Romancing the Ugly Duckling

by Clare London

  Perry made a snuffling noise into Greg’s neck.

  Sudden, vivid excitement washed over Greg, tugging at his morning wood, which was already raring to go. He reached blindly behind him, wanting to grab Perry’s hip but managing a handful of thigh instead. Perry obviously slept higher on the pillow than Greg did. Which gave him a new and mischievous inspiration. He eased his way out from under Perry and inched farther down the bed. Perry’s smooth chest was warm, the skin soft with sleep, and the piercing rolled gently in his nipple as Greg slid down over it. Perry’s navel dipped as his stomach muscles clenched: there was a tiny, stray white feather from the duvet caught in his pubic hair.

  Greg sighed with what he suspected was true, unalloyed happiness. He didn’t actually know, because the closest he’d ever come was on days when he was out on the loch or on a solitary walk with Rory. One day he’d like to share that comparison with Perry, if only to see Perry’s grin and rolling eyes in return….

  Perry snuffled again and Greg anchored a gentle hand on his hip to keep him still. Then he slid his mouth over Perry’s limp, soft dick and licked. No response. Smiling to himself, he thought it was a treat for him to suck Perry off regardless of Perry’s attention. The skin was smooth and the sheath creased up on his tongue as he moved slowly up and down its length. It tasted of…. Perry, of course. What did he expect? Honey and strawberries? That made him chuckle, and the vibration obviously alerted Perry, who suddenly went unnaturally still.

  Greg took another long, lascivious lick. His beard brushed against Perry’s balls on the up stroke. They shifted inside the sac, coming alive with the stimulus. Perry’s cock began to swell. Soon Greg wouldn’t be able to take it all in his mouth: he’d never mastered that deep-throat thing. He wondered briefly if Perry had. He was slightly startled at Perry’s knowledge and experience of these things, judging by last night. Such a delicate little chap he was, but with such a huge sexual appetite, and a cheeky, filthy mouth when he was properly distracted….

  Perry groaned and kicked the duvet off his feet.

  Greg pushed it fully off the side of the bed so they both lay uncovered. “Good morning,” he mumbled around his mouthful.

  “Already?” Perry sighed, his voice still thick with sleep but with a thread of laughter awakening in it. “Are you sure?”

  Greg chuckled again, so that Perry sucked in a breath and moaned with pleasure at the sensation. Then he began sucking Perry off in earnest.

  Perry arched above Greg like a beautiful sea creature. For a man who professed such a love/hate relationship with the sea, he moved with all its grace and sensuousness. The climax built gradually but strongly—Greg could feel Perry’s leg muscles tense up either side of Greg’s head—and then Perry reached down and snatched a handful of Greg’s hair.

  “Oh” was all he said, half a word, half a blissful sigh.

  Yes. Greg didn’t even speak it aloud. The way he and Perry were rocking together in rhythm, it was as if they communicated without words. His own cock was thrusting against the sheet below, seeking attention but, in a perverse way, enjoying the suspense.

  Perry came at last—though Greg could have continued for hours, whether or not his jaw would have locked in protest in the end—and Greg swallowed him down gratefully. They didn’t speak, but the relief and pleasure seeped through both their bodies. Perry collapsed on the mattress, and Greg climbed back up the bed to lie beside him. He slung an arm around Perry’s shoulders and kissed him firmly. He wasn’t letting Perry either go back to sleep or get out of bed just yet. Not least because he still had a hard-on to rival a tentpole.

  Then Perry snuffled—though how could he, when Greg had his mouth on him, kissing his breath away? Realization struck like a pair of sheep shears dropped on his toe, and Greg groaned aloud. “Oh Jesus!”

  Perry’s mouth opened but now in surprise. “What? What’s happened?”

  Greg flung himself across the foot of the bed and hung his head over the edge. Perry followed him. They both stared down at the floor where two bright eyes looked up at them, twinkling in the pale morning light.

  “Rory,” Greg said weakly. “I forgot to put his basket out.”

  “He usually sleeps with me,” Perry said thoughtfully. “I mean, in the spare room. It was his room before mine, right?”

  “That’s true.” Greg looked across at Perry. “Did you move him in here last night?”

  Perry raised his eyebrows. “Did I…? When do you think I had time to do that? You were manhandling me from the minute we reached the front door.”

  Greg started grinning. He liked that word: manhandling. It was a perfect description. Actually, it was something he ought to spend more time practicing. He trailed a hand absently along Perry’s bare side.

  “So how did he—and his basket—get in here?” Perry looked bemused. “Did he drag it in himself?”

  “He could if he wanted. He’s strong and canny.” Bemusement was a good look on Perry, Greg thought, though any look would be good on him. The best one of all, of course, was the twist of shocked ecstasy on his face when he came—

  Rory barked and wagged his tail, eyes on Greg.

  “He’s a dirty voyeur,” Greg said, glaring back. “Bad dog!”

  “You think he wanted to watch?” Perry didn’t seem upset. In fact his eyes were alight with mischief. “Wow. What a pervert.”

  Greg started laughing, loudly and carelessly. He rolled back onto the bed, splayed out. Seconds later, Perry slid over his body, also laughing, reaching to kiss Greg’s mouth, his cock brushing a damp trail all the way up Greg’s naked thigh.

  “Looks like you’ll soon be ready for the next showing,” Greg murmured, missing Perry’s mouth because of laughing too much, but not missing the chance to grab a handful of Perry’s gorgeous arse.

  Perry arched against him, his piercing catching the tip of Greg’s nipple with a cool, metallic flip. “Maybe just some messing about. Your last blowjob pulled me inside out, and I need some recovery time.” He shuddered happily and wriggled his hips. “Maybe it’s your turn to suffer.”

  Greg sucked in a sharp breath, and his cock hardened even more against his thigh.

  “But we’d better make it good,” Perry whispered against Greg’s ear, reaching down to cup Greg’s balls. “Now we’ve got an audience!”

  Chapter Twenty-Two

  PERRY’S trips to the village shop were always a treasure trove of who he’d meet, who he’d confuse, and who would confuse him in return. Greg had been very perceptive when he accused Perry of staying to gossip, which he did more often than not. But Perry assumed the morning after the ceilidh—that was, the morning after the night after the ceilidh—was going to be an extra special challenge. So he was pleasantly surprised when, after breakfast, Greg insisted on coming with him.

  “I can get the shopping on my own, you know,” Perry said. “Or phone it in. Dougie will box it up and bring it along to the croft later today.” He couldn’t miss the big grin on Greg’s face. “What’s so funny?”

  “You. Getting comfortable with the village routine.”

  Greg’s grin didn’t ease up. He seemed a different, much happier person this morning. He’d gazed at Perry all during breakfast and nearly fell over Rory, trying to fetch Perry’s coffee for him so Perry didn’t have to get up from his chair in the middle of eating his muesli. The more cynical London Perry would have written it off as the amazing effect of a good shag on a man’s mood. But then Greg caught hold of Perry as he ambled across the kitchen to fetch more shopping bags and pulled him onto his lap for a deep, long, and heartfelt kiss.

  Perry abandoned his cynicism, along with his inhibitions, and just enjoyed it.

  “We could go back to bed,” Greg murmured. He wriggled his hands sneakily down the back of Perry’s trousers.

  “No fishing there,” Perry said, laughing. His groin was keen, but his slightly fragile arse needed time to recover. “Let’s get the shopping done and prepare lunch, and then—”


  “Then?” Greg waggled his eyebrows like he was a cartoon voyeur on a seaside postcard.

  Perry’s laughter increased. “Then… we’ll see.”

  “Okay. But the sooner we go, the sooner we can come back.” Greg leaped up from his chair. “Where did I leave the car keys?”

  “You sure you don’t want to stay here? I can walk to the shop. After all, you don’t much like shopping.”

  “I want to go with you,” Greg said, with a daft look in his eye that implied he’d probably follow blindly even if Perry suggested a ramble up Ben Nevis before lunch.

  And guess what? Despite embracing what he knew was an alarmingly seductive risk—after all, when had a holiday romance ever worked out well?—Perry felt entirely the same. He’d make the most of this, for as long as he had with Greg. Why wouldn’t he? He hadn’t felt this happy and relaxed for a long, long time.

  He watched the man of the moment moving confidently around the kitchen, gathering up bags and the list of shopping necessities that Perry now encouraged him to keep, and even whistling under his breath….

  Greg. Wonderful, honest, argumentative, antisocial, sexy Greg.

  Perry’s heart constricted. So maybe he was seeing things through the Good Shag Goggles as well, but he doubted that was the sole reason for the leap in his chest when he saw Greg, or the happiness always bubbling under his banter, or the shiver of pleasure he felt when Greg touched him, even in passing. A seductive risk, eh? Just a holiday romance? Perry hid his sigh and the nausea churning in his gut, knowing it was already too late.

  I’ve really got it bad. It was what he’d said to himself last night.

  It was totally, increasingly true.

  THE shop wasn’t busy, but Bridie waved to Perry as he entered, her eyes dancing with an enthusiastic mix of “good morning,” “tell me the damn news before I explode with curiosity,” and “wait a minute, I’m at work here.”

  “I’ll just serve young Fiona,” she called, “and then I’ll be with you, Perry.”

  “No rush,” he said. Greg drifted off to look at a selection of fishing gear, while Perry stood patiently by the counter, browsing through the new selection of style magazines Bridie had ordered in this week. From Bridie’s comment, he assumed that young Fiona was the little girl skipping between the aisles, headed for the counter. She looked about seven years old. The basket over her arm was too big for her to carry comfortably, but she seemed proud to be in charge of it. It was currently filled with some packets of porridge oats, a chocolate bar, and a plastic bag of knitting yarn. On top of them was a long, thin, cloth doll in a well-worn and probably well-loved knitted dress.

  Bridie sold yarn from a large basket over in one corner of the shop, with a selection of knitting patterns and needles. Perry glanced over Fiona’s dark curly head and saw a tall, angular woman sorting through the bags of wool, obviously looking for something in particular. She was in her sixties, at least, and with strong, striking looks. Her gray hair was styled well, and as far as Perry could see from this distance—and without peering rudely—her skin was healthily freckled around the natural wrinkles. She wore trousers and a sensible pair of walking boots, but the design of her sweater was an astonishingly bright blend of turquoise and lilac diamond shapes.

  As Perry hovered longingly over the display of chocolate—he reckoned all this fresh air counteracted calories, didn’t it?—Fiona wriggled past him. He smiled at her. “That’s a wonderful yarn in your basket. Is it for an Argyll sweater?”

  Fiona nodded. She looked Perry up and down, her eyes growing so large they looked like they’d pop out of her head. “Grannie will knit it for Grampy. Grannie knitted Emily’s dress too. See?” She waved her doll under Perry’s nose. “Grannie knits the best in the village.”

  “I should think so,” Perry said with another smile. “Intarsia isn’t a technique everyone can master.”

  Out of the corner of his eye, he registered the older woman by the yarn basket lifting her head, but she didn’t turn around. “Is this one of Grannie’s?” Perry placed a reverent finger on the shoulder of Fiona’s sweater cardigan. It was a marvelously complex design on a relatively small garment: a mix of heather-colored diamonds with pale pink threads running through them. “I love the traditional Argyll pattern,” Perry said softly and admiringly. “This one has a wonderfully childlike style.”

  “Are ye calling me a child?”

  He jumped. The old woman’s voice was surprisingly robust. She’d crept up on Perry without him even noticing. Greg appeared at his other shoulder, also rather suddenly, clutching a bait box like a shield to his chest.

  “Perry?” Greg said warningly. “You haven’t yet met—”

  Perry ignored him. He wasn’t intimidated: not this morning and—the way he currently felt—possibly not ever again. “Certainly not,” he said to the woman. “I meant your design has a unique charm to it that I haven’t seen anywhere in the fuddy-duddy old men’s sweaters and socks they wear around here.”

  “Oh my God” came Greg’s mutter. Perry knew that despairing tone. Greg had probably closed his eyes too.

  “That’ll be right, will it?” the woman said drily. “They’re all my designs as well.”

  Perry winced a little. But he lived on this planet too, didn’t he? He had a right to his opinions and his advice. Maybe the “in crowd” in Uist wasn’t the same as in London, but in his opinion, everyone wanted to look good. Always. Wherever they lived, whatever money they had, whatever their personal style. Though when someone cleared his throat in the background, Perry wondered whether Greg Ventura would prove the exception to that rule.

  “Everyone’s entitled to their own taste,” he said soothingly. “I’m sure many wouldn’t like my choice of clothing either”—he ignored Fiona’s spontaneous giggle—“but the important thing is we all feel good in ourselves, right?”

  The woman blinked as if trying to translate a foreign language. Her accent was strong, but Perry had heard worse. He was sure she’d understood him in return.

  “Grannie!” Fiona plucked at her elbow. “Bridie’s packed up all the shopping for me and Emily. Can we go?”

  The woman smiled at Fiona absentmindedly. She never took her eyes off Perry. “You ken knitting?” she asked him.

  “I…?”

  “You have enough opinions on it, wee lad. I’d expect ye t’ be more than passing the time o’ day.”

  Oh good God. He thought he knew what she meant. “Yes, I know all about it. In fact, I do a fair bit of knitting myself at home. In London, that is.” The woman’s nose wrinkled at the mention of the city, as if it were a bad smell she didn’t have time to clean up. “I’ve run a few designs through Camden Market, hoping to get noticed by a fashion buyer.”

  The woman raised her eyebrows in query. Fiona giggled again.

  “No, nothing sold yet,” Perry said grudgingly. “But nothing ventured, eh?” He felt warmth behind him and knew Greg had moved closer. He was startled at how good that felt.

  “He’s a designer, Aileen,” Greg said. “He works for a prestigious London media firm.”

  His breath brushed past Perry’s ear, and Perry had to swallow his instinctive moan.

  “If ’twere that prestigious, Greg, lad, he’d have shown a clean pair o’ heels back t’ the mainland before now. He has his reasons for stayin’, I guess.”

  What did she guess? Perry was torn between turning around to catch Greg’s expression and staying fixed on the woman’s. He didn’t think he should show weakness at this critical stage of the confrontation.

  “But mebbe it’s not the prestige ye both find attractive,” she said, more gently. Perry may have been mistaken, but that certainly looked like a twinkle in her eye, despite now fixing her steely gaze on Greg.

  “Aileen,” Greg said. His voice sounded breathless. “It was good to see you, but isn’t Cameron waiting for you in the car?”

  “Grampy!” Fiona squealed and dashed out of the shop.

  “Wait!” Pe
rry cried, panicking for her safety, but at the last minute he spotted a large off-road vehicle parked outside. As he watched, Fiona ran to it with obvious familiarity. When he looked back, Aileen whoever-she-was was peering at him with an odd expression on her face.

  “She’s a lively one, isn’t she?” Perry said cheerily. He was damn sure that sigh behind him meant Greg had closed his eyes again.

  “Aye,” Aileen said. “A real handful.” She glanced over Perry’s shoulder at Greg, then back to Perry. “Her Grampy spoils her, I’m afraid t’ say.”

  She laid her yarn choices on the counter, waiting for Bridie to parcel them up. The shop door chimed again, and Perry turned to see an old man swagger in. He wore a kilt, the proper socks—Perry couldn’t remember what they were called, though several people at the ceilidh had spent time trying to explain the Highland dress to him—and a smart overcoat.

  Greg stepped out from behind Perry and faced the new customer.

  How interesting. Perry wondered who the old man was, to merit this acknowledgment.

  “Greg.” The man’s voice was gravelly but firm.

  “Cameron.” Greg nodded back. He looked a little pale.

  “I’ll be a moment,” Aileen said to the man who was presumably… her husband? Perry found with delight they were the perfect example of when a married couple ends up looking like each other. The same gray hair, broad shoulders, and tight mouth. The steely glint was common too.