Must Love Christmas (Glasgow Lads on Ice)

by Avery Cockburn

  “Promise?”

  “Promise. And don’t worry, I’ll not let all your readiness go to waste.” He sat back and spread Simon’s legs, then his cheeks. The room was too dim for him to find his way by sight, but his fingers soon found the slick space of Simon’s arse. He slid one inside, discovering him warm and supple. “You weren’t kidding about being ready.”

  “Told you.” Simon tilted up his hips. “Let me know if you change your mind about not fucking me.”

  “I will. Meanwhile…” He added another finger, curling them deeper inside. “Just take what I can give you.”

  Simon let his head fall back on the pillow, and down below, he yielded further. Garen watched his face, memorizing every reaction to his touch, every gasp and quiver, building into moans and shudders until at last he pleaded, “Suck me, Garen. Make me come.”

  Garen obeyed, trying to match the rhythm of his mouth to that of his hand. Simon’s hips began to pump, and soon he came fast and hard, almost snarling Garen’s name.

  His breath slowing, Simon opened his eyes and spied Garen’s resurrected erection. “Oh no, what shall we do about that?”

  “I’ve got an idea.” Garen lay down on his side facing Simon, who turned toward him. Then he took Simon’s right hand—the steadier one—and folded it around his cock. “Hold that, please.”

  “And what else?”

  “Kiss me the way you do, the way that turns me inside out.”

  Simon smiled, then moved forward and brought his lips to Garen’s. As their tongues caressed each other, Garen moved his hips, gently fucking Simon’s fist. The silky friction of his own foreskin sent shudders of delight up his spine.

  “This won’t take long,” he whispered into Simon’s mouth. “You’re too delicious.”

  He kept up the slow, steady thrusts, the pleasure humming throughout his body. When Simon took his lower lip between his teeth, Garen moaned, feeling his cock swell at its base and his balls begin to tighten and rise. He didn’t quicken his pace—didn’t need to—but let the heat and pressure of Simon’s grip transport him to a higher level.

  “Yeah,” Simon murmured. “Come for me, Garen.” He feasted on Garen’s upper lip, flicking his tongue inside. “Come for me.”

  It was so simple, so…basic, a single hand and a single mouth, and yet it was one of the hottest things Garen had ever experienced. He came and came, clinging to Simon’s shoulders, anchoring himself to Simon’s hip with one clutching, jerking leg.

  Then he just drew closer and breathed against Simon’s skin, for once having no words, and no need for words.

  How can I be worthy of this? he wondered. The weight of it seemed to squeeze Garen’s chest until he could barely inhale. This trust, this faith, this…thing that feels like love.

  No matter what it took, no matter what he had to do, Garen would find a way to keep it.

  Chapter 17

  12 Days Until Christmas

  “How was your second day telecommuting?” Garen asked as Simon arranged everything they needed to make gingerbread dough, lining up ingredients and tools on the kitchen worktop in the proper order.

  “As frustrating as the first.” Simon wondered why Garen even needed to ask, as he’d checked in via text five times during the day to see how Simon was doing—six, including the time he’d sent a panicky follow-up message when Simon hadn’t replied after thirty seconds. Even Simon’s mother had never been so hyper-solicitous about his condition. “Would you break the eggs, please? I’m afraid I’ll smash them to bits.”

  “Of course.” Garen tugged an elastic band from around his wrist and used it to tie his hair atop his head, creating the same sandy topknot as on the day they met. It made him look simultaneously older and younger, like a cross between a toddler and a mountaintop guru. Simon couldn’t wait to loosen it later and watch that glorious mane fall to frame Garen’s face.

  “Fair warning,” Simon said. “I’ve never actually made a gingerbread house.” His parents weren’t fans of leaving food out where it might attract mice. “So this might be a disaster.”

  “I have complete faith in you.” Garen stood on his tiptoes and kissed Simon’s cheek. “Besides, it doesn’t need to be perfect as long as we have fun.”

  “Right.” Simon tried and failed to imagine the fun in a lopsided gingerbread house.

  He whisked the dry ingredients together in the mixing bowl—slowly, so as to minimize his arm’s clumsiness. Garen was too busy breaking eggs and singing Mariah Carey’s “All I Want for Christmas is You” to notice.

  Simon added the sugar, butter, and molasses to the eggs and switched on the mixer. “Let me know when it’s combined,” he said, easing himself onto one of the kitchen chairs. So far tonight his legs had let him stand at the worktop and move about the small kitchen without using the walking frame, but he didn’t want to push them to the point of fatigue. He wanted to save his energy for Garen in bed tonight.

  That is, assuming Garen wouldn’t be too paranoid about hurting him. After last night, Simon was determined to hide his own struggles as much as possible to avoid setting off Garen’s protective instincts—or worse, scaring him away.

  Garen stared into the mixing bowl, watching the beaters spin in a blur of stainless steel. “How much would it hurt if I stuck my finger in there?”

  “A lot. Also, you might get blood in the dough.”

  “Ooh, that would make the gingerbread house even more haunted.” Garen started to poke his middle finger into the bowl.

  “Don’t!” Simon reached out, though he was too far away to stop him.

  Garen laughed and drew back his hand. “You really think I’d do that to myself? Wait, don’t answer that.”

  “Have you ever considered growing up? Wait, don’t answer that.”

  “I won’t.” Garen switched off the machine. “I think this is finished.” He brought the bowl to the table.

  Simon eyed the wooden spoon next to the bowl, his stomach fluttering with nerves. In the rehab unit, one of his primary occupational-therapy exercises had been stirring ingredients, a surprisingly complex task. His arm muscles hadn’t weakened much during their three-week paralysis, but they had to relearn how to obey his brain’s signals. Grasping a spoon and moving it in a quick, smooth circle had turned out to be a lot harder than pushing himself in a wheelchair.

  Focus. You can do this.

  Per the recipe’s instructions, Simon poured half of the dry ingredients into the egg mixture. Then with a deep breath, he picked up the wooden spoon and began. His rhythm stuttered as his elbow couldn’t decide where to go.

  Garen was by his side in an instant. “Let me do that for you.”

  “No.” Simon heard his own growl, harsher than intended.

  Garen stopped short, then backed up, hands in surrender position. “Sorry.” He unplugged the mixer and pulled out the beaters. “One of my coworkers at the museum brought in several dozen gingerbread people today for the visiting kids. She made gluten-free ones, vegan ones, and ones safe for those with nut allergies. They were all delicious—though of course I let the weans have the first go at them.”

  As Simon kept stirring, trying not to huff and puff, he thought about the joy Garen found in his work. Every day he sparked fascination in the eyes of children newly turned on to the world’s wonders. It seemed a far happier pursuit than devising more efficient algorithms for holding-companies to decide when to liquidate businesses.

  In his first five years with this financial institution, Simon had relished every challenge for its own sake. But after weeks in hospital with nothing to do but think, he’d started asking himself, What is the actual point of this? and Whom am I helping besides shareholders and myself?

  Helping himself meant helping his family, so that wasn’t nothing. But was it enough?

  He set down the bowl and spoon, his arms finally surrendering to fatigue.

  “All right?” Garen asked, making a show of wiping the outside of the mixer.

  “The
dough needs to sit for two minutes before I add the rest of the flour.” Simon knew Garen would discover his lie only if he bothered to read the recipe—which wasn’t likely, considering he was allergic to following instructions. “We’ll knead it and refrigerate it tonight. Tomorrow after your curling practice we’ll cut and bake the pieces, then assemble it Thursday and decorate it Friday.”

  “Sunday, actually. I need to go to the rink Friday night to help set up for Jingle Bell Rocks.” Garen wrapped the mixer’s cord around its base. “We’re tragically short of volunteers, which is no surprise considering the event’s a week before Christmas. I don’t know what I was thinking.”

  “You wanted to help people, and you are.” Simon took a sip from his glass of water, still a bit winded from stirring. “Talking of help, I’m happy to lend a hand Saturday if you need more people.”

  Garen turned to him with a look of alarm. “The event goes all day and all evening. You’d be exhausted. And I’d be too busy to look after you.”

  Simon bristled. “I don’t need looking after. Surely there’s something I can do sitting down.” He thought of the volunteers at his try-curling event. “Like registration or selling merchandise. It’ll be a lot less tiring than the Santa Dash.”

  “If I had the Santa Dash to do over again, I wouldn’t let you.” Garen rubbed his forehead. “I can’t face another of your setbacks.”

  Simon blinked at him, stunned. “You can’t face it? It’s my body.”

  “I know, but—”

  “What’s going on, Garen? A week ago you were pushing me to challenge myself. You were letting me try and fail on my own, which is exactly what I need. What’s changed?”

  “What’s changed?” Garen waved the tea towel between them. “What do you think has changed?”

  “So you’re overprotective now because we’re sleeping together?”

  “It’s not about the sex. It’s about what I feel for you—which, yes, has grown more intense since we fucked. Sue me for having my cock connected to my heart.” Garen looked at the ceiling. “God, that sounds weird.”

  “A bit.” Simon couldn’t hold back a chuckle of relief—and pleasure, hearing Garen confess his feelings so easily. “Might want to have a surgeon look at that situation.”

  Garen laughed. “Aye, maybe.” He examined Simon, chewing on his lower lip. “If you volunteer at Jingle Bell Rocks, won’t you miss watching Liverpool?”

  “They don’t play until Monday night. That’s the Merseyside Derby.” Simon realized it’d be the first time he’d be watching Liverpool’s classic cross-town rivalry without his father. The thought made him sadder than he would’ve predicted.

  Garen’s face had turned pensive. “If you handled event registration, that means whoever’s currently signed up to do it could help Gillian host, showing the new curlers where to go and what to do. I suppose you could also help me commentate for the livestream.”

  “Sure, though I hardly know anything about curling.”

  “That might be for the best.” Garen nodded, seeming to warm to the idea. “This event is for brand-new curlers. Their friends and families will be watching, so you can pose all the questions our audience are dying to know but are too shy to ask.” He waved the tea towel again. “With our top-notch banter, we’ll be a hit.”

  “And if I get tired, I’ll just order a car and come home by myself. You won’t need to worry about me.”

  “I may not need to,” Garen said, “but I’ll do it anyway.”

  Simon’s arm had stopped throbbing, so he added the rest of the flour mixture to the bowl. The dough began to solidify, providing greater resistance to his efforts.

  Garen washed and dried the beaters, then turned to Simon. “What can I do now?”

  “Spread some flour on the table here. Just a thin layer.”

  Garen did as he was asked, spilling half the flour onto the floor. “I’ll wipe that up.”

  “Wait until we’re done. Things are about to get messy.”

  “Messy is my specialty.” Garen pushed up his sleeves. “‘Messy McLaren,’ they call me.”

  “I don’t doubt that.” Simon lifted the ball of dough from the bowl and dumped it onto the floured table. “Would you like to knead it?”

  “Oh aye. It looks so satisfying.” Garen jabbed at the dough with his knuckles. “Is this right?”

  “Here.” Simon got to his feet, noticing that his legs felt rested already. He stood behind Garen and reached round to take his hands. “It’s about fluidity, see.” He interlaced their fingers and took Garen through the motions. “You want to stretch the dough with the heels, then fold it back with your fingertips. Then turn the dough ninety degrees and repeat.” He let go and rested his palms lightly on Garen’s forearms. “Now you try.”

  “Like this?”

  “Perfect,” Simon whispered, the proximity of Garen’s body making his head swim. He took Garen’s exposed earlobe gently between his teeth. “I can’t wait until my legs are stronger and I can just…”

  “Just what?” Garen arched his back, brushing his arse against Simon’s crotch. “Bend me over this table and pound me senseless?”

  “Something like that,” Simon said, though he would never in a million years have sex in a kitchen. He swept his lips over Garen’s bare nape. “Seems a more inspiring rehab goal than riding a bicycle.”

  “Mmm.” Garen molded his body against Simon’s. “If you don’t stop, we’ll need to take a break, which I sense would be bad timing for this dough.”

  “It would be.” Reluctantly, Simon let go of him and returned to the chair. “I can still watch you from here.”

  Garen gave an adorable smirk, but remained unusually quiet as he continued to knead. Finally he said, “I’m sorry about last night, when I said you were fragile. I don’t want to make you feel weak.”

  “Weakness is part of who I am right now, and the sooner I accept it, the sooner I’ll be strong again.” Simon rubbed his right arm, which still burned from the stirring. “Besides, wasn’t it you who told me strength was about character, that no illness could take that away from me?”

  “Och, I was so stoned on those cold meds when I said that.” Garen kept kneading. “Looks like you’re the one growing up.”

  Like I’ve got a choice. “It’s hard to be a control freak when you can’t control much of anything.”

  “Would it help if you tied me up and had your way with me?”

  Simon laughed, though the idea did have appeal. “I’m serious.”

  “So am I.” Garen bobbed his eyebrows at him. “Whatever you need, love. I’m here for it.”

  “Ta.” Simon reached out and poked the gingerbread dough. “I think this is done. Time to wrap it.” He watched Garen fetch the box of cling film from a drawer, then risked an awkward question. “So if I meet more of your friends at the rink Saturday, how will you introduce me now?”

  “Welllll…” Garen tore a piece of film with a dramatic flourish. “How do you want to be introduced?”

  Simon looked away and scratched his ear. “That’s a loaded question.”

  “So was yours. You were basically asking what we are to each other, right?” Garen covered the dough with the cling film, then flipped it over on the table, so close to the edge Simon feared it would fall onto the floor. “I’d like to introduce you as my partner, but if you’re not ready—”

  “I’m ready.” After all their hours together at the hospital, their new status seemed almost overdue.

  Garen released one of his hundred-watt grins. “Wa-heyyyy!” He leaned over and kissed Simon, hot and hard, his palms pressed against Simon’s chest. As Garen pulled back, his smile turned into a laugh. “Oops.”

  Simon looked down to see two floury handprints on his dark red T-shirt. “You know I can’t bear to wear a dirty top. You’d best take this off me.”

  Garen pulled it over Simon’s head in one move. Then he reached back into the pile of flour and hurled a handful against Simon’s bare chest. �
��Indoor snowball fight!”

  “Are you kidding me?” Simon plunged one hand into the open bag of flour and the other into his glass of water. “You’re assaulting a disabled man?”

  “All’s fair in love and—oi!” Garen gaped at the wad of paste that had just hit the center of his apron. “When did you get your hand-eye coordination back?”

  “Just now. It’s a Christmas miracle.” Simon rolled another flour ball between his wet palms.

  Garen grabbed the bag of flour and lifted it above Simon’s head. “Drop your weapon.”

  Simon looked up at the bag, from which a few bits of flour were already wafting down into his face. “That’s poor sportsmanship, totally against the spirit of curling.”

  “We’re not curling just now, mate.”

  “A true curler would follow the spirit at all times.”

  Garen hesitated. “I know how this plays out. I back down and then end up with this bag of flour poured over my own head, maybe in the middle of the night.”

  “But are you a hard enough man to dump it on me right now, in cold blood?”

  “It’s the only way to be sure,” Garen said. “Close your eyes.”

  “What?” Simon shielded his head with his hands. “Are you seriously—”

  “Close your eyes.”

  Simon squeezed his eyes shut, bracing himself. He heard the crinkling of the paper flour bag, followed by a soft whump.

  Garen started coughing. “That was a mistake.”

  Simon opened his eyes to see his partner’s head covered in white, with bits drifting off his shoulders onto the floor. “Why did you flour yourself?”

  “That’d be a great question for my therapist, if I had one.” Garen grimaced as he brushed the snowy substance from his hair.

  Simon gazed up at him. “You’re so weird, and I—” He cut himself off before the words love you could pop out.