by Lily Morton
Chapter Ten
Charlie
I reach out and hug Doug. He looks slightly startled at my over-enthusiastic greeting, but then hugs me back. He’s tall and wide-shouldered and smells nice. Just having another body against my own is lovely, but… that’s as far as it goes. Not a spark of interest at all.
Maybe I just need to get to know him. I’ve never needed to be friends with a bloke in order to make my cock hard, but I’m getting older, I tell myself desperately. Things change. And personality is a very crucial component in attraction.
I step back. I glance and Misha and find he’s frowning at me. His hair is tumbled around his face, and those eyes of his are very blue tonight. My cock stirs immediately, and I want to scream. This is not what I signed up for as Misha’s best friend. For twenty years we’ve been all about warm friendship and brotherly love. Now, for some bloody reason, everything has gone haywire. The genie is out of the bottle and on the rampage.
I quickly glance at Doug again. He’s regarding Misha and me with a slightly sardonic expression. Rupert immediately nudges him. I think it’s supposed to be unobtrusive. Doug immediately pins a smile on his face.
What’s that all about?
“It’s so lovely to see you, Charlie,” Doug says, stepping closer. “You’re looking as bloody gorgeous as ever.”
“Thank you.”
“No, really.” He grins widely. “I’d forgotten how good-looking you are. Thank heavens Misha made that phone call, or I would have mourned the loss of making a real connection with you.”
Misha stirs and frowns at Doug.
Rupert coughs loudly. “I say—” he begins.
Doug talks merrily over him. “I mean, that’s all we want in life, isn’t it? A connection.” His gaze travels around our slightly stunned group and lands on me. “I look at you, Charlie,” he says, stepping close and touching my hair, “and I see forever in your eyes.”
“What the fuck?” Misha breathes.
Rupert coughs again. I wonder if he’s coming down with a cold, but I can’t ask, because I’m standing very still, afraid to make any sudden movements that might provoke Doug.
“Erm, thank you,” I finally say with a big question in my voice.
“Look at you,” he coos. “All that pretty hair and that face.” He steps back. “And that arse. It’s a thing of beauty.”
“I don’t think we need to discuss Charlie’s arse,” Misha says rather forbiddingly.
Doug just shrugs and puts his arms around me. “You have no idea what you look like, do you, Charlie? Oh, how I adore modesty in a man.” He clutches me closer. “Tell me, what are your views on surrogacy and the desire I have to raise ten children?”
“Too close,” Misha says loudly, peeling Doug off me.
“Okay,” Rupert says in a loud voice, taking hold of Doug’s arm and steering him towards the bar. “I think Doug needs a drink.”
“I think Doug’s already had several,” I mutter.
Doug laughs at Rupert as he steers him to the bar and says, “This is so much fun. Why have we never done this before, Rupert?”
Misha stares after the two men.
“Well, that was a bit odd,” I mutter.
“Pah!”
I jump at the explosion of sound that just came from my best friend. “Pardon?”
“Ten children? What is he? A member of the fucking Waltons?”
“He was joking, surely,” I say. I bite my lip. “I mean, hopefully that was a joke. I do like a man with a sense of humour,” I finish on an up-note.
“Well, you’ll be fine, then. You’ll laugh all the way through raising your massive army of children.”
I snort and give him a nudge. I’m rewarded with a smile, but its quickly replaced by a dark frown as Doug and Rupert come back.
“Here you are,” Doug says happily, throwing his arm over my shoulder and edging Misha to the side of the group. “Rupert says you’re not drinking?”
“Erm, no.” I hesitate and then decide to go for it. “I’m epileptic, so I don’t drink. I hope that’s not a problem.”
He smiles, and it’s very kind. “Of course it’s not,” he says, offering me a bottle of water. “Why on earth would it be a problem?”
I shrug and take the bottle from him. “You’d be surprised.”
He shakes his head. “People are cocks, aren’t they?”
“What are you talking about?” Misha asks in rather a rude tone of voice.
Doug grins wickedly. “I was just saying to Charlie here that it isn’t a problem for me if he doesn’t drink. I mean, what I most want is to walk through life with a man at my side whose eyes aren’t blurred by drink.”
“How about narcotics?” Misha’s tone is deadly sincere. “Do you have any objection to a serious narcotics problem?”
“Misha Lebedinsky,” I gasp. “I haven’t got one of those either.”
“Maybe you should develop one,” he mutters. “If this goes any further, you might need it.”
“Ignore him,” I say to Doug, who seems to be fighting a smile. “Tell me about yourself.”
“Oh me,” he sniffs dramatically. “I’m not the important one here.”
“You’re not?” I say nervously. He shakes his head, and I search for conversation. “But you’re a teacher, aren’t you? That’s such a lovely job.”
“A teacher.” He waves his hand dismissively. “We’re ten a penny. Now, librarians are another matter. This world needs more librarians.”
“Oh, I wish you ran the council,” I say faintly.
He nods happily, and Rupert sighs and swipes his hand over his eyes. “Doug,” he says imploringly.
Doug ignores him and takes my arm. “Librarians are important,” he says emphatically. “They are the guardians of knowledge. The champions of the information highway. The gatekeepers of facts.”
“He works at a library in Southwark, not guarding the Tower of Sauron,” Misha breaks in.
“Shut up, Misha,” I say sweetly. “Doug is talking.”
“He’s talking wank,” he mutters.
Doug makes a choked sound, and I helpfully pat him on the back. He’s sweet if a bit intense.
“Just ignore Misha,” I advise him. “If it doesn’t feature on the Dow Jones index, it’s not happening.”
“How can I ignore someone who arranged for me to meet my prince?” Doug asks earnestly. “The man who may have changed my world tonight. Misha will be forever a friend of mine because of that.”
“Erm.” It’s the most intelligent syllable I can come up with.
Bethany is coughing behind her hand. Is everyone coming down with a cold?
“Thank you,” I finally say because absolutely nothing else is coming to mind.
Chaka Khan’s “Ain’t Nobody” begins playing down on the dancefloor, and I seize on the diversion. “I love this song,” I exclaim. “Misha and I always dance to this when we come here. Do you like music?” I ask Doug.
He looks soulfully at me. “Your voice is like music to my ears.”
“Doug, can I have a word?” Rupert shouts.
I’m looking around surreptitiously for any hidden cameras, when I’m caught by Doug’s limpid gaze. “Rupert is trying to get your attention,” I tell him. Rupert’s arms are windmilling about. “Rather enthusiastically too.”
He smirks. “Oh, I don’t have eyes for anyone other than you, you beautiful man.”
“Oh my God,” I say faintly.
Misha asks, “Have you been reading rather a lot of Mills and Boon lately, Doug? I don’t remember you being quite so flowery before.”
Doug shakes his head gravely. “Misha, meeting the right person makes every man a poet.”
“Well, thank goodness it’s never happened to me, then,” he says grumpily. “I don’t think I’ll enjoy sounding like a complete tit.”
“Ah, Misha,” Doug says heartily. “Are you sure you haven’t met the right person yet?” Misha stares at him, and Doug sighs. “In the f
uture, I’m going to enjoy talking to you about tonight,” he says happily. “I will treasure it forever. It’s already evergreen in my memory.”
“Doug,” Rupert says heartily. “I really need you to look at something on my phone.”
“But, Rupert, is it wise to pull me away from my soulmate?”
“Not only wise, it’s quite essential,” Rupert says. His expression is somewhat grim as he drags Doug away.
I glance at Bethany. She’s become bright red in the face. “Are you alright?” I ask her.
“Fine.” I’m sure I hear suppressed laughter in her voice. I narrow my eyes at her, and she immediately becomes absorbed by the action on the dancefloor. “I love this song,” she says brightly.
“So do I,” Misha says grimly and grabs my arm. “Come on.”
He drags me down the stairs, and, as I stumble after him, I say, “Didn’t I tell you that your club persona was a bit too caveman? This is exactly what I was talking about.”
He grunts. “I don’t think you have any room to talk after making eyes at Doug like that. He’s so cheesy he was giving a packet of Wotsits a run for their money.”
“He was very charming. Didn’t you hear what he said about librarians?” I shout over the music. I pause to consider his words. “I was not making eyes at him,” I say indignantly.
“You were practically fluttering your eyelashes at him.”
A man suddenly approaches me with grabby hands.
“No, fuck off,” Misha says sharply. “He wants to dance, not be groped by a complete twat.”
“Misha,” I say, shocked. “That’s so rude. I’m sorry,” I say to the man. He merely grins and disappears back into the crowd.
Misha pulls me onto the crowded dance floor, already moving with the sultry beat of the music.
“I love this song,” he shouts with a grin.
I laugh, all concerns gone. “Me too.”
He drags me closer, and we start to dance. Our bodies move smoothly in a syncopated rhythm that’s been hewn on dance floors all over London. We’ve been dancing together since we were sixteen and snuck into our first club. All my happy club memories include Misha.
We fall into our own rhythm, and song after song plays, our only reality the pulse of the beat, the cheers of the crowd around us, and the smell of sweat, aftershave, and dry ice. Bethany and Rupert join us for a few songs, appearing with water and then disappearing back to the side of the dancefloor, where I catch a glimpse of them laughing and talking. I smile and dance closer to Misha, pointing them out.
He gives them a quick glance and smiles before dragging me closer. “Hope their togetherness is sticking,” he shouts.
I throw my arms around his neck as he starts a bump and grind to Prince screaming about a girl called Nikki masturbating in a hotel lobby. I smile at the sight of Doug dancing nearby with a handsome redhead. He looks up and gives me a cheeky wink before turning back to the other man.
I nestle closer to Misha, following the rhythm of his hips seamlessly. “Rupert and Bethany belong together,” I say into his ear.
He looks over at them again, but I can tell he isn’t seeing them. His eyes are busy, occupied with something that seems deep inside his head. I suddenly become aware of his hands on my back, the long fingers spanning my ribs. I inhale his familiar smell of bergamot and a deeper scent that’s just him. It makes me shiver inside, and I lower my head to his shoulder as he pulls me closer.
“Misha,” I whisper warningly.
He shudders, the movement easy to read because we’re so close. I glance up at his face, and he sways to a stop. We’re both frozen in the middle of the dancefloor, lights bouncing off our faces and bodies. We’re surrounded by men and women dancing and writhing against each other, and yet we could be alone. My senses are utterly absorbed by Misha.
He stares at me intently, and for the first time in twenty years, I can’t read the expression on his face. “Misha?” I say again, my throat suddenly thick.
The music changes to Duran Duran’s “Save a Prayer.” A cheer rises around us as the lights dim and couples pull each other closer. Still, we seem to be standing alone, an island in the centre of the heaving mass. Pink light paints his face in colour before dipping away, leaving him in shadow again. Enigmatic and alone.
He shakes his head, and with a quick snap of his wrist, he pulls me close. I automatically throw my arms around his neck, bringing our bodies even closer, and as he sways to the slow beat, we stare at each other in the dim light. His lips are parted, his eyes glazed. I’ve seen this expression on him before—always in clubs, always when he’s dancing with other men. I realise with a shock that it’s his turned-on face.
I grab his hips, bringing them flush against mine. I gasp at the steely length of his cock, unmistakably hard. “Misha?” I whisper, my breath hitting his mouth.
His hands come down to bracket my hips, and for a second I think he’s going to push me away. Instead, he pulls me impossibly closer as if trying to fuse our bodies together.
“What is going on?” I ask, shuddering at the feel of his dick rubbing against mine. I don’t want to stop. I can’t stop. It’s like an itch deep inside me that I can’t shake.
“I don’t know.” His voice sounds thick but sweet, as if he’s been gargling treacle. “I don’t bloody know, Charlie,” he repeats, his fingers flexing on my hips before sliding around and down, and I groan as he cups my arse.
As we move to the music, he gathers my hair in one hand, pulling my head back gently. Then he kisses down my throat, the abrasion of his stubble sending sparks to my groin and into my balls. I moan as he licks and sucks at the tendon in my neck, knowing without being told that it’s my hot spot.
I raise my head, and for a second we stare into each other’s eyes. Before I can conjure a thought, we’re kissing. It’s shocking in its intensity, the feel of his tongue in my mouth, the scent of him in my nostrils. And it’s stunning in both its newness and how right it feels. Right, down to the depths of me.
Clasping his head, I send my fingers through the black waves, and he groans into my mouth, pulling me closer, rubbing against me and no longer making any pretence of dancing. He sucks lazily on my tongue, and I feel a warning tingle in my balls. I abruptly step back and away from him.
“What?” he says blearily. “Charlie?”
I press my hand hard against my cock. His eyes follow the movement, his pupils flaring sexily. “Shit,” he mutters.
So close, I mouth.
He shudders in response, and I know he’s close too.
“What are we doing?” I ask helplessly.
He steps toward me and whispers in my ear, “I don’t know.” The warmth of his breath makes me shiver. “I know what you’re going to say, Charlie, and my answer is I don’t know, and furthermore, I actually don’t care. Do you know what I care about?”
I shake my head. One of his hands slides into my hair and the other cups my hip. He kisses me deeply, his mouth a warm and lush pressure. “I care about getting my cock inside you,” he says hoarsely. When he pulls away to look me up and down, it’s as if his gaze is stroking me. I give another whole-body shiver and his eyes flare. “It’s all I’ve thought of for weeks—what you’ll feel like when my dick’s in you. I think you’ll be tight, Charlie. Tight and so hot. Am I right?” I gape at him, and he shrugs, his eyes intent. “So, the question should really be, what do you think?”
I’m not sure who this Misha is in front of me. He looks like my friend, but he’s also an impossibly sexy stranger. My head is cloudy, my cock is throbbing painfully, and all I can think of is how right he feels. Like nobody I’ve been with before. I lick my lips. It’s unbelievably hot that I now know what Misha Lebedinsky tastes like.
Before I’m aware I’ve made up my mind, I’m moving, taking hold of him. I kiss him thoroughly, before pulling back. His eyes are surprised. “I think that sounds epic,” I say.
We plough through the crowd at a fast pace. Misha holds my hand,
tugging me along, and I follow like he’s an enchanted piper. My thoughts are murky and unformed, and my cock is completely in charge. There’s no time to worry if it’s made the right decision, because we’re suddenly out of the club and Misha’s pushing me into a taxi.
I don’t remember much about the drive home, just snapshots—his profile against the bright lights that sweep through the cab, the feel of his hand on my knee, and the distant sound of music from the radio. His breathing is heavy in the quiet stillness of the car. His hand is warm when he helps me out of the taxi, and I’m gratified to feel the faint tremor there. I need this to be as high stakes for him as it is for me.
We walk silently into the lift, and he presses the button for our floor. As the door starts to close, a couple in evening dress calls out to hold the lift. Misha hesitates, but his good manners make him press the button to keep the door open. They crowd in next to us on a tide of expensive perfume and alcohol, and we dutifully move to the back of the car.
Misha pulls me to stand against him, and I inhale sharply at the feel of his cock against my arse. It’s hot through the thin material of my shorts.
The woman looks at us curiously, her eyes sweeping us up and down. I rejoice at the fact that my sweater is long enough to cover my crotch. Her eyes light in amusement. “Fancy dress, boys?”
“Oh, yes.” I stop and clear my throat. “Eighties night.”
“Well, you’re obviously George Michael.” She looks at what she can see of Misha behind me. “Is he Andrew Ridgeley?” she says doubtfully.
“Marty McFly,” I offer.
“Where’s his gilet, then?”
Misha’s hand tightens on my hip and for a second I feel the hot wet press of his mouth on the back of my neck. I shudder and his hand tightens almost too hard. “Marty McFly in the summer,” he says hoarsely. “It was a heatwave that year.” The lift stops to let more people in, and before I can say anything he pulls me out. The doors close, and I stare at him.
“We got off two flights early.”
