away from him.
I gesture towards our “toilets”, escaping before he gets an eyeful of what he undoubtedly doesn’t want to see.
I walk that way a few feet, then divert and head towards the ocean, glancing behind me once I reach it.
The orange glow of the campfire bounces off the leaves and branches above it, but trees hide the entrance.
The cool breeze off the ocean washes over me.
Calm thoughts evade me, so I slip a hand into my shorts instead.
I’ve wanted to do this since first thing this morning when Jules was getting in my face.
And then when he followed me out to the yacht.
And, if I’m honest, several other times throughout the last week.
Jules locked on to me the second my hand covered his mouth.
He watched me with total concentration, waiting for my cues.
I tip back my head, guiding my cock out.
I work myself, replaying the moment. Jules struggling to keep his eyes open as Mathieu stroked him.
His squirming turning into shudders when Mathieu pressed his weight down.
His pupils blown wide, his breaths humid against the back of my hand.
My hand speeds up.
I wish I’d sunk my cock into him on the yacht. Why didn’t I?
“Fuck, fuck,” I chant. I’m fucking him. I’m fucking that ass and that mouth. Right now. I’ll swim out, grab an energy drink, feed it down his throat, and fuck him.
My orgasm hits hard. My balls lift, and I spill out over my fist, pumping through my climax, wringing out every millisecond of pleasure. Sensation teeters into sensitivity, and I stop, panting.
I stare at the stars as I catch my breath.
Okay.
I am not going to swim out, grab an energy drink, feed it down his throat and fuck him.
“I am going to behave like a normal human being,” I mutter, walking into the water until it reaches my knees.
“I’m going to clean his boxers, grab a fresh pair from his bag and get them on him, and then go to sleep.
” And pray he doesn’t wake up tomorrow pissed off at me for all the manhandling.
Morning-after break-ups are common. Girlfriends who like the intensity in the moment are pissed off about it after a night of sleep to mull it over.
Or they like it once, then realise that I always get like that during sex—not just the first time—and get pissed off.
Disrespectful was the word Kara had hurled at me when she broke up with me.
Not that I should be worrying about Jules breaking up with me. We’d have to be dating first. I suppose he could kick me out of the lean-to. I’m sure that if he wants me out in the morning, he’ll have me out in seconds.
When I get back to the camp, everyone’s sleeping. I top up the fire and rejoin Mathieu and Jules. Jules hasn’t budged. I work under the blanket to get the clean boxers on him.
I lie down. My mind keeps whirling, and Mathieu’s constant shifting isn’t helping me settle.
Jules mumbles something and rolls over to me, throws an arm and a leg over my body, and tucks his face into my neck instead.
His breaths are steady, and he smells nice.
My chest aches. It reminds me of the way I feel when Seán’s parents remember my birthday or turn up with takeaway for dinner, having remembered that I like my burgers with extra tomato and no lettuce.
“Is Jules going to kick me out?”
“Kick you out?” Mathieu whispers.
“Of here.”
“For what?”
Awkwardness folds around me. Sex isn’t something I’ve ever discussed with another man.
When I’m dating someone, I bring up the subject before things move to the bedroom.
I’d hate to scare someone by—and that’s why I’m nervous.
Because I didn’t say a flipping word to Jules before pinning him to a wall, fisting my hand in his hair and covering his mouth. “We didn’t talk about it first.”
Mathieu huffs, like he’s amused.
I tense. “You can’t be rough with someone without checking first that it’s okay.”
“We weren’t rough, and we did talk about it,” Mathieu replies. “He liked it. You liked it. I liked it.” A soft, irritated groan falls from Mathieu’s lips. “And you have cock-blocked me again, which I will forgive because you’re right, he’s exhausted.”
Mathieu rolls over, hitching his leg over Jules and me. It lines his cock up against Jules’s ass, and I know from the way he’s been squirming and breathing that he’s hard.
“If you even try to hump him while he’s asleep—”
Mathieu swats my arm hard enough to sting. “Bug,” he says, a warning in his voice. “Insult me like that again, and one will land somewhere far more precious.”
“As if a shorty like you could hurt—ow.”
He interrupts me with another, harder arm smack. I hadn’t thought Mathieu capable of violence. Of everyone on the island, he’s the steadiest. He’s continued to charm and flirt every day, as if we’re just on holiday somewhere. He’s resilient.
“I get it,” I say.
“Good. Now, any chance you can lend me that hand?”
It takes a second for the words to register. “Excuse me?”
Mathieu taps lower down on the arm he just smacked. The tip of his finger brushes the space between two knuckles. He draws a question mark.
“What’s wrong with your own hand?”
“Boring,” Mathieu replies. I feel him shift. The light of the fire catches on the side of his face as he studies me. “Not your thing?” he asks.
Two weeks ago, my answer would have been on the tip of my tongue, out before I even had to think. No, I’m into women. Although, is that really it? I’ve always dated women. Men have never been part of the equation. “I can give it a go.”
“Give it a go. Hm.” Mathieu sits up. “Hmmm. You haven’t given a man a hand job before?”
“No.”
“Irish boys are very frustrating sometimes,” Mathieu says. He dips his head, pecks Jules’s cheek, then rolls away from both of us.
“Mathieu, come back. I’ll do it.”
“First times must always be ‘I want this’, not ‘I suppose I can’.” Mathieu winks, taking any sting out of his refusal. “Back in five minutes.”
Did my first times involve “want”? I wanted not to have to go home. I wanted my money not to be stolen for drink. I wanted not to be in that house, trapped in the mess, breathing in the stench of beer, listening to the roar of the telly and violent cursing.
I doubt that’s the kind of “want” Mathieu means.
Mathieu comes back and promptly folds himself around Jules. His fingers brush soothingly against the stretch of skin he swatted earlier. “I’m not short,” he says. “You’re just tall.”
◆◆◆
Jules shifts restlessly between Mathieu and me during the night. Eventually he tucks himself tight into Mathieu, pushing until Mathieu wraps his arm around Jules and rubs his back. That settles him.
He’s in that exact position when the sun rises, and still in it when Seán boils water for tea in our salvaged metal teapot.
People are up, have eaten and moved on, when Jules stirs.
I tense. I should have started my day when Seán got up.
There are a dozen jobs I want to do with the tools now at our disposal, but I need to talk to Jules first. Or present myself to be yelled at.
Jules groans and nuzzles Mathieu’s neck. Mathieu smiles to himself and nuzzles Jules back.
“My shoulders are killing me,” Jules complains.
I sit up. “You’re hurt?”
I bruised him. I pushed him against the cabin wall and bruised him.
“I need a deep-tissue massage,” Jules continues. “Ugh.”
“Can I see?” I ask.
I get a sleepy, “Sure.”
There’s arnica and Voltarol. Sudocrem for scrapes. I peel back the blanket and slide up Jules’s shirt. I’m staring at a pale and, bar a few bug bites, unblemished back. The curve of Jules’s spine is easy to trace down his slender frame. I frown. “I don’t see any bruises. Where does it hurt?”
Mathieu gives me an odd look, and Jules twists to look up at me through sleep-squinted eyes, confused. “Bruises from swimming?”
“Oh.” Swimming.
The tiredness evaporates from Jules’s eyes. His face goes red. He tucks himself back into Mathieu, whose neck muffles his voice. “You didn’t hurt me.”
Mathieu’s eyes narrow, his gaze flitting between the two of us. He traces a large question mark across Jules’s back. “Did you hook up on the yacht?”
I hesitate. Jules makes a sound. I can’t say if it’s a good or bad sound, only that it comes from deep in his throat as he shudders. Is he embarrassed?
“That’s none of your business.”
Mathieu swats me.
“Ow.”
“Did you hook up?” Mathieu asks again, fingers that were rough on me now carding gently through Jules’s hair. “Hm?” He encourages Jules away from his neck and meets his eyes. His smile is soft and encouraging.
Jules falls for it.
“We made out,” Jules admits.
“I see. Fun.” Mathieu’s mouth finishes the N against Jules’s.
He kisses his bottom lip, then his top. Then he cups Jules’s cheek and slips his tongue into his mouth.
Both make warm, agreeable sounds. Mathieu expertly draws little gasps out of Jules.
They’re the most arousing thing I’ve heard in my life.
Heat gathers in my thighs as I watch.
I tear my eyes away to look out of the lean-to. Charles and Mary are deliberately looking away. If I was willing to swat Mathieu back, now is when I’d do it. I reach over, squeezing the wrist of the hand he has cupping Jules’s face.
Mathieu’s eyes flick open. Dark eyes peer out from even darker lashes. He breaks the kiss. “Kiss his neck if you want to join in.”
“We have no privacy.”
Jules tenses. His gaze slips to the campfire, but when he lays eyes on Charles and Mary, he relaxes. “It’s not Darren.”
I frown.
“Does it matter? You are single. You can kiss whoever you like,” Mathieu points out.
“Pissing him off while we’re all cooped up together isn’t a good idea.
” Jules pushes Mathieu’s chest, who retreats.
Jules sits up, and I see the exact moment he remembers the other thing we did last night.
He goes red all over again as his gaze flashes down to his boxers. His thighs squeeze together.
An inappropriate image forms as Jules squirms. One of lube, or oil, spread between his thighs. My cock pumping between them. It’s hard to shake free of it. I have this horrible suspicion that Jules would be agreeable to the plan.
“Cillian’s thinking about fucking you,” Mathieu says.
My eyes snap from Jules’s thighs to the blasted French boy, reclined with sinful lips curved into a devious smile. He’s evil. A beautiful troublemaker.
Jules peers at me. I’m stuck between glaring at Mathieu and smoothing things over with Jules.
“Just your thighs,” I deny.
I know from Mathieu’s laugh that I did the opposite of what I intended.