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

by Anna Martin

  The windows in his attic room were thrown open wide to let what little breeze existed float through, but the air seemed stagnant as it too waited for the storm. When he decided he couldn’t possibly wait another moment, he pulled on his sneakers and headed for the back door.

  As he pushed it open, another sound layered over that of the night.

  Henry crept out and leaned over the small balcony. Ryan was sitting on the back porch in one of the deep chairs he kept out there, a guitar on his lap and Hulk at his feet.

  His fingers stole over the strings, picking out one melody at a time, sometimes blending one song that Henry recognised into another, sometimes playing a tune he’d never heard before.

  Their relationship was still undefined. They’d moved past that of landlord and tenant, and he was confident in referring to Ryan as his friend. But there was still that afternoon in the kitchen at the back of his mind, and Paul’s words, and he was left not really knowing where he stood.

  It felt voyeuristic to stand on the balcony and listen, watching and waiting for a signal that it was maybe a good time to start descending the stairs. But the longer he waited, the more it felt like an intrusion.

  In the end, Henry crept back into his room and shut the door, then headed through the house to leave by the more often used kitchen door. He flicked the lights on in the kitchen as he passed through, a signal, if Ryan wanted it, to stop playing.

  When he crossed through the mudroom and out onto the deck, Ryan was still sitting, still playing, still watching the night.

  “You can see for miles out here,” Henry murmured without thinking.

  Ryan hummed in agreement, his fingers not stilling over the strings. “It’s nice. Especially on nights like tonight.”

  “Do you think it’s gonna rain?”

  “It might.”

  Henry laughed softly, under his breath.

  “Probably not,” Ryan amended and finally set the guitar aside. “The weather forecast says this will probably break tomorrow. I hope it does. Working in this weather is disgusting.”

  “It’s not so bad,” Henry said, leaning back against the rail that ran around the outside of the deck. “I spent a few weeks in Georgia last summer when one of my friends got married, and the heat down there was awful. Well, it was the humidity more than the heat.”

  Ryan nodded. He reached under his deck chair and pulled out a bottle of gin.

  “I thought you said it wasn’t ready yet,” Henry said, smiling.

  “This is one from last year. The last bottle from last year, actually. Want some?”

  “Hell yeah.”

  “There are tumblers in the kitchen,” Ryan said. “I’m not getting up.”

  Henry rolled his eyes but went back into the kitchen to collect a glass. They hadn’t really had a chance to speak since their post-gin-tasting argument, and he couldn’t help but think that more alcohol probably wasn’t the solution to their communication problems.

  There was so much Henry wanted to say, but didn’t dare to for fear of the power his words held. Ryan needed space and time, and living on top of each other didn’t afford them either of those luxuries.

  Back out on the deck, Henry let Ryan pour a generous measure of gin into his glass, unsure of whether they were mixing it with anything. The colour told him this was sloe gin, the rich, deep purple suggesting it had been brewed for a long time.

  “It’s good,” Henry said after taking a sip, resuming his position leaning against the deck, his elbows propped up behind him.

  “I know.”

  Henry didn’t want to ask how much Ryan had already had to drink. He didn’t feel like it was any of his business. The way Ryan was looking at him, though, like those eyes were studying him rather than just watching—that was all up in his business, even from six feet away. Henry looked away, to anywhere else, and eventually turned around completely to lean out into the night.

  “I came out to Nell,” he said softly, not sure why Ryan needed to hear that.

  “Oh? What did she say?”

  “Apparently one of her brothers was gay. Spent his life living with another man, right here in the village.”

  “Wow,” Ryan said softly. Nothing passed between them for long moments, until Ryan spoke again. “Are you telling me this for a reason?”

  “No,” Henry said, and despite his best efforts, he was unable to keep the edge of defensiveness from his voice. “It’s just conversation.”

  Henry downed his glass of gin, set it aside, and bit his tongue. He wanted another but wasn’t about to ask.

  He felt the air move as Ryan stood and took the few steps that covered the distance between them. Out of the corner of his eye, he watched as his glass was once again filled with purple liquor.

  Ryan set the bottle down and, to Henry’s surprise, stepped in closer. Barely daring to move, to breathe, Henry waited. Eventually, Ryan’s hands came to rest on his hips, not even sexually, but Henry leaned back into the touch, letting him know it was okay. After a moment, Ryan leaned forward, and his head came to rest on the back of Henry’s shoulder. It was nice, a comforting sort of hug rather than anything particularly erotic, although Henry was well aware of how big a step it was for Ryan to initiate this kind of connection.

  When Ryan sighed deeply, Henry reached for one of his hands, dragged an arm around his stomach, and held it there. This was a step toward the intimacy he was craving… another tiny baby step.

  “Henry,” Ryan started, then faltered and let the sentence trail off.

  “Hmm?”

  “I don’t know.”

  He tried to pull away, but Henry held tight to his wrist, wanting to keep the connection, hoping by the fact he wasn’t looking at Ryan that the other man might, maybe, open up a little bit.

  When Ryan closed the gap between them again, he went a step further, curving his chest around Henry’s spine, pressing their bodies together. Henry was suddenly hyperaware that his ass was now neatly lined up to Ryan’s groin, although a cursory, explorative wriggle suggested there was no erection pressing into his ass cheek… which was a pity. Still—baby steps.

  “I don’t know what I’m doing,” Ryan admitted to the back of Henry’s neck.

  Henry suppressed a shiver. “Neither do I.”

  Ryan’s snort of amusement sent a puff of air across Henry’s skin. This time he did shiver.

  “No, really,” Henry said. “I’m breaking all the rules with you.”

  “There are rules?”

  Straightening and turning should have caused Ryan’s arms to become dislodged, but somehow they both managed to rearrange themselves, Ryan now holding on to the balcony in a strange echo of their position in the kitchen. When they’d kissed. And it had all gone wrong. Henry forced those thoughts from his mind.

  “Yeah, there are rules,” he said.

  “Can I hear them?”

  “You won’t like them.”

  “I want to know.”

  Henry sighed and took a large swallow of his gin.

  “I don’t usually date guys who are more than ten years older than me—”

  “I’m not!” Ryan interrupted.

  “I know that. I’m just telling you the rules. I don’t date guys more than ten years older than me. I don’t date men who are bisexual. I don’t date guys who are in the closet, and I won’t get involved with someone who is already in a relationship with someone else.”

  Ryan frowned, and Henry resisted the temptation to run his thumb over his forehead, smoothing out the lines.

  “Why?”

  “Because I’ve been in all those situations before,” Henry said gently. “And they all ended up with me being badly hurt.”

  “Oh. I suppose that makes sense.”

  “But,” Henry said quickly, before Ryan could come to any conclusions, “you make me want to break the rules.”

  He didn’t miss the way Ryan’s breath hitched or the way his eyes flicked down to Henry’s lips and back to meet his gaze. Ther
e was no way Henry was going to make the first move this time. If Ryan wanted a kiss, he was going to have to go in and get it for himself.

  There was hesitation there, though, too much. Too much fear, and Henry understood, he really did, but Ryan needed to learn how to find what he wanted in a constructive way, not through cruising apps and strange, misguided come-ons.

  “Could I kiss you?”

  “Yeah. I think I’d like that.”

  Unlike their last kiss, this one was whisper soft. Ryan still looked confused, hesitant as he slowly closed the space between them and brushed his lips over Henry’s, waiting for a response before pressing deeper.

  He tasted of gin and cigarettes, his lips warm and dry, and Henry could feel Ryan’s erratic heartbeat through the thin fabric of his shirt. He wanted more than this, to feel everything they could be together, but he settled for this for now, waiting for more, waiting to see what Ryan would initiate.

  They lay on their backs on the blanket from the sofa, most of the bottle of gin now gone and the sky clear enough to count all of the billions of stars, if they only had time enough before dawn would chase them away.

  Henry was pretty sure he was drunk, but he hadn’t moved in quite some time, and the thought of sitting up to test this theory didn’t appeal to him in the slightest. After the kiss, The Kiss as he would now think of it, one of the best kisses he’d ever had, they’d broken apart, smiled bashfully at each other, and resumed their gin drinking.

  A lot of gin drinking.

  The last time he’d checked, it was close to two in the morning, plenty of the night left to do things with, if he could only think of something better to do than lie here with Ryan’s warmth next to him.

  They’d discussed everything. Everything that mattered. Their childhoods, their parents, their siblings (and lack thereof, in Henry’s case), school, friends, death, philosophy, religion, politics, literature, music, children, cricket. Henry was now much more up to date with how hot Stuart Broad was. Not that he knew what Stuart Broad looked like, but according to Ryan, he was hot.

  They had moved on to sex.

  “So,” Ryan said, waving his glass demonstratively, and dangerously, above himself. “How the fuck do you figure out who does what?”

  “What do you mean? You just do what you want to do.”

  He was definitely drunk.

  “No. No. I mean, like, who does the fucking and who does the… being fucked.”

  Henry laughed. “Well, some men have a preference and some don’t. Actually, most men have a preference, but a lot more are fairly flexible.”

  “You mean they can put their ankles over their head?”

  “No, well, yes, that’s a very useful talent, but they don’t mind switching it up.”

  “What do you prefer?”

  Ryan turned his head, which was pillowed on his arm, and fixed Henry with a compelling stare.

  “That’s a very personal question,” Henry mumbled, feeling his face flush against his will. Why was he blushing? There was no need to blush.

  “I’m sorry.”

  “Don’t be.” He grunted in frustration. “I suppose I’m flexible… to a point. I wouldn’t point-blank refuse to top, but I don’t really have any particular desire to do it.”

  “So… you’re a fuck-ee, not a fucker.”

  “If you like.” Henry laughed. “We generally use the terms ‘bottom’ and ‘top’.”

  “Good to know.”

  “Don’t you even watch gay porn?”

  It was Ryan’s turn to blush. “Not really. Sometimes. Not very often, though.”

  “Why not?”

  He shrugged awkwardly. “It doesn’t really turn me on.”

  “You need to watch better porn,” Henry muttered.

  They were quiet for a while, looking at the stars again, these breaks in conversation now calm and reflective.

  “Is it bad that I don’t know stuff?” Ryan asked. “About sex. With another guy.”

  “No,” Henry said honestly. “No one really knows anything until they get told. Or someone shows you.”

  “Like… I want to have sex with you. Maybe. If you want that too.”

  Laughing, Henry turned his head to look at him. “Alcohol really makes you stupid, doesn’t it?” he teased.

  “Shut up. What I was trying to say is… I don’t really know what to do. To make it good for you.”

  “I can show you,” Henry said, more gently now. “If you’re happy to take it slowly, then things are generally a lot better for everyone involved. Take your time, enjoy it, you can’t go far wrong.”

  Ryan nodded. “What about blow jobs?”

  “What about them?”

  “I’ve never done that before.”

  Henry reached out and found his hand. “Honey, I am more than happy to show you how to do it.”

  Ryan smacked him on the arm, which was the response that Henry had secretly been hoping for in the first place.

  “I’m just scared, you know? Of hurting you.”

  “I haven’t agreed to it yet.” He was teasing again, and earned himself another smack on the arm. This one hurt a bit, and he complained accordingly, happy when Ryan leaned over to kiss the tender skin.

  Then Ryan’s eyes darkened. Even in the poor light spilling out from the kitchen, Henry could see how something in his expression changed. He was probably one of the least predatory men Henry had ever seen, except in that moment. Henry swallowed, and Ryan’s mouth came down slowly and captured Henry’s lips in a slow, achingly slow kiss that ended with a not too gentle bite to his bottom lip.

  A raw sound was dragged from Henry’s throat, and Ryan’s expression changed to one of amusement. He kept himself propped up with one hand, and, as he leaned in for another kiss, his fingers deftly worked each button on Henry’s shirt undone.

  It felt like it was happening to another person as Henry lay back on the blanket and allowed himself to be thoroughly kissed. Ryan’s hand sprawled wide on his chest, and he was sure Ryan could feel the thumping of his heart. There was no reason why he should be this turned on from just a kiss. Just a kiss, for heaven’s sake. He’d done so much more than just kiss in his life, and that was a conversation he’d have to have with Ryan at some point. He was no angel. But for now, these kisses were every erotic feeling he’d ever had, all boiled down into one moment.

  When Ryan pulled away again, Henry allowed himself another little moan.

  “I want,” Ryan whispered, right into Henry’s ear, then ran his tongue around the shell and bit his earlobe. “I want to know what it feels like to be inside you.”

  Henry smiled. “I want to know that too. Do you want to go find out?”

  While Henry waited for an answer, Ryan’s hand roamed over his chest, stroking gently with fingertips, then with a palm pressed flat over his skin.

  “Yes,” he said eventually. “But not tonight.”

  “Okay,” Henry said, more than a little disappointed.

  “Only because I think I’m drunk. And I might not perform very well.”

  Henry snorted with laughter. Then, after realising how good that felt, he let out a full belly laugh. After a moment, Ryan decided to join him, and they ended up curled together, Ryan’s head on Henry’s bare chest, his arm around Henry’s body, holding him close.

  It was nice, Henry decided, being able to hold someone like this. It wasn’t something he did very often. He pressed a kiss to the top of Ryan’s head and took a deep breath, inhaling the scent of his hair.

  “Soon, though, yeah?”

  “Yes,” Ryan said, his warm breath fanning over Henry’s collarbones. “Soon.”

  They decided to head to bed not long after, locking up the house and returning the blanket to the back of the sofa. At the top of the stairs, Henry hesitated, then leaned into Ryan for another slow, sweet kiss. All of Ryan’s kisses were sweet. Henry doubted he knew any other way to kiss.

  “I want you to come to bed with me,” Ryan murmured.
/>   Henry groaned. “Shit. Shit. Honey, if I come to bed with you we will have sex. And you’re right—that isn’t a good idea. Not tonight.”

  He dropped his forehead down to press against Ryan’s shoulder and sighed.

  “Okay.” Ryan gently lifted Henry’s chin with his fingertips and kissed him again—no tongues. Not this time. “I’ll see you tomorrow. Good night.”

  “’Night, Ryan.”

  That walk up to his own bed was one of the most difficult things he’d had to do in a long time, mostly because of the aching erection he was now sporting. There was a huge temptation to turn himself around and head right back downstairs, slip into Ryan’s bed and direct him to resume his position curled around Henry’s body. He wasn’t lying, though, when he’d said it wasn’t a good idea. Not if they were going to keep their hands off each other.

  Henry contemplated jerking off in the shower again, caught sight of the time displayed in blinking red light on his alarm clock, and decided against it. He needed to get some sleep. Henry peeled off his clothes, decided to sleep in just his boxers, and settled himself under the duvet. He was pretty sure he was about to be plagued with hours of erotic dreams.

  Chapter Twelve

  Sometimes on a Saturday, as work on the house entered its final stage, some of Scott’s team would work overtime for a few hours in the morning. They were almost always done by three, in time to head to the pub to spend their earnings and watch sports on the big screen, or home to their families, or to go and enjoy the summer evenings.

  Henry didn’t need to be there to supervise, but he liked seeing things being finished, to tick them off of his list.

  When he arrived at the front door of the farmhouse, he could feel the back of his neck starting to burn, just a little bit. The sun wasn’t blazing hot but warm enough, and there was a light sheen of sweat on his lower back. He could feel it sticking his skin to his shirt.

  “Ryan, I’m home,” he called out as he shut the door behind him, grateful for the cool darkness inside the house. There was no response. Henry dumped his keys, bag, toed off his shoes, and wandered through to the living room.