Anna Martin's British Boys Box Set: My Prince - The Impossible Boy - Cricket

by Anna Martin

  “Do you still have…?” Stan said as Ben hopped back down and hit the button to close the bus door.

  “Hades?” Ben finished for him, running his hand down Stan’s arm. “Yeah. Of course.”

  Stan smiled inwardly. “Good. That’s good.”

  “I wouldn’t get rid of him.”

  Ben slipped his hand into Stan’s, and they turned away from the bus, away from the venue, down the street to the hotel and blessed solitude.

  The hotel was nicer than Stan had anticipated. It was a chain, which meant he generally had low expectations, but the room was big and the bed was huge, comfortable, with plenty of pillows and a fluffy duvet. It took Stan’s shaking hands three attempts to get the door to open, the red light mocking him while Ben’s hands encircled his waist and his lips made promises on the back of his neck.

  When the door finally flashed green and allowed them entry, Ben dumped his bag on the floor and pushed the deadbolt lock across.

  “I don’t know if I can make this romantic,” he said, the apology clear in his voice. Stan walked backwards towards the bed, kicking off his shoes and unbuttoning his jeans.

  “I don’t need romantic. I need you.”

  “I can give you that.”

  They kicked out of clothes, garments flying around the room while they scrabbled in desperate haste for blessed nudity. Stan cried out as Ben kissed over his collarbone, licked his nipples, then licked up the length of his already straining cock.

  “Please,” Stan murmured, throwing his arm over his head and spreading his legs wide. “Please.”

  “We need…” Ben said, kicking his jeans off the rest of the way, then struggling out of his socks. Stan laughed and palmed his own cock, rubbing his thumb over the leaking head and wondering what on earth about this man made him so deliciously wanton.

  “Got it all,” Stan said. “Right there.”

  It was, too, a box of condoms and Stan’s favourite kind of lube. Ben laughed and reached over, grabbed what he needed, then settled himself between Stan’s legs.

  “Well, aren’t you a sight for sore eyes,” he murmured, rubbing his hands up and down Stan’s legs a few times before leaning in and stealing a kiss.

  “I think about you every day,” Stan said as Ben twisted the top off the lube and smeared a little over Stan’s hole. Then started to stretch him with gently inquisitive fingers. Stan gasped and writhed, and continued his confession. “Sometimes I think about you… you doing this, and I touch myself.”

  “Yeah?” Ben said, his voice low and dangerous. “Show me.”

  It felt like the most natural thing in the world for Stan to wrap his hand around his own cock and stroke it languorously while Ben’s fingers continued to stretch and prep him.

  “I think about you inside me,” Stan said, his eyes squeezed closed, his voice sounding different. “I think about that, and sometimes it makes me—Ah!”

  Ben pulled his fingers free and fumbled with a condom for too long—too long.

  “Roll onto your side for me, baby,” he said.

  “I want it like this.”

  Ben kissed his knee. “I don’t want to hurt you.”

  “You won’t. I’ve been going to yoga classes. I wanted to get more flexible so we could… trust me, please, Ben. I can do it.”

  Leaning in once more, Ben kissed him softly, his gentleness belying the furious need between them.

  “If I hurt you, tell me right away and we’ll shift about, okay?”

  “Yes. Okay. I promise. Please… I’ve been wanting this for so long.”

  It was true. Those times when he touched himself at night, Stan was thinking about lying back, just like this, and looking up into Ben’s beautiful eyes while they made love. The form and function of the sex didn’t really matter, he just wanted to overcome this physical malfunction that made the most intimate part of sex unavailable to them.

  Ben scooped Stan’s legs up and bent him back, almost in half as he guided his own cock into Stan’s waiting body. It was a tight pinch at first, those few moments when the world stopped and the pain was breath-stealing, before the easy slide made everything all right again, and he could do what he’d been dying to do and open his eyes.

  “When will you stop being this beautiful to me?” Ben murmured.

  “I was just thinking the same thing. Oh my God.”

  Stan writhed on the bed, any discomfort in his hips forgotten as Ben started the familiar thrust and grind that defined sex between them. His legs were held high, thighs flush against Ben’s chest, meaning there wasn’t too much pressure on spreading them wide. It made the whole thing easier, and the angle… the angle was perfect for… perfect.

  “I can’t even think straight,” Stan said with a laugh. He reached up and held on to Ben’s strong arms, the biceps straining to hold his own body weight as he moved with painfully slow, even thrusts.

  “Me either. Kiss me, please.”

  It felt more awkward to lean up like this, to try to let their lips do the talking for them. But Stan tried. And it was worth it.

  “I’m okay,” Stan said softly. “I promise. Let go. I want this too.”

  On the next thrust, Ben groaned, a noise that sounded like it had been ripped from his chest and Stan cried out as the head of Ben’s perfect cock hit his prostate at just the right angle. It was messy and loud, and Stan was sure he wasn’t normally the type to be loud during sex.

  Still, Ben made him noisy and unashamed of his body and what it was capable of. This was wicked and delicious—pleasure and pain blending and underneath it all, the safe, undeniable knowledge that Ben loved him.

  “I’m so close,” Ben said, holding himself at the deepest point inside Stan’s body.

  “Let go.”

  Stan watched, fascinated, as Ben rocked his hips a few more times, then threw his head back, a silent scream of pleasure as his cock throbbed and twitched.

  “Oh,” Stan whispered, and the fingers that had been curled around his own cock were suddenly covered with hot, sticky release and the pleasure was bone-deep and muscle-melting.

  While Ben pulled away and threw the condom unceremoniously onto the carpet next to the bed, Stan stretched and found nothing hurt as much as he thought it might. On instinct, he rolled onto his side and pulled his knees up to his chest.

  “Come here,” he said to Ben, who was trying to clean up himself. “We can have a shower in a minute.”

  “Are you okay?” Ben asked as he obligingly curled his body around Stan’s.

  “Yes. I feel… amazing.”

  “Good,” Ben said and kissed Stan’s shoulder as he kicked the duvet up over them both. “That was incredible.”

  “I wanted it for a while, so I had to go and do something about it,” Stan said around a wide yawn.

  “Yoga?”

  “Yes. It increases flexibility while developing body and mind.”

  Ben snorted with laughter, then apologised with kisses. “If it’s working, then I can’t really complain.”

  “It is. They showed me how to stretch the muscles in my thighs and build up the strength there to support the problem with my hips. My bones. Make it better. Sorry, my English is terrible right now.”

  “It’s fine.”

  “You broke my language,” Stan murmured.

  It was beyond reassuring to be held like this again. Their bodies weren’t a perfect fit—Stan was made of too many sharp angles for him to fit neatly against anyone. But Ben had learned how to hold him close without hurting either of them, and it was the perfect position for him to kiss over Stan’s neck, which was probably Stan’s favourite thing in the whole world.

  When Ben took a deep, shaky breath, Stan realised this separation had been as hard on Ben as it had been on him, and Ben probably needed this time as much as Stan did. It was quiet and reassuring. Loving.

  “I love you, Ben,” Stan said, bringing the hand anchored around his waist up to his lips.

  “I love you too.”


  Wasn’t that all that mattered?

  After lying together like that for a little while, Stan dragged Ben out of the bed and into a hot shower, washing away the sweat from the gig and the evidence of their lovemaking. He let Ben wash his hair, fingers working out the knots in the long strands that looked impossibly darker under the water.

  “It’ll take me forever to dry it now,” Stan grouched, even though it was worth it to feel this intimacy again.

  “How long are you staying for?” Ben asked.

  “I have an open ticket back to London. As long as I travel off-peak, I can go whenever.”

  Finally clean, they stumbled back into the bedroom, and Stan produced a bottle of wine to share while he got ready, and Ben turned on the TV.

  “It’s all crap, but I miss watching it,” Ben said, sprawled naked on the bed. “Especially like this.”

  “Not much wandering around naked on the tour bus, then?” Stan teased.

  He’d put on underwear and was sitting at the dressing table working the knots out of his hair, ready to blow-dry it into big, bouncy curls. That was the plan, anyway. In the mirror, Stan watched Ben scratch at his tattooed belly, the sight of the black ink against the white sheets oddly artistic.

  “Too much bloody wandering around naked,” Ben said darkly.

  “Tone?”

  “However did you guess?”

  “I like Tone,” Stan said lightly. “He helped me figure out how to get here.”

  “I can’t decide if I like the surprise, or if I wish I knew you’d be coming.”

  Stan shrugged. “I wanted to surprise you. I would have come out weeks ago, but work has suddenly got so busy, and I had to stay and help.”

  “That’s okay. I know you work hard.”

  While Stan dried and styled his hair, Ben sprawled on the bed and sent text messages back and forth to his friends.

  “They’re in a pub,” Ben said when Stan turned the hairdryer off. “Apparently it’s not far from Canal Street, if that’s where we’re going.”

  “Yes! I want to dance.”

  “I’m not sure I’m much of a dancer,” Ben said with a rueful laugh.

  “That doesn’t matter. You can admire me dancing.”

  Ben grinned, Stan’s stomach fizzed at the sight of his boyfriend so obviously happy.

  They finished most of the bottle of wine, and Stan forced Ben into the bathroom to shave and get dressed, since he was nearly ready and Ben was still naked. It took great conviction for him to be stern when crawling back into bed together and fucking the night away sounded like such an appealing prospect.

  He’d planned this outfit weeks ago, and Stan wriggled into his tight, tight black leather trousers and forced his feet into a pair of very high-heeled, black ankle boots. He didn’t have much time to do his make-up, with how long his hair had taken, so it was the standard base to make do and red lips that emphasised his pout, and a reapplication of the already successful dark, smoky eyeshadow.

  “What do you think?” Stan asked, striking a pose when Ben walked out of the bathroom wearing a variation on his “band T-shirt and black jeans” uniform.

  “Holy crap,” Ben said with a laugh. “Aren’t you missing something?”

  Stan looked down at his bare chest, then winked. “No. It’s very warm out, you know.”

  “You’re going to start a riot,” Ben said, crossing the room and running his hands possessively over Stan’s chest. “You’re as tall as me now.”

  “Mhmm. I like these boots.”

  “Me too. Are you sure you can walk in them?”

  “Of course,” he lied.

  It was getting late, so Stan ushered them both out of the room while Ben was still patting his pockets, checking for his phone, wallet, keys. This wasn’t the night for a handbag, even though his bags were beautiful, and so Stan had been forced to shove his phone in his pocket too, along with a few notes and his ID.

  “Do you know where we’re going, or do we need to get a cab?” Ben asked as they emerged into the soupy summer heat.

  “Honey, I need a taxi. These boots were not made for walking.”

  Ben laughed as he flagged one down and gave the driver directions. In the back seat, they didn’t talk much but held hands over the leather. Ben’s thumb ran back and forth over Stan’s wrist in a warm, soothing gesture.

  When they got to the pub, the others had clearly started without them.

  “Stan!” Tone yelled from across the room. “Stan, my man. Vodka?”

  Stan nodded, grinning stupidly, and gripped Ben’s hand tightly as they wound through the tables to the bar.

  “My man,” Ben corrected him affectionately, and Tone pulled him into a hug. Then planted a wet kiss on Ben’s cheek. “You can get me one too, you bastard.”

  “Watch it,” Stan said, playfully pushing Tone away.

  “Aw, I love you both,” Tone said. “The others are in the corner, if you want to sit down. I’ll bring ’em over.”

  Stan nodded. “Thank you.”

  There weren’t enough chairs for everyone; it was late, and the pub was clearly popular. Ben grumbled and had everyone shift down in the booth until there was room, then tugged Stan onto his lap.

  “Comfy?” he asked, pushing Stan’s hair away to murmur into his ear.

  “Very.”

  Tone returned, carting a ridiculous number of drinks and bottles between his long fingers, then distributed them to the group.

  “Just there, thanks, love,” he said, and a barmaid set down another tray, this one filled with shot glasses.

  “Lord, Tone, what have you bought now?” Jez asked as Tone started passing around glasses.

  “Vodka. To toast our guest.”

  Stan lifted a glass and nodded. “Cheers,” he said and knocked back the shot.

  “Na zdorovje,” Tone said in a surprisingly good attempt at a Russian accent. Stan laughed and shook his head, patting Tone on the arm.

  “Nice try,” Stan told him. “But no.”

  “Slainte,” Summer offered and shuddered as the liquor hit her throat. “Jesus, Tone, are you trying to kill me?”

  “Nope, just get you drunk enough that you’ll let me feel your tits.”

  Summer rolled her eyes and apparently decided she wasn’t going to dignify that with an answer. As Stan returned his shot glass to the tray, Summer grabbed his wrist, holding his hand up to the light.

  “This is pretty,” she said, nodding at the ring Stan still wore on his finger.

  Ben dropped his chin to Stan’s shoulder and squeezed his waist gently.

  “Thank you,” Stan said softly. He took his hand back and ran his thumb over the ring, feeling strangely protective of it and what it symbolised.

  “I can’t believe Ben has such good taste,” Summer continued.

  “Hey,” Ben said, pretending to be annoyed. “I have amazing taste.”

  “Will the bride wear white?” Tone said, leaning back with his pint of cider and grinning at Stan. Stan decided he wasn’t being made fun of, so he responded.

  “I don’t want to wear a dress when I get married, no,” he said. “Probably a pair of very well-cut tuxedo pants… and some ridiculously expensive shirt.”

  Ben grinned. “I wouldn’t expect anything less, darling.”

  “And what will the groom wear?” Summer asked. “You know he doesn’t have any dress sense at all, Stan.”

  “The groom will wear,” Stan said and paused dramatically, turning to Ben to cup his cheek in his hand. “Whatever the bride tells him to.”

  Summer burst into delighted laughter and dropped her head to Geordie’s shoulder. He kissed the top of her head, and Stan guessed their relationship was on again.

  “Are we doing Canal Street, then?” Summer asked, twirling her hair around her finger. “I think it’ll be fun.”

  “Stan wants to dance,” Ben said.

  “Then we shall dance!” she declared grandly. “Which way?”

  “You’re coming?” Ben as
ked as Tone followed them down the street. He nodded sagely.

  “I don’t mind the gays.”

  “Well, I’m sure we’re about to run into plenty of them.”

  “I don’t even know where I want to go first,” Stan said, skipping alongside them, managing to stay upright by sheer luck alone as he stumbled in his heels. “Not bars, though. I want to go to a club.”

  “We might not get in anywhere,” Ben said. “It’s late.”

  When Stan almost tripped again, Tone swept him up and on to his own back, made warning noises about dagger heels near his balls, and kept Stan in a secure piggyback as they negotiated the cobbled streets.

  “They’ll let me in,” Stan said confidently. “Do they not know who I am?”

  “You’re a drunk Russian with the best legs in Britain,” Tone teased.

  “Indeed. They should be honoured to have me in their establishment.”

  As expected, the line outside the club was huge, but seemed to be moving fairly quickly. Jez and Geordie peeled off, heading in the vague direction of the bus, and Summer shouted obscenities at them until they disappeared out of sight. Ben managed to grab a bottle of water from a street vendor and pressed it into Stan’s hands, begging him to drink.

  “I get drunk quickly,” Stan said mournfully. “I am a disgrace to my country.”

  Ben kissed him. It was a gentle kiss, sweet and reassuring. Stan smiled into it, reaching up to cup Ben’s cheek.

  “Come on, you’re holding everyone up,” Summer grouched, but she was smiling when Stan looked down at her. “You could be a supermodel, you know,” she added.

  Stan shrugged. “I could,” he said. “But I don’t want to be.”

  “Why not?”

  Stan gulped his cold water and felt some of the drunken haze lift from behind his eyes.

  “I know I work in fashion, but there are a lot of things wrong with the industry. I love that some photographers are using androgynous models and playing with those perceptions of what male and female ‘should’ look like. There’s always a cost, though.”

  “Like what?” Summer asked.

  She never got an answer—they reached the front of the line, and Stan got leered at by the staff at the door of the club.