by Anna Martin
“Shit. I’m sorry.”
“Don’t be. I’m messing with you.”
Alex’s hand skimmed the rest of the way down his spine and gently cupped one of his asscheeks. His thumb brushed back and forth over the seam between his ass and thigh, tickling the downy hairs there.
“How’s your arse?”
“Sore.”
Soft lips caressed George’s shoulder, and he shivered. “Want me to kiss it better?”
Before George could get out the “Huh?” he was thinking, Alex dropped to his knees and pressed his lips to the last bump of George’s spine.
“What the fuck are you… oh holy shit!”
Alex had grabbed two handfuls of George’s arse and gently pulled apart his cheeks, exposing his hole, then kissed it full on. George fell forward onto his hands again and had to trust his elbows wouldn’t give way as Alex rubbed over that sore flesh with his lips, then the flat of his tongue.
“Jesus Christ, Alex,” George groaned.
“Do you like it?” Alex asked, his voice husky, his breath tickling the now-wet flesh.
“I… don’t know.”
“Let’s find out.”
The sensation of wet tongue on his hole caused tingles to shoot all the way up George’s spine. His fingers curled and his knees went weak as Alex started to lap slowly over his hole, not teasing but soothing, letting the softness of his tongue be a comfort against his stinging flesh.
The noises coming from George’s mouth were almost inhuman. He knew about rimming, he wasn’t totally naïve, and he’d seen enough porn in the past few years to be a little intrigued at the idea. He’d never tried it, though, had never wanted to in all of the random hookups he’d had. He’d never thought he’d be on the receiving end.
The first George knew about his cock enjoying the experience too was when it had risen enough to bump against the edge of the sink unit. That bump sent a shockwave down his cock into his definitely blue balls. The chain reaction made him instinctively arch his back away from the cool counter, back against Alex’s mouth.
“Fuck, yeah,” Alex growled and grabbed George’s ass again, burying his whole face in between George’s chubby cheeks.
George spread his legs wider, giving him better access, and forced himself to let go of the counter and grab hold of his cock. It throbbed in his hand and he immediately felt the wetness on his wrist. He was leaking, for fuck’s sake.
Alex’s skilled tongue curled against his pucker over and over, decadently wet and probing, and George pulled on his cock hard and fast, all sense of propriety gone with the balls-deep need to just fucking come.
He did, with a roar, and Alex didn’t stop the whole time until George’s knees really did give out and he collapsed against the counter with his whole body shaking.
Alex kissed one of George’s arse cheeks.
Then the other.
Then he kissed all the way up George’s spine, sending renewed shock waves out from the centre of his body.
“You,” George gasped, his words not coming out nearly as insistent as he’d hoped. “You are really going to have to brush your teeth before you make any attempt to kiss me.”
Alex laughed, the sound rich and wonderful, and he kissed the back of George’s neck instead.
“No problem, hotshot. You gonna wipe the come off my counter?”
George made a noise, one he didn’t know the meaning of, so he couldn’t expect Alex to. He stumbled over to the toilet and wiped off his belly and his hand, then gathered a fistful of paper to clean up the mess he’d made.
Alex was cheerfully brushing his teeth, his mouth minty-foamy, though he still managed to grin at George. It was taking George longer to recover from that experience than it had for nearly every other sexual experience he’d had. He wasn’t in the mood to mess around.
While Alex continued to brush, he washed his face again, then took a piss, not caring that Alex was watching him.
Alex spat for the last time and rinsed his mouth out. “How are you doing?”
“Okay.”
Alex seemed far too entertained about the whole situation for George’s liking. “Good. Can I kiss you now?”
“Okay.”
It was cold, this kiss, and Alex pressed their naked bodies together until they warmed up. He cupped George’s cheek in one hand and rubbed his thumb over George’s cheekbone, looking at him like he was some adorable, amusing creature.
“Come to bed,” Alex said easily, and George followed him without a moment’s hesitation.
“Good morning,” Alex murmured. He kissed George’s shoulder, tasting the salt on his skin, then pressed his chest flush against George’s back. “How are you feeling?”
George grumbled something unintelligible and stretched like a cat. Then he winced. “Fuck.”
“Mm. Thought you might be sore.”
“I can’t believe last night I had your dick and your tongue in my ass.”
“Not at the same time. I’m not quite that flexible.”
Chuckling, George rolled over and nudged his nose against Alex’s in an Eskimo kiss. His eyes seemed soft, warm, and Alex wasn’t sure if it was because they were still glassy with sleep, or if, like his imagination wanted to dictate, they were full of love.
Something swooped through Alex’s chest, and oh boy, there it was.
He leaned in, smiling, and brushed his lips over George’s.
“You’re hard,” Alex exclaimed, surprised when George’s erection brushed against his thigh. “How are you hard? Aren’t you in pain?”
“Here’s something you should probably know,” George said. He reached down and squeezed his cock, then shuddered lightly. “I have woken up hard every day since I was thirteen.”
Alex laughed. “Really?”
“Every single day. Without fail. Even when I shared a bed with my brother on holiday. And when I went into hospital to have my appendix out. I was drugged up to my eyeballs and in so much pain, but I still had a boner when I woke up.”
“Wow.” Alex brushed his fingertips back and forth over George’s chest. “What do you do about it?”
“It depends,” George said. “Some days all I need to do is squeeze it and I blow. Other times I just ignore it and it goes away.”
Alex gave him a horrified look.
“What?”
“How could you?”
“How could I what?” George laughed, digging his fingers into Alex’s ribs.
“Just… let it go to waste like that. Oof, get off me!”
Alex found himself on his back, pinned to the bed with his wrists up over his head. George looked at him, then leaned in for a closed-lips kiss.
“You wanna do something about it?” he offered, grinding the erection in question in the crease of Alex’s thigh.
“Can you get off like this?” Alex asked. He’d come twice the night before; he wasn’t about to get off anytime soon. Not that he’d tell George, but the head of his dick felt a little bruised. Popping George’s cherry had been hard work on the old boy.
“I’m almost there already,” George said, his voice already low and rough.
Alex clenched his fingers in George’s fists and kissed and licked his neck, spreading his legs and lifting his hips until George grunted and spilled all over Alex’s belly.
“Mm,” he groaned decadently, breathing heavily.
Alex skimmed his fingers over George’s head, liking the way the half-centimetre of hair tickled his skin. He let George recover for a second, then wriggled out from underneath him.
“I’m going to shower really quick, and then I’ll go make tea, okay?”
“Mhmm.”
“Help yourself to the ass cream in the cabinet.”
“The what?”
“Trust me,” Alex said, laughing as he rolled out of bed and headed for the bathroom. “It’ll help.”
Chapter Nine
“Hey. Alex. Alex.”
The voice alone made him cringe, and an icy trick
le made its way slowly down Alex’s spine. He grabbed George’s wrist, stopping him, and turned around.
“What the fuck are you doing here, Harrington?”
His ex-boyfriend stood on the steps of the university building on George Square, hands shoved deep into the pockets of his expensive jeans. Alex knew they were expensive, because they were his fucking jeans. He’d never bothered to pick them up from Harrington’s place after they broke up. Whether or not that was intentional, Harrington wanting to remind him that they used to be that intimate, he couldn’t know.
“I wanted to talk to you. You changed your number.”
Laurence Harrington was the second Earl of Somerset and an asshole. Alex had met him at Eton, and he was exactly the sort of guy Alex thought he was supposed to be with. These days, he was very happy to be wrong about that. Tall, with a broad chest and muscles that came from rowing, hair perfectly done, jaw close-shaven, Harrington was good-looking, there was no point in denying it. He was a smooth motherfucker too, and used to getting his own way.
“I changed my number because I didn’t want to talk to you,” Alex said with a sigh. He felt George’s hand come to rest on his lower back, and it was strangely comforting.
“Who’s this guy? You replaced Turner?”
“What? No. He’s not my bodyguard, he’s my boyfriend.” Alex shook his head.
“Oh, really.”
Harrington’s words dripped with disdain, and he looked George up and down slowly, taking in his coat, his boots, the fact that he wasn’t wearing a watch that had the same value as the GDP of a small country.
“Look, asshole—” George started, and Alex put a hand on his chest before it could go any further.
“It’s fine,” he murmured. “Let me get rid of him.”
“Fine. I’ll wait. Right here,” George said through gritted teeth. He took two steps to the side, folded his arms, and looked in the opposite direction.
“Sarcastic little shit,” Harrington said. He pulled a slim silver cigarette case from his pocket, selected one, tapped the end on the lid, then lit it with a match. He always was a pretentious fuck. “What gutter did you drag him out of? One hell of a rebound, Amsberg.”
Alex chanced a look over at George. His jaw was twitching. Part of Alex—a really big part—wanted to say George! Kill! and watch as his precious little pit bull tore this wanker limb from limb.
Harrington exhaled over his shoulder.
“Why are you in Edinburgh?” Alex said. He was trying to sound demanding, but his words came out weary.
“Like I said, I came to see you.”
“Why?”
“Things ended on a rather sour note between us, Alex. I don’t like that.”
“We broke up over a year ago.”
“I know.”
“So….” Alex spread his hands, waiting for an answer.
Harrington shrugged. “Tomas and I broke up.”
“Boo fucking hoo.”
“Nice one, Alex. Did your street rat boyfriend teach you that?”
“Leave George out of it. So what, Harrington? Tomas left you. Why should I care?”
“Alex.” Harrington’s voice changed, his voice going soft and intimate. “Come on. You and I, we understand each other. Tomas was… he was a rebound. You know what that’s like, right? He was someone to occupy me while I got over you. But I never got over you. The two of us, Alex? We’re the same.”
Harrington took a step forward. Alex took one back.
“He said something to me, you know. When it was over. He said, ‘Laurie, no one else will ever live up to your prince.’ That struck a note. He was right. No one will ever be you, Alex.”
“Please don’t do this, Laurie,” Alex said. His voice almost caught on Harrington’s nickname, the one hardly anyone ever used. That was enough to make him sharpen up. “You need to pull yourself together. Desperation doesn’t look good on you.”
Harrington curled his lip in a snarl and dropped his cigarette, then twisted the toe of his boot over the top of it. “This isn’t desperation, Alex. This is me giving you a second chance.”
Alex laughed once, without humour. “Seriously? Well, that’s extraordinarily gracious of you, but no thanks.”
He turned to walk away, but Harrington grabbed his arm. George was suddenly by his side again.
“Take your fucking hand off him,” George said. His voice was calm and clear, and all the more threatening for it.
Harrington did as he was told, holding both hands up in a gesture of surrender.
“I’m here for a few days, Amsberg. You know how to get hold of me.”
“Not gonna happen,” Alex said as Harrington turned and walked away. “Oh fuck. Oh God.”
“You okay?” George asked.
“Where’s the nearest pub?”
“Uh, about two minutes from here.”
“Great. I need a drink.”
He let George lead him blindly down one of Edinburgh’s narrow, steep side streets, then into a dark little pub. It was perfect: dim, old, the smell of whiskey thick in the air.
“Two Glenfiddich, please,” George said to the wizened old man behind the bar. “Actually—make them doubles. Neat.”
“Thanks,” Alex murmured under his breath. He needed this. Some quiet reassurance and a shot of something strong enough to calm his nerves.
George paid the old boy and led them over to a short table with two squat, overstuffed chairs.
“You okay?” he asked, pushing one of the glasses across the table.
Alex nodded, took the glass, and swallowed half of it in one go. “Shit.” He picked up a beer mat and started to turn it rhythmically between his fingers. “I didn’t expect him to turn up like that. Has he been following me? How did he know where I’d be?”
“I’m sure you can find out, if you want to,” George said.
Alex shook his head. “I don’t want to know.”
“It’s not really a secret that you live here,” George said gently.
“I guess. I was just… really unprepared for that.”
“Did he ever hurt you?”
Alex laughed once, a hard sound, even to his own ears. “He was verbally abusive. That’s only something I’ve been able to see since we broke up. He was very controlling, didn’t like me doing anything on my own, hated it when he didn’t know where I was.”
“Social climber?” George asked with grim humour.
“I don’t know. Maybe? Possibly. I can look back on it now—all that time we spent together—and I’m so fucking angry with myself! I can’t believe I let someone walk all over me like that.”
“Tell me.”
It seemed like a lifetime ago now, though in reality only a little over a year since Alex had escaped Cambridge and re-enrolled at Edinburgh University. The administration there were more than happy to have him and made all the accommodations his family had asked for to ensure his safety. In reality, he enjoyed a greater degree of anonymity here than he ever had in Cambridge. And he liked that.
“I used to really look up to him,” Alex said with a sigh. “He was almost a year older than me, even though we were in the same year at school. He had this confident, arrogant swagger, and I guess that’s appealing. You’ve got it too,” he said, giving George a half grin.
“Not like that I don’t.”
“No offense,” Alex said. “I didn’t mean you’re like him. Just that you’ve got that self-assurance too. You’d be surprised at how many people aren’t comfortable in their own skin.”
George shrugged, then motioned for him to carry on.
“I genuinely don’t think about him that much anymore. Once I walked away, it was like a massive weight was lifted from my shoulders. Like I’d been Alex dialled down to number four for the last two years, then all of a sudden I was Alex at ten again. He’d suppressed so much of me that I barely even noticed him doing it.”
“I can’t stand this wanker,” George said. He sipped his whiskey again. “I w
ant you to know that.”
“Same. I used to leave my phone unlocked all the time so he could check my messages and make sure I wasn’t cheating on him. Though I was never, ever allowed to touch his. He’d freak out if I did. And whenever I accused him of double standards, he said I had something to hide and he didn’t.”
“That doesn’t make sense at all.”
“I know. He had all my passwords to everything—my e-mails, my Facebook account, all of my log-ins for uni. I actually employed a security expert after we broke up to make sure he was blocked from everything and not able to get into my stuff anymore.”
“Why the hell is he back?” George asked.
Alex guessed the question was rhetorical. He shrugged anyway. “His little Romanian sweetheart obviously kicked him out too. I’m actually pleased. Tomas is a nice person. He deserves better than Harrington.”
“Alex, Voldemort deserves better than Harrington.”
He laughed and realised he felt better already. Alex grabbed his glass and knocked back the rest of his drink, shuddering at the liquor burn.
“Can we go do something?” he said, feeling impulsive.
“Of course. Like what?”
Alex thought for a moment. “Do you want to go wander round the museum?” he asked.
The look in George’s eyes told Alex the significance of the location wasn’t lost on him. As far as Alex knew, neither of them had been back there since they bumped into each other at the charity gala.
“Yeah, go on, then,” George said. He grabbed both glasses and took them back to the bar, then rubbed Alex’s arm before they headed back out into the weak afternoon sunlight.
It was early on Sunday morning when George woke, the springs of his awful bed digging into his shoulder, which ached already from the tackle he’d taken during training earlier in the week. His head throbbed delicately, not enough to make him want to take painkillers, but enough to drive him up and off of the uncomfortable mattress.
After a few seconds it became clear what had woken him. Someone downstairs was screaming at someone else. This wasn’t particularly unusual. But at eight o’clock on a Sunday morning it was downright rude.
