Best Man (Close Proximity Book 1)

by Lily Morton

  “Did he get it?”

  I shake my head. “No. They wanted him to go to America and he’d met and fallen in love with my grandmother by then.”

  “Did he regret it?”

  “No, never. I asked him once and he said what could Hollywood offer him that he couldn’t find with my grandmother. He said no woman could ever have been more beautiful than her. It must have been the right decision. They were married for sixty years.” I shrug. “I think they were a bit nonplussed by my father’s matrimonial habits.”

  He snorts. “Just a bit.” He takes off my hat and brushes my hair back from my forehead, his fingers cool against my skin. “Were you close to them?”

  “Oh God, yes. They were wonderful. They looked after me when …” I hesitate. “When my dad forgot to. My grandfather was a bookie. Until the day he died, he would dress up in a full suit and his brown overcoat and his mates would come and pick him up and they’d go off to the pub. My grandmother always wore makeup and had the biggest laugh. She smelt of Charlie perfume,” I remember suddenly, marvelling at the way the memories are being pulled out tonight. “And every night after dinner they’d put the stereo on and dance together to Frank Sinatra. They died a week apart from each other. Like there was no real point when their other half was gone.” I swallow, and he kisses me quickly. “So, I like this era and the music. They seem close to me somehow,” I say softly.

  “My mum would tell you that the ones we love are never that far away.”

  “Do you believe that?”

  He nods. “Oh yes. Definitely.” The sureness in his voice soothes something inside me, and I kiss him.

  “Well, we’re going to have a nice night, Jesse. We’re going to eat some food, drink lots of cocktails, and you’re going to tell me some more embarrassing stories about yourself so I can flaunt my moral superiority.”

  He nudges me, but we quickly order more drinks, and that’s what we do. We sit laughing close together, watching the dance floor and exchanging whispered observations about the people around us. We kiss and touch, unobtrusively at first, but he gets more daring as the evening wears to a close.

  “I think I’ve changed my mind,” he says into my shoulder where he’s rested his head.

  I kiss his hair. “What about? Brexit? The Britain’s Got Talent final?”

  He snorts. “No, about sex. I think we should definitely do some sex tonight.”

  I start to laugh. “Do some sex,” I echo and he elbows me, his face alight with amusement and a true, pure sexuality.

  “I think we should go home and fuck each other’s brains out,” he says cockily.

  “What happened to getting to know each other?”

  He smiles. It’s knowing and very intense. “We already know each other, don’t we, Zeb? We know each other better than anyone has ever known us.” His words are a challenge, and I run my fingers down the sharp angle of his cheekbones.

  “We could go on dates until the end of time and nothing will change that,” I acknowledge, seeing his eyes flare.

  “So, let’s go now. I need you inside me.”

  A wave of heat runs through me but at this point the female singer steps up and begins to croon the opening words to “I’ve Got You Under My Skin.”

  I stand up. “Come on,” I say, offering my hand. “Let’s dance.”

  “What, now?” He gapes at me. “Really?”

  I nod and smile. “Plenty of time for fucking. I want to dance with you first.”

  “And it’s okay here?”

  “It’s fine. There’s already a couple of men dancing together and two women over there. It’s a friendly place. Anything goes.” I wriggle my fingers at him. “I want to dance with you.”

  “Like your grandad,” he whispers, and I snort suddenly, the deep moment severed the way he always manages to do.

  “Well, I’m not quite that old.”

  “Oh shut up,” he hisses, the twist in his lips showing his amusement as he stands up and follows me. “One dance and then we’re fucking?” he says out of the corner of his mouth.

  “You old sweet talker, you,” I say, and he laughs loudly.

  I step onto the dance floor, joining the other swaying couples, and draw him into my arms. He sighs immediately, betraying his pleasure, and I marvel at the fact that he fits like he’s been made for my body, and it’s as if every sinew recognises him. I pull him close, his head under my chin, and we sway together in the dim candlelight to the sweet song.

  One Month Later

  Jesse

  I lie face down on the bed, sweat pouring off me. Zeb is a solid weight over me. I can feel the scratch of his chest hair on my back and the length of his cock inside me. I wriggle, and he chuckles and slaps my hip.

  “Be completely still,” he mutters.

  “I can’t,” I groan, feeling sweat drip into my eyes. “I need to move. Please.”

  “No,” he whispers. “You’ll lie there and take it, Jess.”

  “Oh, God,” I moan as he moves in a slow glide in and out. He brushes over my prostate and it feels like it’s swollen to twice its size. We’ve been doing this for what feels like hours. It’s safe to say that if edging was an Olympic sport, Zeb would be standing on the podium with a bunch of flowers.

  He thrusts in slowly, and I try to stay still, but I can’t. Instead, I shove back on him, crying out in relief as his cock goes deep.

  “Shit,” he snaps, his fingers tightening on my shoulders, and I can literally feel the moment his control snaps and he starts to thrust hard and fast, his balls banging my arse.

  “Oh, I can’t–” I shout and he kisses my shoulder, the wet ends of his hair tickling my neck.

  “You can come,” he pants, and I dig my face into the pillow and scream as I come, feeling the heat of Zeb as he falls down over me, holding me down in a hard grasp as he fucks into me and groans his way to climax.

  For a second there’s just the sound of panting, and then I grunt as he pulls out of me and collapses at my side, his chest heaving.

  “Shit,” I breathe, and he snorts.

  “You can say that again.”

  “Shit.”

  I wait for his laugh. It pleases me more and more to hear him do that. The amount he’s done it over the last month has made me realise how little he laughed before.

  I turn on my side and take the opportunity to ogle him while his eyes are closed. I have to seize these chances because he’s a little self-conscious about his body around me. I’d love to know why because he’s fucking gorgeous. I always knew he hid a good body under those swanky suits and I’m glad to report that I wasn’t wrong.

  The last month has been filled with so many quirky dates. We played board games on a rainy day at a little café in Waterloo and then ventured to climb the Whispering Gallery at St Paul’s where I scandalized Zeb by whispering what I wanted to do to him. We played darts at a small club where we used the board to decide our next drinks. I’d even organised an escape-room date where I’d been vastly amused to watch Zeb organise everyone into the most well thought out and polite escape the place had ever had.

  Stretching luxuriously, I smile at the twinge in my arse because it’s well earned. Zeb and I have hardly set foot out of his bedroom for the last two days. We abandoned the dates and barricaded ourselves in, ordering in food occasionally to fuel us, but our attention has been totally on each other.

  Each time the sex seems to just get better and better. The benefits of an older man in bed are legion, but chiefly because he has so much stamina, and that calm eye for organisation and details means that he can play my body like a fiddle. I’ve come harder and more often in the last month than I have in the last two years.

  But it’s not just all been sex. In the mornings we’ve escaped the flat when it’s started to smell like an explosion in a salami factory. We’ve got coffee and wandered the streets of Covent Garden in the early morning sunshine as the shops started to open, wrapped in each other and talking intently.

/>   For the first time I don’t feel like he’s looking at me as too young anymore. Instead he seems as fascinated by me as I am with him. We don’t seem to run out of things to say, discussing politics and religion or saying the lines from our favourite songs.

  Zeb seems to have softened in some way. He’s still sarcastic. It’s a trait he can’t get rid of, and I’m glad of it. But he smiles more and laughs a lot, and I comfort myself that I can make him happy when Patrick couldn’t.

  The only blips have been the constant texts from Patrick which Zeb checks and then dismisses, but that’s not going to work forever. Patrick is hovering on the surface like the dorsal fin in Jaws.

  Pushing thoughts of the wanker away, I cough pointedly. Zeb’s mouth quirks but he lifts his arm and I immediately snuggle closer, laying my head against that hairy chest and practically purring as he runs his hand through my hair in a lazy scalp massage.

  We lie there for a few minutes as the sweat cools on our bodies. “I have a small confession to make,” he says, stirring.

  I tense and lift up, resting my chin on his chest. “What?” I ask slowly.

  “Do you remember saying you hadn’t done any pretend boyfriend jobs in ages?”

  “Yes.”

  “Well, it wasn’t by accident.”

  “What?” He fidgets under me and I reach out, trapping him with my arms. “Oh no. You have to tell me now, Zeb Evans.”

  I’m amused to see a faint flush on his cheekbones. “I stopped Felix booking you for any with young men last year,” he says so quickly that it takes me a few seconds to work out what he just said.

  “I’m sorry, what?” I say.

  He huffs a sigh. “I didn’t want you to do them anymore,” he mutters.

  “Why?”

  “Because I didn’t want to book you for something and see you end up with the bloke.”

  For a long second I stare at him, a hot feeling of intense happiness and something stronger in my chest. I eye his awkward expression and opt to hide my jubilation.

  “And do you feel better for that confession?” I ask. “Knowing that you could have deprived me of meeting my one true Prince Charming?”

  “At someone’s Christmas office party? You’d have just met vomit and damaging career decisions,” he scoffs.

  “You never know where you’ll meet your prince,” I say solemnly. “Zeb, I don’t know what to say. This is such a new facet to your character.”

  “You’re a massive pisstaker, aren’t you?” he says in a resigned tone and I laugh.

  “It’s one of my many, many charming traits.” I reach up and kiss him. “Thank you for telling me,” I say softly.

  “You’re not bothered?” He sounds astonished.

  “Nope. Why would I be?” He stares at me, so I elaborate. “You’re telling me you didn’t want me with anyone. Why would I be pissed off? It runs both ways.”

  “But I stopped you meeting someone.”

  “At work.” I grin. “Relax, Zeb. You didn’t swallow the key to my chastity belt.”

  “That would have been like shutting the stable door after the horse had bolted years ago.”

  I start to laugh. “Anyway, you were right.”

  “I was?”

  “I did meet someone on a pretend-boyfriend gig.”

  He looks worried. “Who?”

  I shake my head. “You, of course, you idiot.”

  He looks pleased, so I kiss his nose and settle back in my place on his chest. He resumes stroking my hair and a peaceful silence falls as I hug my happiness to myself.

  “So?” he finally says after a while.

  I sigh. “I know what you’re going to say, and the answer is no.”

  “So, you don’t want to shag Jude Law?”

  “Well, no. Hang on, you were not going to say that.”

  Zeb laughs, the merry sound ringing in the air, and I stare at his smiling face with his eyes creased in amusement. “No, I was going to say do you think we should get out of bed today?”

  “I knew it.” I lay my head back down and pat his hand to start the scalp massage again. “No. I want to stay here forever.”

  “When we die from malnutrition, the next people might object to sharing the bed.”

  “Will we die locked in each other’s arms? That’s so romantic.”

  “Oh my God, you probably liked Romeo and Juliet.”

  “The ultimate story of true love.”

  “Why? They died. It was the ultimate story of teenage strops.”

  “Oh my God, Zeb, you are the Grinch of love. What about Ghost?”

  “It made me uneasy. Shouldn’t dead people stay dead and not zip about making vases?”

  I pop my head up. “This is so enlightening. I’m trying to think of more romantic films for you to destroy. Okay, what about Notting Hill?”

  “That’s not romantic, Jesse,” he scoffs. “What’s romantic about the fact that they’re far too different and when they inevitably end up divorcing, she’ll have to fork out half her money to pay for the mistake?”

  I start to laugh. “Okay, what is romantic?”

  He considers that, his arm flung over his head, showing the tuft of black hair that I always want to bury my face in.

  “It’s not about over-the-top gestures to me,” he finally says almost shyly. “It’s all the tiny moments that go to make a real love story. The funny things that go wrong like when one of you forgets your anniversary or does something silly. They all become part of your story. And you add to it with every argument or slammed door that you have. Every birthday or Christmas that you mould into a thing that only the two of you recognise. It’s taking care of each other when you’re throwing up or have a cold, it’s huddling under the duvet together laughing so hard your ribs hurt. It’s holding the other one when they’re frightened, knowing you will do anything to make them feel better again. It’s like being two pebbles on a beach. You start off individual shapes and then the weather and proximity means you rub the rough spots off so in the end you’re smooth with a patina that only echoes one other person.”

  He falls silent, going red, and I stare at him with my mouth open. I want that, I realise fiercely. I want that so much and I want it all with him. I need to be with him over the years, watching the grey appearing in his hair, laughing together and living and fighting. I want to be near him. I can’t say that though.

  “Well, Zeb,” I say slowly. “It isn’t box office material, that’s for sure.”

  He starts to laugh, pulling me down and hugging me, and I push my face into his neck, feeling the soft skin under my lips.

  I send my hand over the sleek, tight skin of his hipbones. “Do you really want to get out of bed?” I say finally. “Because I have to say there are a couple of positions we haven’t tried yet, and you’ve obviously ruled out the entirety of Hollywood’s offerings.”

  “A couple of positions? There surely can’t be any more. We could rewrite the Kama Sutra.”

  “One should always have goals,” I say, mimicking the stuffy voice he’s always used in my appraisals.

  He laughs, but at that second his phone beeps again like fucking clockwork. I grumble as he detaches himself, but as soon as he’s grabbed his phone I reattach myself to him like a limpet.

  “Who is it?” I ask idly, following with my fingers the trail of black hair that leads from his belly button to his cock where it flares out.

  There’s a long silence before he says, “It’s Patrick.”

  I come up on my elbow. “What does he want now?”

  He scans the text. “He’s reading me the riot act. The wedding is tomorrow. I’ve got to be at his hotel tomorrow morning at eight o’clock. His family and friends are going to have breakfast and then I’ve got to help him get ready. He’s extremely disappointed in my absence this month and the fact that I apparently don’t know how to be a good friend.”

  “And he does?” I say crossly. God, I hate that cockwomble. He’s got an unerring instinct for where
Zeb’s weak spots are and he hits them every time. I look at Zeb’s face and the reappearance of the wrinkle between his eyes. Yes, Patrick is still on his winning streak.

  He looks at me, and I roll over onto my front, leaning on my elbows and cupping my face in my hands.

  “You should really ignore that fucker,” I advise, but his expression has already gone distant. I hate the way he looks when Patrick summons him. Like he’s on the end of a very long lead. Patrick lets it out, but only so far, and he keeps a careful watch on where Zeb is at all times. I think I hate it most because sometimes I torture myself with the thought that Zeb is still in love with Patrick.

  There’s also the problem of his screwed-up feelings of responsibility. He seems to think he has to take on everyone’s problems. If we’d been together for longer than a month I’d tackle that, but I can’t because at the moment it would be overstepping so many boundaries I’d be up in court for trespassing.

  “Well, I’m sure you’ll have fun,” I say lightly, rolling onto my back and staring at the ceiling.

  “Wait. Are you not coming?” He scoots next to me. “Wasn’t that part of the original arrangement we had?”

  “Nope,” I say, popping the p’s. “My presence has not officially been requested by His Majesty, The Pampered Prince of Pillock, so I’m not going anywhere.”

  He rolls his eyes. “He’s not so bad,” he immediately protests. I stare at him and he cups my face, his fingers warm against my skin. “I want you to come,” he says softly. “Please.”

  I look at his imploring eyes. “Will you be wearing that morning suit of yours? The one you wore to Arissa’s wedding to give her away?”

  The smile creases the sides of his eyes. “I will.”

  I think of how handsome he looks in it and how Patrick will watch him, and against my will I nod. “Of course,” I say, watching his look of relief. It warms me that he seems to want me around. But it doesn’t take away the chill at the bottom of my spine that says that this is a very bad idea.