Chapter 14 #2
The sound comes again, and we both turn our faces slowly to see an old man wearing a tweed jacket over a neat sweater, shirt, and tie combo, not unlike those Harrison favours.
He’s watching us with merry eyes beneath a pair of brows so bushy they look like they require scaffolding, and his mouth is pursed like he’s trying to hold in laughter.
I hear Harrison sigh loudly. “Don’t you know how to knock, Grumps?”
The old man grins. “Don’t you know how to lock a door?”
“I thought it was locked,” he grumbles.
“You know your dad had a meltdown about you moving to London in the first place. He’ll probably have a conniption if he thinks you’re leaving doors open for some burglar to break in here and maul you.” He looks at me.
“He’s not a burglar and the bloody door wasn’t open.” Harrison frowns. “And he brought me a flower.”
“A flower? Is that all it takes?” Those powder-puff eyebrows rise. “Bloody hell, Harrison,” he tuts, “at least play a little hard to get.”
“That’s rich coming from the man trying to star in his own version of Last Tango in Devon.”
“I’ve always fancied myself as more of a James Dean than a Marlon Brando,” he muses loftily. “Rebel without a cause and all that.”
“The tweed doesn’t exactly scream bad boy, and I hardly think a mobility scooter is an adequate substitution for a Harley-Davidson,” Harrison says dryly.
“Actually, I think the motorbike in that film was actually a 1955 Triumph TR5 Trophy,” I mutter.
The old man cackles in delight and turns his attention to me. “As you seem to be feeling up my grandson, I do believe introductions are in order.”
“Grandson?” I blink.
Harrison leans in and whispers in my ear. “Sam, you might want to let go of my dick.”
I squeak and withdraw my hand from his boxers, then reach down to pull up my trousers.
“I’ll go first, shall I?” the old man says. “Wallace Ames, Harrison’s grandfather.”
“Sam.” I hold out my hand, accidentally dropping my trousers once more, then snap my hand back as if it’s been burned when I remember I’ve just had it wrapped around his grandson’s cock.
“Um…” I wrestle with my trousers, trying to pull them back up again and stumbling slightly when I accidentally tread on the hem of one of the legs. “Sam Stone.”
“Ah, yes. Sam the Psychic PI.”
“I’m beginning to think I should just have that printed up on business cards.”
He cackles again. “Right then. I’ll head up and put the kettle on.
You both join me when you’ve had a chance to tidy yourself up a bit, and Harry, pick that mugwort up.
You’re not going to be able to use it for brewing teas now that it’s been on the floor, but you can still add it to dream bags. Waste not, want not.”
I finally manage to get my trousers pulled up and fastened, all while keeping both eyes on him as he ambles out of the room, his walking stick tapping against the wood floor. Then I straighten my shirt and tie and smooth down my hair, which is wild after Harrison had his hands all through it.
I glance across at Harrison, who is still leaning back against the workbench, his trousers still undone, shirt untucked, and sweater shoved halfway up his torso.
“Shouldn’t we…?” I point to the ceiling, to where his grandfather is heading up to his flat to apparently make us tea.
“Oh, please.” He rolls his eyes. “Grumps has got to get up the stairs yet. We’ve probably got time to catch the director’s cut of Titanic.”
We stare at each other for a few minutes and then burst out laughing. It’s a joy to see Harrison so unburdened, his cornflower-blue eyes filled with warmth and amusement, rather than tired and filled with worry as they’ve been since the dreams started.
“Fuck.” I rub my face as the laughter subsides.
“I’m sorry, Sam,” he says with a smile, reaching out and grabbing my tie, once again pulling me closer to him. “Believe it or not, that was not how I was intending to introduce you to my grandfather.”
He leans in and kisses me softly.
I feel like I’m drowning in him. I think I’m in real trouble here.
I’ve never felt this way about any man before.
He’s crawled into all the empty spaces in my heart and just filled them up without even trying.
In unguarded moments such as this, when he loses that prickly veneer, he allows me to see who he really is and it’s everything.
“Come on.” I press one last kiss to those pouty lips and stroke his smooth jawline. “There will be time for us later.”
Those pretty eyes of his search my face for a moment longer, then he nods. Tucking his shirt back into his trousers, he zips them up and fastens his belt before tugging his sweater down and smoothing his hands over it.
He picks up the rose from the shelf where he laid it carefully, brings it to his face, and inhales softly, and his cheeks flush with pleasure.
Given his self-confessed lack of experience with men, I’m guessing he’s never had spontaneous gifts from a lover.
I silently resolve to spoil him whenever I can.
He makes me want to give him the world. Okay, so it’s currently a bit of a fucked-up world swarming with supernatural weirdness, but I still want to wrap it up in a bow and present it to him.
He takes my hand and leads me through the back room to the staircase leading up to his flat, and my gaze lands on his tempting arse, so lovingly cradled by his trousers.