Anna Martin's Opposites Attract Box Set: Tattoos & Teacups - Something Wild - Rainbow Sprinkles

by Anna Martin

  My choice of restaurant, such as it is, draws a small smile from him at last.

  I let him order and resign myself to drinking Coca-Cola. Then the waitress brings me iced tea, and I realise that I’ve underestimated him once again.

  “I got you the unsweetened kind,” he says and slurps his Coke. “It’s probably still too sweet for you….”

  “It’s good. Thank you.”

  I purposefully don’t talk until the silence between us is heavy with unspoken words. This silent pressure is much more effective at coercing him into spilling his troubles than yelling at him would be.

  “I know what you’re doing,” he says.

  “Hmm?”

  “Bully,” he mutters. “One of the guys at the ballet hit on me, okay?”

  I frown at this complete non-confession. Then my stomach drops. “Okay. That must be such a rarity for a beautiful and devastatingly sexy man like yourself. However did you cope?”

  He blinks at me.

  “You’re not mad?”

  “Did you act on it?”

  “No!”

  “Sure?”

  Now he’s mad. “Of course I’m sure, Rob. You know what you mean to me.”

  “Ditto,” I say and gesture to his ring. His eyes linger on it for a minute.

  “You’re really not mad?”

  I laugh now. “No, Chris. I’m really not. If you didn’t act on it and politely told him no, then that’s fine. These things will happen over the course of our relationship. You just have to deal with it.”

  “Oh. I didn’t exactly politely tell him no.”

  This makes me snort with laughter. “Was he being a pest?”

  “Shit, Rob, that’s an understatement.”

  Our food arrives then, and we spend a few minutes rearranging the table and starting to eat.

  “I’m slightly confused as to your reaction, though,” I said, picking up the conversation several chicken wings later. “Why would I be mad at you?”

  Chris carefully wipes his fingers and takes a long pull on his drink. Then his eyes level with mine, and he grips the edge of the table—apparently unconsciously—as he chews his bottom lip.

  “Because someone before used to get mad at me.”

  Oh, fuck. There’s no precedent for this; we haven’t ever discussed Chris’s previous partners. I’m in uncharted territory and unsure of my footing.

  “Oh,” I say. “Did they hurt you?”

  He nods silently.

  “In more ways than one?”

  A pause, then another, shakier nod.

  “Fucking hell, Chris.” I sigh and lean back in my seat. After a moment I pick up my fork again and spear a fry. “So, who are we going to talk about first? Ballet boy or mean boy?”

  He smiles and shrugs, selecting another wing. “Ballet boy?”

  “Works for me.”

  “His name is Nathan.”

  “Okay.”

  “He’s one of the principals. And gorgeous. You know, from a subjective point of view.”

  “Of course,” I said drily.

  “And half the guys in there are gay. If I were single—” He breaks off at my glare and hastens to add, “Which I’m not, obviously, but if I were…. Anyway. He was just a bit friendly at first, you know? Asking me where I learned to drum and stuff and where I’m from and my family. I told him about you, and he seemed interested. Nice. And I thought it would be nice to have my own friends in Boston, other than my friends I met through you or Lexi and John.”

  He pauses to finish eating, slurps his drink, and waits for my silent signal for him to continue.

  “Then he just started getting really touchy-feely, and not in the good way. And I was constantly moving away from him—stepping back or whatever, trying to get my personal space back. ’Cause he was always up in it. Then he sort of… I dunno. Said we should go out together, and I said sure, I’d check when you were free, and he laughed and said no, he didn’t want my boyfriend to come with us. And I should just go over to his place.

  “And since I said no, he’s just being a bastard to me. Complaining to Celina that my beats are out, which they’re fucking not, Rob. I’m good at what I do. Or that I’m too fast or too fancy or whatever. Jerk.”

  I agree with him. The guy sounds like a complete jerk. And this is one of those moments when I need to protect what’s mine, in the most loving and not-scary way I know how.

  “Do you want me to kick the shit out of him for you?”

  He laughs. “No, baby, I don’t. But thanks for the offer.”

  I shrug and make it clear that it’s his loss.

  “So that’s ballet boy out of the way. What about mean ex?”

  Chris, for the first time in all the months I’ve known him, looks almost apprehensive. Then I realise it’s not apprehension at all. It’s vulnerability. And somehow that’s much, much worse.

  “You’re not the first guy I’ve dated who’s older than me,” he says, then stops speaking to finish eating.

  “I guessed as much,” I supply, to fill the silence as much as anything else.

  “I don’t have a kink,” he protests. “It’s just that—in my experience—guys who are older than me generally treat me better. They’re done with all the crazy drugs and bullshit you get in the gay community wherever you go. Most of the time they don’t live with their parents.” He smirks. “But there are always exceptions to that rule.”

  I consider his words and decide they make sense. “But,” I reason, “there’s a much higher chance that older guys will come with baggage.”

  “Like kids?” he says. “Chloe isn’t a negative point against you, Rob. I do genuinely like her.”

  “And she likes you too. But you have to admit there were a few tense moments there at the beginning.”

  He shrugged. “You were worth it. Still are.”

  “How much older than you was he?” I ask, knowing now that there was someone in particular who hurt him.

  “About twenty years? Maybe more.”

  “And how old were you?”

  “Nineteen?”

  He said it like a question, and I wanted to go back in time, locate a nineteen-year-old Chris Ford, and kick his bloody arse.

  “Just tell me, Chris,” I sigh.

  “He was a leather daddy,” he says. “Proper old-school top, you know? Gnarly, mean guy with tats and a leather harness and nipple rings. I thought I was in love.”

  I snort. He ignores me and cleans another chicken wing to the bone, which he then uses to gesticulate with. “He liked to spank me, and, well, you know that I like that. And he liked to call me his “property,” which I thought I liked at the time. When we were out, I wasn’t supposed to speak to anyone else without his permission. He bought my drinks, he told me when to dance and with whom. Did you notice I just said whom correctly?”

  “I did. Well done.”

  “Thanks, Professor.” He smirks. “And then it got to a point where I was being punished more than I was being loved. He started to use stuff on me, paddles and whips and stuff, and beat me until I cried. I never knew about safe words or anything like that. He never gave me one. Then one night he went at me with his belt because I went out without him and another guy hit on me. I was punished for letting him buy me a drink. That night he made me bleed. Never saw him again.”

  “Fucking hell, Chris.” That’s all I can come up with. Fucking hell.

  “I guess, other than you, he’s the only other person I’ve had a long-term relationship with. So I’m sort of still learning what’s okay and what’s not, you know, in a normal relationship.” A long pause. Then: “Tell me what you’re thinking.”

  It’s not a request.

  “I feel bad for spanking you,” I admit, and he’s shaking his head before I even finish the sentence.

  “Don’t be. I wasn’t lying when I said I’m into that. He was just into really hardcore S&M stuff. You love me, Rob, you don’t control me.”

  “Couldn’t if I trie
d,” I say softly, attempting to joke with him. He smiles.

  When we finish eating, Chris lets me pay for dinner and we hold hands as we walk back to my car. It’s rare for us to do it in public, but I think we both need the reassurance tonight. When the sky cracks open, the rain is immediately torrential, and we duck into a covered alley to wait it out.

  It’s not particularly cold out despite the rain, but we still end up snuggled together. Then he kisses me.

  I back him up against the wall and loosely pin his wrists to the brickwork either side of his head, making my exploration of his mouth a thorough one. I know his taste so intimately, the way he fights back for more of my tongue and demands the rough, slow, needy slide of tongue against tongue, teeth and lips and the curve of his neck down to his shoulder.

  The alley smells of wet cement and a little bit like trash, but I don’t care. He’s hard; I can feel it poking my thigh, and when he whispers, “Suck me,” it’s a raw demand rather than a request.

  “Here?”

  “Fuck yeah. There’s no one around. Do it. It won’t take long.”

  And then I’m crouched down, my face level with his button fly as I push metal through denim, and his fingers are in my hair as I pull his cock out. He wasn’t lying—he’s more than half-hard already.

  For reasons completely unfathomable to me at this point, I don’t suck his cock very often. Sex between us seems to focus on his main source of pleasure, which has always been his arse, and he’s always been more enthusiastic about him sucking my cock than me returning the favour. He smells so fucking good, though, like man and musk and Chris.

  I take him to the back of my throat, and in seconds he’s wet and thick against my tongue, and I can feel that he’s all the way hard now.

  He hisses at the cold air on his damp skin as I pull back, then let him slide back into my throat. My fingers hold his hips steady, forcing him to stay still and not thrust, because to be honest I’m not good at having him push it in. It’s something I need to control.

  Soon I’m bobbing my head back and forth with a slightly firmer suction than what I’d normally use, my fingers rubbing at the responsive spot behind his balls that seems to have a direct, zinging connection to his prostate. He’s muttering something under his breath, but I can’t hear him over the sound of the rain.

  A slight tug on my hair is all the warning I get that he’s about to come, and then heat floods my mouth, and I’m forced to swallow quickly to stop it choking me.

  When I straighten up, he’s still laughing and pulls me in for a kiss. Although I’ve swallowed all of it, I’m sure he can still taste himself on my tongue, and fuck if that isn’t one of the hottest things I’ve thought in a while.

  “Tell me,” I say when he pulls away, his fingers combing through my hair, which is now slightly damp from the rain in the air.

  “Love you,” he says. “You miserable bugger.”

  I throw my head back and laugh.

  The mornings are starting to get lighter as we creep toward spring. Still, Chris rarely wakes before I do, so I have something of an uncomfortable moment finding an empty bed and a light bedroom, and the smell of tea and hot, buttered toast coming from the kitchen.

  I find a pair of boxers on the floor and deem them suitable and sufficient to wander through the flat to look for him. In the kitchen, my cat is curled on one of the chairs and Chris leans back against a counter, one of my white, wide-bowled china teacups with the blue willow patterns cradled in his hands.

  In the early morning light, I can see the ring I placed on his finger glinting softly. He notices my eye line and looks down at his hand, then back at me. It’s so right, so absolutely bloody right that he’s wearing it. Nothing could be more perfect.

  He, too, is barely dressed in the blue-and-white striped shirt he bought for me, the buttons done up all wrong and the sleeves rolled up to his elbows. Underneath he’s managed to coordinate with tight white boxers that only serve as a reminder of what he keeps in them.

  “Tea,” he says, lifting the cup and nodding to the pot that matches the teacups. He made tea in a pot. My heart skips again. If he keeps doing things like this, then I’m going to end up in the emergency room having a heart attack.

  “Thank you,” I tell him. The toaster pops, and he turns back to the counter, retrieving our breakfast and spreading the butter liberally. Cuts the toast into triangles. I love him even more.

  He has one triangle in his mouth and crunches it loudly when he turns back to me, grinning widely. I brush his hair out of the way of the toast so he doesn’t accidentally chew on it.

  “I never drank tea before I met you,” he says.

  I kiss buttery toast crumbs from the corner of his mouth, unsurprised when he turns his face against mine and demands a hot slide of tongue over soft, pliant mouth. My hands hold his hips steady while we search for confirmation, then find it on each other’s lips. Mine, I think. You’re mine.

  “And now?” I ask.

  His eyes hold a touch of amusement as he returns my kiss.

  “Tea is good.”

  Bonus content

  Tattoos & Tinsel

  “Oh Christmas tree, oh Christmas tree, fa-la-la-la-la branches!”

  I shut the front door quietly behind myself and kicked off my shoes before creeping through to the kitchen. Chris caught sight of me anyway, but didn’t stop his loud, out of key wailing.

  “I don’t think those are the actual words, darling,” I told him as I leaned in for a kiss, delivered it to the tip of his nose, and held up my canvas bag triumphantly. “Ham joint, fresh from the butcher.”

  “Excellent,” he said. “I’ve just made room for it in the fridge.”

  There wasn’t much room at all – considering it was going to be only the two of us for Christmas, we had a huge amount of food. I stuffed the ham on to a shelf and pulled out a bottle of water, opened it, and turned back to Chris.

  There was a delicious smell of cinnamon coming from the oven and he was busy assembling something else on the counter. Despite my best efforts to hide or burn his hideous jumper, he was still wearing the baggy, misshapen thing he’d found in a charity shop. Apparently lopsided reindeer were this season’s latest thing.

  My nose was cold and I rubbed it with the palm of my hand to warm it up, then stepped up close behind Chris and took his waist in my hands, leaning my chin on his shoulder to watch what he was doing.

  “What are you making?” I asked.

  “Your nose is cold, Rob,” he complained as I nuzzled it into the side of his neck. “There’s sugar cookies in the oven and I’m trying to make mince pies. I found a recipe online and thought I’d give it a go.”

  “They look good so far,” I said, reaching around him and poking my finger into the mix of dried fruit, suet, sugar and alcohol he was carefully stirring. I licked my finger, hummed in approval and gave him another kiss.

  This Christmas was going to be our first together, and we both seemed determined to make it special. There had been invitations from family and friends to spend the holiday with them and after careful consideration, I’d politely declined them all in favour of locking myself away with Chris and spending one day alone with him.

  We’d made a trip down to Florida for Thanksgiving, my first chance to meet in person Chris’s mother, a woman whom I now spoke to nearly every week on the phone. With five children and five grandchildren (so far), she and Chris’s father didn’t have many opportunities to travel up to Boston to see us. I’d been wary at first, aware of how my own parents were uncomfortable around any discussion of my sexuality. But Betty-Sue Ford had treated me as family from the beginning, apparently not at all bothered that her son had a male partner rather than a female one, or that I was nine years older than him.

  After all, none of that mattered to us.

  Chris’s family were completely opposite to my own; a big, tumbling, noisy, messy group of people who talked over each other and argued good-naturedly and laughed so much. It
took much less time than I’d expected for me to fit right in.

  Being Scottish, my own family didn’t celebrate Thanksgiving and made more of a fuss around the big Christian holidays. For that reason, I could see the trips to Florida in November becoming one of our traditions.

  In the past six weeks or so I had learned that Chris was someone who didn’t just get into the holiday spirit, he flung himself face first into the holiday spirit and dragged along with him anyone who might be looking slightly less than cheerful. I had managed to reign him in with most of the decorating in our split level apartment, coming to an agreement that downstairs, the decorations would be limited to a tasteful display of glittering lights on the hallway table. Upstairs, he had turned into a fairy grotto.