Chapter 27
EDWIN
Trace sent out change of address notifications to anyone who needed them.
He was frantically busy, cajoling his numerous plants to not only survive, but to thrive.
Marlowe had done what he could, but Trace worked eighteen-hour days for the first week or so, with James and I doing what we could to support him.
James forwent what was, in my opinion, far too much sleep to ensure Trace was eating balanced meals, often cooking when he should have been resting.
Nothing I said made a jot of difference; he merely hoiked his eyebrows in my direction and asked if I preferred to watch Trace keel over from exhaustion.
So, I buttoned my lip and pretended not to notice when he yawned his way through his own mealtimes or fell asleep before brushing his teeth, something he was usually very particular about.
Because Trace worked the bulk of his hours during daylight and I could tell he was stretched enough, including explaining to James what needed doing, I turned my attention to tasks that could be done at any time, like everyone’s laundry and ordering shopping to be delivered.
As soon as sunset came, I occupied myself with stripping down and preparing of the exterior of Trace’s carriage for painting.
Isher had rightly expended his magical energies on the inside, but the facade was in desperate need of tarting up.
Luckily, having restored Bluebell — when I’d originally bought her, and again more recently (although I hadn’t completed the second do-over when I’d been roped in to track down Cormack) — I knew what I was doing.
It was a slow, methodical process, but one I enjoyed.
Trace seemed relieved he didn’t have to worry about it, another plus.
Sex became a victim of James and Trace’s combined fatigue.
I understood, or I tried to, but it had been so long since I’d felt tired for more than a few minutes that I struggled to be as sympathetic as perhaps I should have been.
Both men resorted to monosyllables and grunts, not unkindly, but I felt pushed aside and it hurt.
They still showed me affection, James especially when I fed from him, but then again, I didn’t think he could help himself.
Nobody was fucking anybody though, or even indulging in mutual masturbation.
I was lonely, even when all three of us were in the garden together.
When I heard the other two discussing soil balance and pellet fertilisers or compost heaps or whatever they talked about, it felt as though they’d shut me out.
In turn, I became progressively less chatty myself.
In my honest moments, I knew my reaction was that of a sulky brat, but I wasn’t sure how to turn it off.
So I kept quiet and brooded, finding my thoughts straying too often to the possibility of trawling the bars and clubs in search of some attention.
The summer nights were humid and still, and in the times I was awake, the days sultry and silent.
One afternoon, about three weeks after Trace moved in, I’d been awake for a while, quietly reading on my phone, when James became restless.
At first I assumed he was having a nightmare, of which he still had too many and with increasing frequency this past week.
It became evident it wasn’t a bad dream when he started pressing closer to me, then began rocking his groin against my thigh.
His scent changed, arousal perfuming the bedroom as I lay still, wondering whether I should wake him or not.
I decided not to; for once his rest was evidently pleasurable.
He moaned quietly, then reached over to grab hold of me with one hand.
My dick, which took notice of pretty much anything James did, like breathing, was an iron bar in my boxers.
I clenched my teeth and willed myself not to move.
Whatever he was dreaming about didn’t mean he would be on board with my involvement.
With this much encouragement though, it wouldn’t take me long to bring myself off in the bathroom later.
The thrusting and moaning continued. James was a little sweaty, his hair tousled and his eyelids flickering as he rubbed against me to complement his sleep fantasy.
I was an eager voyeur, wishing I could see inside his mind and share the pictures he was so evidently enjoying.
Without conscious thought, I found my fingers curled around my aching erection, hoping to stave off my own release.
Without any warning, James suddenly grunted and shuddered. Wetness seeped through his pyjama bottoms onto my thigh. A moment later his eyes shot open.
“Oh fucking Christ!” he gasped, his expression horrified. “Fuck, sorry. No, no, no.” He slid so fast into reverse, he landed with a thump on the floor, then was up and stumbling to the door while I still had a death grip on my cock, willing it not to explode.
“James…” I jumped up, narrowly avoiding him slamming the door into my nose. The bathroom door lock clicked into place, and I could hear his harsh breaths and garbled curses as he ran water into the basin.
“James.” I knocked softly on the door. “It’s okay. Please don’t be upset.”
There was some low mumbling, nothing I could make out, then a clearer, “Please go away, Edwin.” He sounded anguished.
“I can’t do that, love,” I said gently. “All I want is to keep you safe and happy. You’re not happy right now. I get you might feel embarrassed, but I promise you, it’s all right.” Why is he so freaked out?
Silence.
“James, please don’t make me force the lock.
I need to know you’re safe in there. My anxiety is rising with every moment you stay quiet.
I’m sure you don’t want that.” I did a quick mental count of how many windows we had open.
I couldn’t whisper as he wouldn’t hear me, but I didn’t want our private business overheard by anyone, no matter how remote the chance.
Luckily, today Trace was busy off at some market or other, so even if I raised my voice a fair bit, hopefully only James would hear me.
I tried again. “Look, can we at least talk about it? You obviously feel awkward, but I don’t get why it’s bothered you so much.
” I smiled to myself. “I’m flattered, honestly. ”
There was a strangled curse that could have been fuck’s sake, then the lock scraped and James hurtled out, knocking into me as he turned sharply towards the living room, not the bedroom.
I followed him, puzzled, my libido now relegated to Things That Don’t Matter.
Something was really bothering my shadow.
I’d thought, hoped, he’d been doing better recently, but this concerned me.
He stood stiffly in the far corner, his back to me, the knuckles of his fingers bone white as they clenched in his hair. I approached him carefully, unsure if he would register my bare feet on the rug and unwilling to creep up on him when he was already upset.
“James?” I’d never been in this position before.
I knew he found me attractive, and I’d been fairly sure his feelings for me ran considerably deeper than like for some time, even if he didn’t yet feel able to verbalise them.
So why was he so mortified? All three of us had been getting closer, or I thought we had, and James loved being watched — he couldn’t fake that.
I could tell he really got off on it, even if his blushes could have powered the national grid.
My supernatural hearing could also confirm he sometimes wanked — thank the gods for noise-cancelling headphones to avoid eavesdropping, no matter how tempted I was — so really, this wasn’t much more than that, except he was probably keen to change into clean pyjamas. Unless I was missing something.
I advanced a few more paces. “It’s okay, you know.”
“It is not bloody okay!” Eyes blazing, he whirled around, fists flying up in a defensive stance. “Nothing about this is okay.”
I took a step back and raised my own hands palms outwards.
“James, it’s me. You’re safe here, it’s okay.
You had a hot dream and jizzed in your jammies.
It happens. You’re not the first. I swear, I didn’t think it was a come-on.
You were asleep.” I chanced another quick smile. “Like I said, I’m flattered.”
“You shouldn’t be! I wasn’t fucking dreaming about you!” His chest heaved with emotions that appeared impervious to all my efforts at lessening the tension in the room. He seemed poised to fight me or collapse and I honestly couldn’t tell which way it might go.
I decided to aim for levity with a note of seriousness on top. “It doesn’t matter, love. It was a dream. Nobody cares what you get up to in your sleep.”
“I care.” His bottom lip trembled. “I care,” he repeated. “What the fuck is wrong with me?”
Oh hell, I really hope it wasn’t some fucked-up sex dream about Cormack.
I don’t reckon there’s a therapist in the land that could deal with that.
Praying he wouldn’t recoil from me, I closed the distance between us and roped my arms around him, pulling him to my chest. “I repeat, nobody is going to judge you for a dream.” I waited a few seconds. “Do you want to tell me about it or…?”