by Anna Martin
“I appreciate it,” I said honestly. “I had one hell of a shitty day.”
Chris reached up and tucked a strand of still-damp hair behind my ear. “Do you want to go and get changed? This will be ready soon.”
I nodded and caught him by the hips, drawing his warmth close to me and tilting my face against his temple.
“Or we could just fuck in your kitchen?” he whispered. “I don’t think we’ve done it in here yet.”
For some reason this just made me hold him tighter.
“Hey. Rob. Are you all right?” My nod seemed to appease him, and he gave me a squeeze. I brushed my lips over his cheek once more and headed for my bathroom to get a decent hot shower before I got too cold from my still-wet clothing. I wasn’t sure why his little act of defiance, breaking into my home to make me dinner, had affected me so much. No one had really ever done it for me before, not the stealth, not the doing something purely to make me happy.
I dried my hair absently with a towel and dressed in sweatpants and a T-shirt. With the heat on and the added warmth from the oven, it was warm enough for me not to have to worry about socks; I liked the feel of bare floorboards under my feet, even in the winter.
The apron was gone when I re-joined him in the kitchen, and I spent a moment mourning its loss.
“We should probably have wine with this, right?” he said.
“If you want,” I said. “I’ve got a few bottles. Or there’s beer and soda in the fridge.”
“It’s a school night,” he said, smirking.
“Cheeky.” I grabbed his belt loops and used them to pull him close to me again. He took the opportunity to sneak a kiss.
“Mm. You smell all lovely and clean.”
I kissed his nose. “Wine?”
“Yeah. White with this, I think.”
I checked the wine rack in the fridge and found a good New Zealand chardonnay. “Will this work?”
He glanced over and nodded at the label. “Looks good.”
While he served up the food, I found a corkscrew and poured the wine into the large bowled glasses I preferred. Chris had set the table too, something he never seemed to do of his own volition.
“Is this in honour of some anniversary that I’ve forgotten?” I asked as he passed me a plate.
“No,” he said. “Would you just sit down and enjoy your dinner? I am capable of doing things for you too, you know.”
“I know,” I said, wounded at his wounded tone. “I really do appreciate it. Thank you.”
“It’s okay,” he said. “You do a lot for me, you know that? Letting me stay here all the time and everything.”
I took a forkful of couscous and hummed in pleasure. “This is really good. And you can stay here whenever you want. I like having you here.”
“I’m used to having lots of people around all the time and a serious lack of personal space. Your place is like a little sanctuary, you know? I don’t have to listen to John and Lex bickering or Danny playing music full blast. Even when I was at home, there’s always my sisters running around and my mom yelling.”
“Sounds like a lot of activity.”
“Yeah. It was. Is. Plus, you always have food here.”
I laughed. “Yeah. That’s true.”
The meal was good. Better than I had expected and teaching me the lesson that underestimating Chris in any capacity was only something that would make me look foolish.
“The stew should traditionally be made with goat,” Chris explained after I asked him to tell me more about where he learned to cook. “But they didn’t sell goat at Walmart.”
“No,” I said seriously. “Goat is certainly difficult to come by at the larger supermarket chains.”
“But lamb works fine,” he conceded. “I saw it being made on TV one day so I went online and stole their recipe.”
“I’m glad you did. It’s delicious.”
Since he’d managed to use nearly every single one of my kitchen utensils while creating the delicious meal, and a fair few pots, pans, and baking sheets too, we split washing-up duty. I hated leaving a kitchen dirty; it only meant scrubbing everything harder in the morning.
“Are you staying?” I asked when we were done.
He nodded. “If that’s okay.”
“It’s always okay.”
I had work to do. Not a lot, just marking some short assignments, but there wasn’t a rush for me to get it done so I conceded to a night on the sofa. Chris sat with his back in a corner and his feet in my lap, letting me massage his arches and appreciate how nice his feet really were. I hadn’t had a good look at them before. His toes weren’t too long, and they were only a little bit hairy. Good feet.
“Is everything okay at the house?” I asked. From his tone earlier, I’d guessed that maybe there were tensions between his housemates.
“Yeah,” he sighed. “Just, usual shit, you know?”
“Not really,” I admitted. “The only people I’ve ever lived with other than my family were Lu and Chloe.”
“Oh.” He fiddled with the remote for a few minutes. “We’ve been on the road together for ages now. When we left, John and Lex could barely admit that they were attracted to each other, and now they’re fucking like rabbits. And Danny is cool, you know. But he’s really, really into the music and the art of it. He was bugging me about being here all the time because when I’m here, I’m not immediately available to the rest of them for impromptu band practice.”
“Does that happen a lot?”
“I don’t know. I suppose so. We jam a lot. I never thought of it as official band practice before; we were just having fun and making music. But now he’s making out that it’s something that we should all be committed to doing, and he’s… fuck. He’s leaching all the fun out of it.”
“Are you saying you want to quit?” I asked. This sort of dramatic suggestion often worked with my students who really only wanted to have a bit of a whine and a moan. If they wanted out, I was opening the door for them. If they wanted to stay, it was enough of a shock to the system to make them realise that.
“No,” he said slowly. “I don’t want to quit. But… Rob, you know we’re touring, right?” He was still refusing to look at me. “There was never any intention for us to stay here forever.”
“I know,” I said. “Are you leaving?”
“Not yet. But soon. Probably soon.”
“Was that why you were arguing with Danny?”
“We weren’t arguing. He’s just getting restless here. He wants to go on to Chicago where the gigs will be bigger.”
I nodded. “Let’s not worry about it until the time comes,” I said. It was clearly hurting him, this conflict of interests. “Come to bed?”
My cat was perched on my pillow and was wearing an air of I’m not moving. Chris snorted.
“Let him stay there.” He blinked and yawned.
“Tired?” I asked.
“No.”
I ignored him and undressed him like a child, having him lift his arms for me to take his T-shirt off and sliding his jeans to the floor. They practically hung off his arse anyway. I was yet to be let in on the secret of where gravity-defying denim was being manufactured and sold. Chris’s jeans seemed to perch precariously on the edge of his arse.
When he flopped face down on the bed, Flea gave him a look of utter loathing, then relocated himself onto the dip at the bottom of Chris’s back. I joined them, lying on my side so I could better stroke the spot between Flea’s eyes that made him go all squidgy for me and the spot under the swell of Chris’s arse that elicited a similar reaction.
Lots of little things were changing, and I knew it was only a matter of time before my luck started to run out.
Chapter 12
I woke to the undeniably lovely feeling of Chris snuggling into my side as I slapped my alarm to turn it off.
“What are you doing today?” he asked, his fingertips tangling and tugging the hairs below my belly button.
“Mm. Offi
ce hours this morning,” I said, forcing my sleepy brain into action. “It’s Wednesday, right?”
“Yeah. What does office hours actually mean?”
I ran my hand down his back and yawned. “It’s when annoying students who have spent all semester out drinking come and beg for extra time on their assignments. Sometimes I get a genuine one looking for help or guidance, but that’s pretty rare.”
“What happens if you’re not there?”
“I’m not bunking off,” I said firmly.
“Not doing what? Is bunking off like getting off?”
“No.” I laughed. “Although the two are sometimes related. Bunking off is like playing truant. It’s slang from my youth, I’m sorry.”
“Robert,” he said, equally as seriously. “When was the last time you took a sick day?”
I thought back. “I can’t remember,” I admitted.
“Mhmm. Just as I thought.”
Chris rolled over to his side of the bed and leaned off the edge, no doubt looking for the pile of clothes he’d left down there the night before. I considered slapping the bare arse that was wiggling in my face. Then gave in to temptation.
When he pulled himself back to sitting, he had his phone in hand, and with the other braced on my chest, he swung his leg over my waist to straddle my thighs.
“What’s the number for reception at the college?”
“I’m not telling you,” I said petulantly. He took my one good testicle in his hand and squeezed threateningly. I gave him the number.
“Good morning,” he said pleasantly, smiling down at my naked and struggling form. “My name is Christopher Ford, and I’m Robert McKinnon’s partner. His partner,” he repeated. “Boyfriend? Significant other? Romantic interest? Yes. I’m afraid Professor McKinnon is unwell this morning. I think it must be some kind of bug. He has office hours today, so could you post some sort of note on his door?”
I opened my mouth to protest, and his hand squeezed my scrotum. I shut it again.
“I should imagine he’ll be back tomorrow, yes. Thank you for your help.”
He tossed his phone back on the floor and adopted a rather smug expression.
“Proud of yourself, are you?” I asked. “I have an excellent attendance record, and you’ve just—”
“Blah blah,” he interrupted. I wasn’t really mad, anyway. “Blah.”
He reached over once more, pulled his lube from the nightstand, and helped himself to a generous amount. I watched, slack-jawed, as he reached behind and prepared himself, his eyes fluttering closed with the touch and a soft sigh escaping from his lips.
For all the fuzzy thinking I was capable of, I couldn’t think of one good reason not to take advantage of the situation that had presented itself. So when Chris tossed a condom on my chest, I opened it carefully and rolled the thin latex over my cock. When had it gotten hard?
He took a good grip of the base of my cock and angled it just right so he could sink down on my length. I’d lost count of how many times we’d had sex to this point; to my utter delight, the last number I’d forced myself to remember was fifty. And that was a good few weeks ago. The look on his face when he took me inside him would never become routine, though. It was beautiful.
I took hold of his hips as he wriggled, trying to find the best angle and his deepest spot. I knew the moment he found it because he threw his head back and gasped, then braced one hand on my chest and began to rock.
Chris generally didn’t ride me like this, although neither of us had a problem with the position. I had a feeling it was something to do with him being a lazy bugger and preferring for me to take control while he lay back, spread his legs, and let me get him off.
After a few minutes, he started to bounce, the sticky head of his cock making contact with my stomach with a soft thunk before the momentum took it back up to repeat the action against Chris’s stomach. The head of his cock always looked swollen during sex, red and angry and sore. So pretty.
He must have been horny before we even started because it didn’t take long for a tell-tale red flush to start creeping over his neck and chest, a redness that echoed the colour at the tip of his cock. My grip on his hips tightened, and I started lifting my own to meet each generous downward thrust that took me deep inside him.
“Gonna come,” he said, and I barely had time to tell him “I know” before he took his cock in hand and spurted a generous amount of sticky white come all over my chest.
A combination of three things triggered my own release: his shiny pink lips open in a little, silent “oh”; his eyes screwed shut with the force of it, then opening, unfocused, to find my own; and the incredible clenching of the muscles in his arse as he orgasmed.
He leaned forward and brushed his sour morning-breath lips over mine, smiled, then squirmed with his belly pressed against mine to spread his rapidly cooling come between us.
“Eughh,” I groaned. But held him close when he tried to pull away and I attempted to catch my breath. “What’s the plan for the rest of the day? I suspect I’m going to need your guidance on how to do this properly.”
“Well, there are rules,” Chris said, propping himself up on my chest. He winced and disposed of the condom, then came back to me. His come was now nearly gluing us together by the short and curlies.
“Shower,” I said firmly. “Tell me the rules in the shower.”
“Number one,” Chris said once we had relocated under the hot spray. “You’re not allowed to get dressed all day. You have to wear pyjamas.”
“What if I get cold?” I complained.
“That brings me nicely to rule two,” he said. He took another handful of soap and applied it to my arse in an overly enthusiastic manner.
“You’re just groping it now.”
“I know. Rule number two: we drag your duvet out onto the sofa so we don’t get cold.”
“Can’t we just wear sweatshirts?”
A very slippery finger insinuated its way between my bum cheeks and pressed lightly against my hole.
“Behave,” Chris warned. “Rule number three. We are not going to leave the house all day. There will be lots of tea because you make the best tea in the world. And there will be takeout for at least one meal.”
“Is that all?”
“No. We shall have sex. Lots and lots of sex.”
I smiled and leaned down to capture his lips with mine. “I think, with a lot of guidance from the expert, I might be able to manage it.”
“Good,” Chris said. “Want a blow job?”
I declined that first offer, and Chris conceded that rule number one could be bent just a little bit because it was, in his words, “bloody freezing.” Not surprising, really, since we were edging further into November, but the outcome was long-sleeved T-shirts and a pair each of my fluffier socks.
After making tea in my only, beautiful teapot and finding proper teacups and saucers to drink it from, I loaded up a tray with the tea-making paraphernalia and some proper Scottish shortbread and joined Chris under the duvet that he’d brought through to the sofa.
“I’m going to feel guilty about this all day, you know that, don’t you?” I said.
“Don’t worry,” Chris said, accepting a cup of tea. “I’m an expert at this. By the end of the day, you’ll be so orgasmed out that your hard-working little testicle will be begging for mercy.”
“Watch it on the ‘little’,” I said.
“Your absolutely mammoth, goose-egg-sized testicle,” he amended. And slurped his tea.
“Better.”
Moment by moment, the guilt eased as I spent the morning curled up with a warm, happy, tea-slurping man in my arms. Chris hogged the remote and the cat and demanded kisses with startling regularity.
“Oprah?” I asked as he flipped the channel once again. “Must we?”
“We must,” he said, mocking my accent. “Chat shows are definitely part of the sick-day rules.”
“I have a feeling you’re making this up as
you go along,” I said, poking my finger into his ribs to make him squirm.
“Never,” he protested. “What are you making me for my lunch?”
By mid-afternoon I was bored to the point my eyes were starting to lose focus. Surely the television programming had not been so bloody terrible when I was a kid? Still, Chris seemed disproportionately happy with my small act of rebellion, and I’d managed to mentally atone for my absence by reasoning that I’d not missed a lecture or seminar, that it was only office hours, and that spending nearly an entire day wrapped up with Chris was something possibly heaven-sent, and who was I to argue with the powers that be?
