by Lily Velden
This time was no different.
God, the power he had over me.
He drew a line of wet, sucking kisses from the hollow of my throat along my collarbone to the tip of my shoulder and back again.
“Hmm, baby, you always taste so good,” he murmured, pressing his groin against my hip to let me know just how much he enjoyed my flavor.
He undid a few more buttons, and I shuddered, enjoying the feel of the soft fabric sliding over my skin as he eased it over my other shoulder before repeating his moist journey.
“God, Noah, I could kiss and lick you all day,” he whispered as he undid the last few buttons.
“Be my guest,” I breathed.
PERCHED ON what I’d come to think of as my stool at the kitchen island, I watched Robert prepare breakfast the same as he had every morning in the week since our return to London. The smell of berries mingled pleasantly with that of a pot of freshly brewed tea and toasting crumpets, and I sniffed the air appreciatively. I smiled as I watched him juggle the crumpets onto our plates, hissing and cursing at their heat—he never waited a moment or two to let them cool. My smile deepened as he slathered them in mounds of real butter before sprinkling them with cinnamon sugar. On our first morning together upon our return, I’d asked him what the point of all the healthy fruit was if we were just going to ruin its health benefits by gorging on buttery crumpets. He’d looked at me as if I were somewhat lacking in the brains department and described his theory of eating “in moderation.” Apparently, something “naughty” could be eaten at any time as long as something “good” was served with it. Somehow, this didn’t interfere with his broader theory of treating our bodies like temples during the week and like nightclubs on the weekend. Robert’s theories were nothing if not flexible.
Robert pushing both my bowl and plate toward me was my cue to pour our teas—two sugars and milk for Robert because, as I teased him, he still needed a lot of sweetening, and black with one sugar and a slice of lemon for me.
Leaning forward, I tilted my face, waiting for the chaste but lingering kiss to my lips I knew would come before we ate our “in moderation” breakfast.
A wave of contentment washed through me. I liked our breakfast ritual. I also liked our “jump in the shower together before tumbling into his bed” one. Come to think of it, our “cook together while sharing a glass of wine” ritual was pretty good too.
“So, babe, you up for a drive to Axminster?” At my blank look, he elaborated. “Southwest, sunshine, it’s about three hours southwest of London. Have you ever heard of Hugh Fearnley-Whittingstall?” Another blank look had Robert chuckling. “The cooking show River Cottage?” My continued confusion made Robert’s chuckles turn to outright laughter. He leaned over the island to kiss me noisily. “Okay, I give up. All you need to know is the guy can turn the humble roast into a taste sensation. I made inquiries when we first got back to London, but they were booked out, but this morning I received an e-mail saying they’ve had a cancellation and can fit us in. So what do you say? You fancy an overnight trip to the country? Being August, the weather should be lovely.”
“Sure.” As long as Robert was there, I was game for anything.
“Brilliant.”
Once again he amazed me with how speedily he had us organized and ensconced in his “jalopy,” as he liked to call his Austin-Healey. His nickname for his car amused the hell out of me as it was a classic and worth an absolute mint to any sports-car collector.
During the past week, when Robert had been showing me “his London,” as he termed it, we’d always had the top up because of the fumes being spouted by the multitude of vehicles we shared the city roads with. Now, on the freeway, with the weather smiling on us, we had the top down. I loved it. The sense of freedom I felt was akin to that of riding a motorbike. It took me back to my college days.
The air rushed by us, whipping away our words, but that didn’t deter Robert from playing what I could only assume was a sing-along playlist on his iPod as he immediately joined in. He had a pleasant tenor, and after a song or two I threw caution to the winds and added my voice to his.
I’d barely gotten through the first line when Robert stopped singing and turned his head to briefly glance in my direction, his eyebrows raised and a smile tugging at the corners of his lips. The sound that escaped him was a cross between a snort and a laugh, and he turned to glance at me once again as he reached over to give my thigh a squeeze.
“You go, sunshine!”
I grabbed his hand, thrilled when he made no move to pull it free, and continued to sing at the top of my lungs. After a few false starts, when his laughter got the better of him, Robert joined in. It felt good—it had been a long time since I’d felt inspired enough to sing along to anything. According to my brother, Mitch, I sang off-key and was tone deaf. In fact, as a teen he used to pay me to not, as he put it, crucify his favorite songs. But what the hell would he know? He was probably full of shit—I sounded just fine to my own ears….
AFTER THROWING my overnight bag on the end of the bed, I turned to Robert and continued our play argument from the car, pretending to glare at him. “I sing just fine, thank you very much, Mr. Callinan!”
“My dear sweet Noah, there are many, ah, fine things you do with that mouth of yours, but singing is not one of them.” Chuckling, he threw his duffel on the bed beside mine.
I placed my hands on my hips and opened my mouth, ready to argue some more, but Robert beat my words by covering my mouth with his and slipping his tongue in. I didn’t hesitate for even a second before sliding my tongue eagerly along the edge of his, my words of protest all but forgotten. He deepened the kiss, grabbed my hands, and positioned them on his hips before hooking his fingers into the waistband of my jeans and drawing me closer.
“See, now there’s a prime example of something you do exceedingly well with that pretty mouth of yours,” he whispered, pulling slightly away from me before leaning in once more to take possession of my lips.
When he finally released me, I was breathless and sporting an impressive boner.
“What?” I mumbled, still a little disoriented.
Robert chuckled and palmed my jeans-clad cock. “Come on, stud, it’s your other legs that need stretching after three plus hours in a car.”
We spent the afternoon exploring the tiny but picturesque village of Hawkchurch and its surrounds. I felt as if I’d been transported back a century or five. The only thing that stopped me thinking that Robert had somehow sent us back in time was the presence of a handful of modern cars.
Robert had us traipse up narrow, hedge-lined lanes and even across a field or two, working up our appetites, he said, for the feast that evening at River Cottage. Everything around us was green and lush, and so darn pretty it looked like it belonged on the lid of one of the vintage cookie tins I’d seen in Higgy’s kitchen.
We arrived back at our room at the Fairwater Head Hotel, with its huge four-poster canopied bed—which I couldn’t wait to try out—in plenty of time to shower and change for the dinner.
I’d no sooner stepped into the shower recess when Robert joined me.
“Thought you might need me to, ah, help you take the edge off.” He grinned at me and winked. “You know, just to make sure you behave yourself tonight.”
Before I could think up a witty reply, he sank to his knees and engulfed my soft cock in his warm mouth. Needless to say, I didn’t stay soft for long, and the only thing approaching clever to come out of my mouth was a long time in the making. Even then it was only a breathily uttered comment on good manners dictating I reciprocate.
ROBERT PARKED between a new Land Rover and a white VW Polo hatchback. After switching off the ignition, he turned to me and said, “What’s the bet the VW is owned by a young bird here with a gal pal. They’ll both be single, and the Land Rover probably belongs to a yuppie couple in their thirties. Oh, and he’ll be short.”
I chuckled—Robert and his theories. I’d heard this one before
. He had a theory about why and how people chose their cars. Apparently, the bigger the car the smaller the cock. At the time, I’d argued that the cliché was the more hotted up and faster the car, the smaller the dick, but he’d been insistent that there was a direct correlation in reverse proportion between vehicle size and the appendage of its owner.
“So what does your, ah, jalopy, say about you then, Mr. Callinan?” I teased.
“That I’m gay and a ride with me would not only be fun, but memorable. Oh, and because my jalopy is small it must mean my cock is huge!” He waggled his eyebrows and grinned at me, and I couldn’t help but laugh.
“True enough. At least, that’s what my ass is saying.”
Robert threw back his head and laughed.
We clambered out of the car and sauntered over to where the rest of our dinner companions were waiting next to a blue tractor hooked up to what could only be described as a covered trailer. The wagon’s walls were heavy-duty PVC inset with clear plastic windows. Inside, one long wooden bench seat ringed its interior circumference. Apparently, this was our mode of transport down to the farm where the dinner was being held.
Under the direction of the tractor driver, we climbed aboard single file. Initially, everyone left a little space between themselves and the next person, but as more and more people scrambled aboard, it became obvious we’d have to huddle to all fit in. I smiled to myself—nothing like having someone in your personal space to break down one’s barriers and get one opening up and talking. It was something I’d noticed in England and Europe—their personal space boundary was definitely smaller than the average American’s.
“Honey, are you sure you remembered to lock the Rover? I’ve left the GPS and our phones in the car, and I don’t want them stolen,” I heard the woman next to me whisper to her short, wiry husband.
Before the guy could answer one way or the other, Robert nudged me in the ribs, a triumphant grin on his face. I play scowled back at him—there’d be no shutting him up about his car theory now.
The ride down to the farmhouse was a short but bumpy one. For the first time in my life, I’d have been happy to have a bit more padding on my butt. We all bounced up and down and were jostled against each other. After the first minute, as if by silent group agreement, we gave up apologizing to each other. Awkward smiles were exchanged and conversations started, so maybe the owner was on to something. It certainly proved an effective icebreaker.
When we came to a halt and disembarked, I was surprised to see we weren’t the first arrivals—a similar-sized group was already mingling by a large circular tentlike structure, which I later found out was called a yurt. While we waited, we were served a glass of the farm’s homemade elderflower champagne. It was paler in color than most brands of champagne I’d seen, but it was deliciously refreshing, and I whispered to Robert that, if possible, we should buy a bottle or two to take back with us.
After the tractor-trailer deposited one final group of people among us, we were led into the yurt. Around its edges an assortment of low benches, bales of hay, and seats had been arranged. At Robert’s urging we plopped ourselves down on a block of hay. I inhaled deeply, appreciatively. The hay-laden air smelled sweet and mingled tantalizingly with the scent of roasting food and smoke. Whatever fuel they’d used in the lone central fireplace was fragrant rather than acrid, reminiscent of a good cigar.
I looked around with interest. The central fireplace’s funnel snaked up to the peak of the tent, forming part of the central support structure, out of which fanned several dark wooden beams that contrasted with the cream of the canvas and ended where the ceiling met the walls. The wall supports were more narrow branch-like struts which crisscrossed like lattice. Old, worn-looking rugs in shades of reds and browns had been thrown over the gravel and, combined with the dim flickering lights, added to the nomadic atmosphere of the tent.
Once everyone was seated, our host for the evening regaled us with a brief but informative history of the farm and what would be happening for the evening. It was quite fascinating. My mouth watered when he described some of the items on the menu. Everything we were about to partake of had either been grown on the farm or sourced from the local area. As he spoke, the first round of canapés were served—locally smoked salmon served with an herb cream on freshly prepared blini, which I learned is the Russian form of a yeast-leavened minibuckwheat pancake. Truthfully, I didn’t care what it was called or where it hailed from. All I knew was it tasted beyond delicious, and I wasn’t the only one moaning in appreciation at the way the flavors combined in my mouth.
When I accepted a second one, Robert chuckled and whispered in my ear, “Pace yourself, sunshine, after the canapés there’s a four-course meal, and I’m not about to roll you back up the hill to the jalopy.”
“Don’t care,” I murmured back to him, my mouth full of salmon. “Besides, there’s the tractor to get me back up the hill.”
Robert’s chuckle deepened. “I have visions of my car being like the Flintstones’ one and you causing it to tip to its side!”
I smiled and shrugged my shoulders. “Your fault. You should have bought a bigger car.”
And then he was outright laughing. “I love your sense of humor, Noah.”
Despite knowing he wasn’t declaring his love, his mere use of the word in relation to myself had a warmth spreading out from my center, and I smiled goofily at him.
Returning my smile, he reached out and brushed his thumb over my bottom lip before making a big show of popping it into his mouth and sucking it clean. “Just tidying up after you, dirty boy.”
That set the tone for the evening. We flirted continuously with each other. Once we’d been led inside the farmhouse and taken our seats at one of two extremely long arrangements of tables that ran almost the entire length of the hall, we engaged in lively conversation with our dinner companions.
Directly opposite Robert and me sat two attractive young girls who appeared to be in their mid to late twenties. They introduced themselves as Emily and Meredith, or Em and Merry for short. They too were down from London, where they shared a flat. Both worked in retail and were avid fans of the cooking show. They flirted outrageously with both Robert and me. If I’d had any lingering doubts as to my sexuality, my reaction to their flirting dispelled it—I was totally unmoved. They were both very pretty, but they didn’t interest me at all.
Em’s disappointed pout at Robert kissing me on the cheek after his declaration to her that as attractive as she was, she lacked a certain piece of equipment he found irresistible was so cute I couldn’t help smiling at her sympathetically.
Merry’s blunt, “That’d be bloody right. All the good ones are either taken or gay,” made us all laugh. She scowled at each of us in turn. “You can laugh all you like. It’s true.”
Her comment sparked an energetic debate on clichés, their origins, and how much truth could be found in them. We even roped some of the other diners around us into our conversation.
By the time the main course of roasted pork loin was served, we were all chatting and laughing like lifelong friends—all of us beyond embarrassment and openly sighing and moaning at the flavors. The meat just fell apart in my mouth, and I’d have killed for more of the crackling.
“How do they make the mashed potato so creamy?” I asked the table at large.
“Babe, if you were hanging around merry olde England a bit longer, I’d enroll you in one of their cooking schools just so you could find out. And I’d gladly be your guinea pig.”
At the mention of my rapidly approaching departure, my heart gave a little stutter, and I paused midchew. Swallowing, I brushed the knowledge aside—I wouldn’t let anything spoil the evening.
By the time we were served coffee and petit fours, I was so full I doubted I’d be able to fit in so much as one more crumb of food.
“Sure you can,” teased Robert. “Just undo a button or two of your jeans.”
The girls laughed. “Now you know why we wore l
eggings and flowing shirts!”
Once the meal was over, Robert bought a case of the elderflower champagne, generously giving the girls a couple of bottles each. They joined us on the first tractor load back up to the vehicles, and despite knowing we were gay, they gave us their phone numbers in case we ever wanted to go out with them for a night of fun in London.
We watched as they climbed into their car, an electric-blue Ford Fiesta, and drove off. I turned to Robert, who was grinning broadly, looking like a cat with the canary.
“What’s got you looking so smug?”
“Young single women in zappy little cars. Ring any bells, Noah?”
I rolled my eyes and groaned. “I’m never going to hear the end of this particular theory, am I?”
AFTER ONLY one night, I decided there was definitely something to be said for four-poster beds. The whole grandeur aspect of them inspired a stellar performance, even from a consummate lover like Robert. If you drew the curtains, you could cocoon yourself inside your own little world, and their posts also provided something to hang on to. Very handy for keeping your balance when you were on your knees with your lover behind you pounding your ass into the next week. Had we had more time, I’d have liked to try a little soft bondage on it too. I could just picture myself lying on my stomach, spread-eagled and held in position by some colorful scarves or neckties so Robert could do with me whatever he pleased.
When, in the morning, I turned within the circle of Robert’s arms and murmured as much into his chest, his reaction made us almost miss the last breakfast chime.
The morning was overcast, but the clouds didn’t look overly ominous, so we decided to risk driving with the top down. We took a different route back to London. Initially, I thought Robert had done it merely to show me some more of the English countryside, but approximately an hour and a half into our return journey, my singing ground to a halt.
