When Skies Have Fallen
Page 40
Chapter Twenty-Six: September, 1949
“After the ball is over, after the break of morn. After the dancers’ leaving, after the stars are gone…”
“Arty Clarke, you are drunk!” Jim said, laughing and shushing him unsuccessfully. They’d left the Palais to catch the last train home, but Arty had consumed far too much brandy and ginger ale to risk five minutes in a confined space, being jogged from side to side. Jean and Charlie needed to get back for Eddie and took the train, whilst Jim and Arty walked. Or, rather, Jim walked and gave Arty a piggyback.
Arty clung tighter and continued to sing, “Many a heart is aching, if you could read them all—” He nibbled Jim’s ear, and Jim sighed in exasperation.
“Just you wait,” he threatened.
“You haven’t changed your mind then?”
“About…?”
“Taking Dot up on her offer.”
Jim chortled. “Jeez. She’s a real live wire. I thought Jean was gonna give her a knuckle sandwich.”
“Me too,” Arty agreed ambiguously, not sure if he meant he’d also wanted to punch the woman, or just thought Jean might. Much as it appalled him to have even thought it, she had thrown herself at Jim and commandeered his attention all evening. Arty’s one dance more or less finished him off, and Charlie couldn’t jive to save his life, so Jean was left partnerless and, short of knocking Dot out cold, there wasn’t a thing anyone could do about it. Still, there was no point dwelling on it. Arty had danced with Jean and they were going to start a dance school together. It had been a perfect night and his spirits were high. “I’m not drunk, you know,” he said.
“Not even a little?”
“Maybe a little. And I’ll be walking like John Wayne for at least a month.”
“Are you saying I’m a wide ride, or should I take that as a compliment?”
Arty didn’t answer. They had arrived back at Dalton Place and once they were inside, he responded by giving Jim a long, passionate kiss, making clear his intentions, although his legs were already aching and stiffening.
“Maybe a hot bath before bed?” Jim suggested, as always picking up on Arty’s pain, however hard he tried to conceal it, and it worked both ways. Since Jim’s father’s illness, Jim had been thinking about him a lot, Arty knew, but he stayed true to his word. Maybe one day Jim would want to talk about his father; maybe he wouldn’t, but Arty wasn’t going to force the issue.
Jim followed Arty into the bathroom and helped him undress while the bath was filling, and not because he needed assistance. Indeed, it took a great deal longer than if he’d left him to it, particularly as the hot steam made Arty’s clothes stick to his skin.
“Too warm in here,” Jim said, removing his own clothes, whilst Arty climbed into the deep water, ridiculously aroused, and slid beneath the surface. When he came up for breath, Jim was kneeling beside the bath. He leaned over and kissed Arty, at the same time smoothing the cool bar of soap over his chest, stomach, and down, creating circles of fine creamy foam. Jim released him from the kiss and combed through the soapy mess with his fingertips, turning Arty into an erotic portrait of swirls of dark hair and white suds.
“I’m gonna be real gentle with you tonight, darlin’,” Jim crooned. “Real gentle.”
Arty closed his eyes, too far into his mind to reply. Gentle or rough, he cared not. First, however, he had to get out of the bath, but when he eventually attempted to do so, his legs refused absolutely to comply.
“Whatever you do, don’t mention this to Jean,” he implored, making one last scrabbled effort before relinquishing control.
“My lips are sealed,” Jim promised. Moving to the top end of the bath, he braced his arm so that Arty could grab on and, with some further assistance to make his knees bend, Arty finally got both feet on the floor. A quick rub with a towel and Jim took Arty to bed, where he rolled him onto his side and then lay behind him, moving with slowness and great care.
Arty rocked back onto Jim, revelling in the constant flow of hot kisses to the nape of his neck, the hot palm wrapped around him. It was long past midnight, but beyond the urgency of their desire they were in no hurry to finish. Arty turned his head as far as his position would allow, and sought Jim’s lips. It proved to be impossible without breaking the connection, and the slow-build was almost too much; Jim sensed it before Arty could muster his plea. Jim tightened his grip and groaned an apology as instinct took over, the gentle swaying lost to the need for release. Arty shoved his face into the pillow to mute his cries, not of pain; of sheer ecstasy.
Drifting back to Earth, he ignored the little voice reminding him that they needed to get into their pyjamas, just in case they were called upon in the night. Jim’s breathing had already deepened, his bare chest gently heaving against Arty’s naked back, a soothing, hypnotic rhythm teasing him into sleep.