Page 20

T his was who Dylan was, and I felt so incredibly grateful that he was letting me in.

That all the frustration and insecurities and all that fear was right there for me to see.

I understood. God help me, I did, because I was frightened too—of what I had let myself in for, the promises I was making, and the constant realisation that with every step forward… well, there was no way back.

I was in deep. Far too deep .

I made him stand up, in front of me, and then, in a moment of clarity, I left him standing there as I went over and closed the patio door. Locked it. Pulled the curtains shut, despite the light still seeping through the top from outside.

I had no idea what time it was and had even less idea where my phone was. My wristwatch was probably somewhere in the kitchen, where I’d taken it off during cooking. I would have missed calls from my son. Perhaps offers of work. Suddenly these usual essentials seemed less important.

Time wasn’t useful here. I always used to watch the news at ten o’clock. BBC One. Now I couldn’t remember the last time I’d sat through it because over the past week, I’d spent the evenings on my patio talking to the guy who was standing next to my sofa staring at his socked toes.

“I’m going to take you to bed,” I said, blushing. “That makes me sound like I’m in a period drama.”

“It does.” He smiled. “But I don’t mind. I can be the dishevelled poor gentleman who has lost his fortune and is now standing here begging for…”

“Begging for what?” I was enjoying this. So much. My hands moved of their own accord, gently unbuttoning his shirt, then moving upwards to loosen his tie, slowly easing it around his neck so I could pull it away. I let it drop to the floor.

“Mercy,” he whispered.

“You have all of it,” I said in a voice that didn’t sound like my own. “You have my admiration. My affection. My…feelings.”

Silly, pompous phrases that meant nothing.

I sounded weird, fake, but he leant up and pressed his mouth to mine as I dragged his shirt over his shoulders.

My teeth dragged over his jaw, a move that surprised me, even more so my greedy kisses down his fragile neck.

I stroked down his arms, a little startled by the texture of his scars, which I slowly traced with my fingertips before I kissed his shoulder blade.

Smoothing down the curves of his skin, I raised that arm so I could see the markings he’d carved out.

Broken lines, now faded from how red and angry they must have once been against his pale skin. I kissed them. Because I loved him.

A terrifying thought, yet not, because I felt it, in that very precious moment when I kissed the inside of his arm.

It was nothing I’d ever seen on film. Not the done thing.

But I wanted it. I wanted him to know how I adored every little piece of him.

Every broken bone in his body was something worth admiring, simply because he existed.

Because he was someone who I didn’t have to share with anyone else. Someone who…

“You’re mine,” burst from me as I once again returned to his eager mouth, mauling those pretty lips. His skin, so bruised and battered by life, was soft and perfect. He’d shaved. I could smell it—the familiar scent of shaving foam and soap.

I found his other shoulder, traced a finger down another set of scars.

I didn’t mind. I never would. They would forever be a part of what this was. Whatever it was.

“You can do anything to me,” he whispered. “I just want to feel…”

“What do you want to feel?” I asked. Finally. Proper words that didn’t feel like they belonged in a life from what felt like hundreds of years ago. Young Stewart was no longer an inexperienced, ridiculous man who had no idea how to talk to people.

This Stewart was me. Older. Greyer. Still inexperienced, but…

I didn’t think it mattered anymore. It didn’t matter when I loosened his belt.

When I was sucking into the skin on his shoulder.

When he was stepping out of his trousers and the flimsy boxers he wore.

I was familiar with all his clothing, having laundered and folded them, just as I knew his fancy teacups.

The tall glasses that stood in his cupboards. The plates on which I served his toast.

I knew his arms, which were now around my neck as I almost lifted him off the floor in an awkward dance towards my bed, where I laid him down, allowing myself to follow.

“You’re still wearing all your clothes,” the now almost-naked man below me said with amusement in his voice.

“I am,” I agreed. “You’re still wearing socks, though.” That made him laugh. I loved that it did.

“Let me help you,” he suggested, rolling over until I was on my back, suddenly feeling awkward. I didn’t know where my hands were supposed to go. On his chest? His back? Down over his delightfully small buttocks?

“You’re mine, too,” he whispered, tugging the tie from around my neck.

Nods. I think I made them as he unbuttoned my shirt, my chest hair silver-grey and wiry under his exploring hands, his soft palms against my skin. Another kiss.

Was this what I thought it was ?

I’d always hated the word intercourse . Sexual contact. Intimacy. This was neither. This was something different, and I had no words, none whatsoever, as my brain clouded over with his mouth delivering small kisses downwards, playing me like this.

My belt buckle tinkled, and I strained to see him, to watch this unravel. He pushed down my trousers and ran his thumb along the waistband of my Y-fronts. I caught his hand, the uncertainty in me breaking free.

“Dylan, I haven’t done this for a very long time. I don’t even know if it all works anymore.”

“Stewart,” he said calmly.

“I haven’t engaged in…self-pleasure…for a long time. I honestly don’t know.”

“And I…” He sat up. The small trail of dark hairs on his stomach were stark against his pale, slender form. I was looking—of course I was. More dark hair. A male member. And I realised how beautiful he was. Strikingly so, in his own way. Strong, yet fragile. Broken, yet perfect. So very perfect.

“I think you’re gorgeous,” he continued.

“And I don’t care. I don’t care if we get off tonight.

I don’t care if we just lie here and hold each other.

I really don’t. I just want to be here, with you, like this.

I want you to kiss me. I want you to tell me all those things you’re telling me because I love hearing them. ”

“Come here,” I said. Because perhaps I’d needed to hear that too. I caught him in my arms and held him, tangled my legs around him, my trousers gone with a few gentle kicks. I managed to free the duvet and wrap us up.

Him. Me. Warmth. Soft skin. His lips against mine as my hands became braver, exploring his skin. The soft dips of his back. His mouth on my shoulders. The waistband of my underwear once again getting gentle tugs.

“I’m going to take these off,” he told me more than suggested, and I let him, too helpless to refuse.

“There,” he said as my manhood found freedom. His fingertips gently stroked down my shaft. I shivered. “Still works,” he whispered, a smile forming as he proved me wrong. My shaft was filling out right there under his touch.

I swallowed. More gentle tickles, the familiar feeling in my groin.

The way he kissed me, how his fingers grew bolder, and how mine joined in.

Our bodies rocked to the same invisible beat as I found his…

Oh God. His erection was glorious, hard and warm in my hand.

How anyone could resist such a man was suddenly beyond me because he was all beauty and strength, and his tongue was so deep down my throat I could barely breathe.

I wondered if his erection would fit. If his skin would taste as good as his kisses. How, when I climbed on top of him and he rolled underneath me, if he would…

Oh, he did. His legs clasped around my back, my erection now too prominent to ignore. His, in return, was right there poking me in the groin.

I rocked my hips, joining him in the dance we were choreographing, his hand clasped around my length, mine finding his as we kissed, uncoordinated, messy movements above as we discovered perfection below.

His hand moved around me, mine around him.

The bed creaked alarmingly as we drifted off into something I once again had no words for.

Blissful ignorance. A state where I no longer cared.

Where his pleasure was mine and mine was his.

Where the sounds coming from his mouth were everything, and my heartbeat was no longer just my own.

His neck bent back, my mouth somewhere behind his ear, my body screaming with something I hadn’t felt for years.

Pleasure. I had no words for it. Or none I could say out loud .

Nothing else mattered, but this.

Him. Me. And a blistering orgasm that I wouldn’t have been able to stop even if I’d had a gun against my head.

“Don’t stop!” he groaned out. “Don’t…fucking…stop.”

A crude demand, but I did as I was told, grasping the unimaginable honour of watching him fall, his body tensed at an impossible angle, his hips shooting off the bed, my lips once again sucking at his neck, my hand guiding him to the finishing line in firm, rhythmic jerks.

His breathing stopped for those precious few seconds when the human body lets time stand still.

When his eyes fell shut and a small droplet of water trickled down his cheek.

When I loved him so much that it physically hurt.

When this beautiful man was mine. When this bed was everything, and nothing else would ever matter again.

They were huge promises, but ones that suddenly seemed so blatantly easy to keep.

“I love you,” I croaked out, unable to hold it back. “I love you. Love you. Love you.”

“You,” he whispered. “You.”

“Yes,” I agreed .

We lay there, allowing ourselves to catch our breath, the duvet having slipped onto the floor, his naked form in sharp contrast to my white sheets.

It was wonderful to see how perfectly he fit in this space where I wanted him to stay forever.

That was my hormones speaking, I got that.

I wasn’t thinking clearly, and the fear was slowly creeping in as he turned and looked at me, him up there on the pillow, me slightly lower on the bed, having slid down the mattress.

I had no idea how. My hand was on his hip, the wetness coating my fingers slowly drying against my skin.

I’d caught his seed. Mine to keep.

“This was way easier than I imagined,” he said softly. “It’s not supposed to be this easy.”

“You calling me easy?” I teased, and he laughed. God. I loved it when he smiled. His handsome face.

“You are easy. You’re so honest and straightforward and…easy. Easy to love.”

Good enough. I could take that.

We lay there in a comfortable silence, briefly interrupted when the train thundered past the bottom of the garden. There was nothing else in the air. Just him. Me. An infinite amount of space around us .

“I agree, though,” I said. “I thought this would be something to overcome. I don’t know why, but at the end of the day, you’re an incredibly attractive man.

” I ran my finger up his chest, brushed a cluster of hairs around his nipple, skimmed the dip at his throat. “And in the end, this is just…lovely.”

“It is,” he whispered, grabbing my hand. “It really is.”

I had no idea what our words meant. I don’t think it mattered. But he crawled into my embrace and let me hold him. And I was absolutely certain.

My life was about to change, and there was nothing I could do to stop it.