Page 24 of Vine (Island Love #3)

CHAPTER 23

MAX

No way was Caspian getting a nude. How did you go about photographing them anyway? It’s not like I could ask Nico or éti to hold my phone, and I had never purchased one of those phone tripods. And did he want a full-length shot, in which case I didn’t own a mirror long enough, or just my chest or my belly or my dick? Erect or flaccid? Did he want my backside as well? Two nudes? Far too many ways to fuck that up, and Perfect Peach was no help whatsoever.

A bit weird that dolphin talk got him horny, though.

To distract from spending yet another afternoon worrying about Caspian, when we got back to shore, I tracked down my dad. He was where I usually found him when he wasn’t with us on the oyster beds: in his tool shed, tinkering.

“Where’s your friend?”

“He’s filming. I’m meeting him later. I told him I needed to talk to you about work.” I hefted myself onto the bench, angling with a view of the garden so I could watch Noir mooching about.

“Do you?” My dad rummaged through his toolbox.

“No.”

“Did you contact that supplier in Bordeaux about the extra order?”

“Yes.”

“And did you speak to the chap in Ars about the faulty fanbelt?”

“Yes. I said I didn’t need to talk to you about work.”

The corners of my dad’s mouth curled up, mostly masked by his bushy beard. Not quite as lush as mine, but close. I intended to let mine grow out even more now I knew how much Caspian liked me rubbing it along the length of his inner thighs.

“So why are you here?”

“To inform you that my friend is now my boyfriend. His name is Caspian, and he has significant mental health issues, which is why he visited Colette.”

“Oh.”

“He’s English,” I added. “But that’s not why he has mental health issues.”

“Probably doesn’t help,” said my dad. I think he was joking. He stopped sharpening his chainsaw chain and glanced up at me. “Boyfriend, eh?”

“Yes. I’m homosexual.”

He nodded. “Your mother always said you might be. That woman was never wrong about anything.”

I frowned. “Except for that time when she went to pick Nico up from a school trip and was a day early. And also, when she said that branleur Macron would lose the next general election.”

My dad laughed. “Yes, okay, she was wrong occasionally.”

Noir was digging up potatoes in the vegetable patch. I hoped my dad didn’t notice. “How did she know,” I asked him. Reminiscing about my mother still had the capacity to upset me, especially if I was already stressing about other things. Like Caspian being at work, for instance. So I counted my fingers and rocked a bit. I didn’t need to hide it from my dad.

“Florian,” he answered, and a wave of heat stole up my neck. “You used to stare at him with hearts in your eyes.” He threw me a cheesy dad grin. “Oh, and that gay porn magazine you kept under your mattress for about three years until it fell apart. The guy on page four—putain, was that actually his?—”

“Do you mind,” I interrupted. “That I’m homosexual. Are you disappointed.”

“God, no. I suppose I’m a bit disappointed you didn’t think you could tell me. Or Nico, or your sister.”

“It wasn’t important then. But now it is.”

I watched as my dad, his hands big and rough like mine, tried to rethread the chainsaw chain onto the saw. “So, this boyfriend, then. Caspian. He hanging around after the filming stops?”

“I want him to. But éti says I can’t make someone love me, so it’s up to him.”

“Another woman who’s always right.”

“Yes.”

The chain slipped into place with a satisfying click. My dad tugged on it a couple of times. “What’s made this particular lad turn your head, then? Good-looking fella, is he?”

“I think so, except he’s quite small and his teeth aren’t as good as mine.” I didn’t mention the scars. “He’s also excellent at all the things I’m not, even though he doesn’t think he is.”

I didn’t need to explain those to my dad. Avoiding hidden social curriculum violations. Like carrying on talking to someone, even though they are looking at their watch. Sitting next to a person I don’t know at the cinema when there are lots of other empty seats to choose from. Telling my sister her dress is too tight and it doesn’t suit her. Explaining interesting nature podcasts to someone who hasn’t asked. (Although Caspian loves it when I do that.)

“And I’m excellent at the things he’s not. Like whittling and looking after dogs and snakes and not being anxious all the time.” From the corner of my eye, I saw Noir running down the path with his three paws covered in mud and a dirty potato stuffed in his mouth.

“Especially looking after pets. Bye. I’m going now.”

Caspian manoeuvred through the door armed with shopping bags.

“I’m cooking dinner tonight,” he announced. “It’s the least I can do. Emma and I nipped to the indoor food market in Ars during a break this morning.”

He smiled at me, though his eyelids drooped. If he was a phone, his battery would be alerting at 5 percent.

“I can do it,” I offered, taking the bags from him. “And these are too much for you to carry on your own.”

He rolled his tired eyes at that and leaned up on tiptoe to peck my cheek, which made me feel like the inside of my stomach was being tickled. “I want to cook for you. It will take my mind off, you know… It will take away the stresses of the day, which are giving me a particular urge right now that I really don’t want to give in to. I’ll grab a quick shower first.”

Now my belly was tickled in a different way altogether. “Will you be all right in there.”

The corner of his mouth lifted in a smile. “Yes, Max. I’ll be fine.”

While Caspian showered, I sat in my favourite armchair playing with my penis. Picturing his lean body slick with soapy water, I wished I hadn’t made the stupid rule about bathrooms being private. I was so engrossed in a rather delicious fantasy where I sneaked into the cubicle behind him and penetrated him against the tiles, he managed to sneak up on me, still with my hand stuffed inside my jeans. Again. Covered in only a pair of his tiny little briefs, his dick and balls were wrapped up for me like a gift, right in my eyeline. One of my towels was nestled around his bare shoulders.

“Don’t let me interrupt,” he murmured with a grin, and ran a finger along the waistband of his underwear like it needed adjusting. It didn’t.

He looked revived, not that my eyes stayed much on his face. I grunted as he yawned and stretched, pushing his arms up into the air above his head and puffing his skinny chest out front and his round little arse out back. “Warm tonight, isn’t it?” He flapped the towel around. “I don’t think I’ll bother dressing just yet. I’ll air dry.”

I grunted again, conveying my gracious acceptance. Given that he’d said don’t let me interrupt, my hand stayed where it was, yet even I knew wanking in front of someone during a non-sexual encounter was a hidden social violation.

But I really needed to move my hand. Not out of my trousers, just up and down a bit.

“What are you cooking for me?”

Already he’d turned his back, removing wrapped packages from the shopping bags. I gave myself a furtive pull.

“Something special,” he said, with a quick glance over his shoulder. “I thought about texting and finding out what you liked, and then I decided that a beautiful big strong boy like you, working those hunky muscles all day, would appreciate a solid piece of meat.”

Another glance accompanied by a quick smirk. Putain, it was like we were playing that game of musical statues at kid’s parties; you danced and then had to suddenly stand still when the music stopped. Which I was rubbish at, obviously.

“Big strong man ,” I corrected, which made him glance over his shoulder again with another bloody smirk. I shifted uncomfortably.

“And so I’m making you steak au poivre, which I’ll be serving with sautéed mushrooms, grilled asparagus, and garlic mashed potatoes. For dessert, a simple chocolate soufflé with a raspberry coulis. And rosé, or beer if you’re not a wine drinker.”

I gave myself another quick squeeze. Mon dieu, I needed to put this erection somewhere. And those bum cheeks, wiggling around under that scrap of stretched white cotton, were a special meal in themselves. By now, both my penis and my mouth were dribbling. “I can do wine,” I answered, with a pout. “éti’s taught me some wines. I know the difference between my Chablis and Prieur Montrachets.”

Chuckling, he waved a bottle around before putting it in the fridge. “Prieur Montrachet? You might have to… um… drop your standards somewhat. This one was seven euros in Leclerc. On special offer.”

He drizzled some oil in a pan, rather ostentatiously in my opinion, then bent over his chopping, thank fuck. Giving me an opportunity to readjust. “I found such a nice piece of meat,” he stated, as if I’d asked. “Size and thickness is so important. Girthy, but not too girthy so you can’t get your lips around each mouthful.”

My groan was muffled by him rummaging around in a drawer. “When I worked in that restaurant in Paris, I learned that preparation is crucial. You need to prepare it just right, so when it hits your tongue, the juices fall from it.”

I didn’t own a meat tenderiser; he improvised with a rolling pin. One hip cocked, his cute little biceps bulged and relaxed, bulged and relaxed and—oh, fuck. It was almost like he knew how turned on I was.

“The head chef taught me the importance of a firm hand.” He flipped the meat over and reached for some herbs—could have been pig shit for all I cared. “To tenderize the raw flesh, so that when you swallow it down, you’re left with a delicious, moist sensation. Honestly, Max, the steaks he made were some of the…”

“Stop! Don’t cook them yet! We’re having sex right now.” I was behind him, trousers and pants around my ankles, yanking down his silly little briefs and pushing myself up against his arse. Gripping the work surface, he tipped his head back to make room so I could devour his neck. His soft whimper slayed me.

“Oh fuck,” I moaned as one of my fat fingers, wet with my own juices, found his tight little hole. Not wet enough; I spat on it. “Spread wider. Lean forward. Yeah, like that, that’s… mon dieu. Yeah, exactly like that. Can you take me like that?”

He moaned a nod and arched back, bracing against the worktop. I was making it up as I went along, but it felt right. Holding my cock, I rubbed it against his hole and gave it a little nudge, then split his cheeks apart with my other hand.

Mon dieu, in those first few seconds of pushing through, there was nowhere else in the world me or my penis would rather be . He was a fist lined with velvet. It was so cramped in there, so snug, so… ugh.

Caspian gasped, long and low, the kind of urging gasp that wanted more not less, and also the kind of urging gasp that made me want to…ugh.

“This is so good, Caspian,” I panted. “I want to… I want to…”

I pulled out a little bit on a groan, then thrust back in, feeling like I might explode if I went up to the hilt. But, given the way my slippery wet penis looked disappearing into his hole, I wanted to do it anyway.

“You good?” I checked. I was transfixed by the view, even if it was bringing me to the edge. If he hadn’t gasped a yes, then I don’t know what I’d have done, because stopping wouldn’t have been possible.

Everything else in my life fell to the wayside as I gripped Caspian by those pale narrow hips and railed him up against my kitchen worktop. With every thrust up and every withdrawal, with every gasp dropping from Caspian’s lips and every grunt rasping from mine, I was only there, so present. So fucking into it, so fucking into him, and Caspian was so fucking into me, pushing back, riding me like I was riding him. I watched myself pumping into him, splitting those two perfect round globes of his arse as if a line was scored right down the middle. As if they weren’t arse cheeks at all but two halves of a peach, a juicy, plumptious, ripe and perfect…peach.

Putain. I’d only read the book fifty fucking times.

“Until you became… distracted—” Caspian gave me one of the delicious naughty smiles that I liked to think he saved only for me, “I was about to tell you that steak au poivreoriginated in the 19th century in the bistros of northern France. Gentlemen would take their female companions for late suppers, and then hurry them away to discrete upstairs rooms where poivre's purported aphrodisiac properties may have proved most useful.” He laughed. “Just a mention of it was enough to get you going.”

“In a minute, you can clear up all the mess from cooking it,” I growled. I was very particular about the state of my kitchen. “But I haven’t quite finished with you yet.”

He was cleaned up and ensconced in my lap, wearing clothes. Aftercare was as important as foreplay, according to Perfect Peach . For my perfect peach. Who, incidentally, was also the best steak chef ever. Better than the steak prepared in the fancy restaurants éti sometimes dragged me to, especially as la mer Caspienne sat on my lap while we ate. (I had to open the cupboards for him, even though I promised Kaa had decamped to her summer home in the woodpile.) And his chocolate thingy was almost as good as my mum used to make. Except I lied and said it was better.

“I didn’t use a condom,” I confessed. “I… um… got carried away and forgot about the consent thing.”

“I know,” he answered and kissed my forehead. “Don’t worry. I was tested after my marriage broke up. I’m good to go.” Another forehead kiss. Nico did that to éti all the time and she loved it. I was beginning to understand why. “And I’m willing to take a chance on you, big man. All 15.9 centimetres of you.”