Tattoos & Teacups (19 page)

It was one of the longest monologues I’d ever heard from him, and I wanted to figure out a way of both slapping him and kissing him at the same time. In the end I laughed and shook my head.

“Bloody hell.”

“And fuck me if your accent isn’t the sexiest thing in the world. Wanna fuck?”

“In my office?” I asked.

His eyes darkened. “Oh, hell yeah. I’m up for that.”

“You’re always up,” I said, pleased to be able to turn his words back around on him. I finished the last mouthful of my soup and pushed the carton away. “And however much I’d love to bend you over and fuck you senseless on my desk, I have seminars this afternoon.”

“Oh, really?” he whined. “Come on, Robbie, where’s your sense of adventure?”

“Rob I put up with because it’s you,” I said. “But Robbie is out of the question.”

He stood and walked around the desk to sit across my lap, purposefully wiggling his ass as he did so but wrapping himself up in my arms in a manner that could only be described as sweet. I rubbed my nose against his, teasing for as long as I could before pressing our lips together.

His mouth still tasted of spicy tomato soup as I flicked my tongue against his, searching for the taste of him underneath. My hands edged up under the hem of his sweater to gently stroke at his hot skin, knowing how he was so sensitive there on his sides.

It wasn’t a surprise to discover that I liked kissing him. What did surprise me, however, was the sheer amount of time I seemed to spend doing it. Whereas with the ill-fated ex-boyfriend there were casual pecks on the cheek in greeting or goodbye, and the longer, slower kisses that defined our dull lovemaking, Chris wanted to kiss me all the time. Proper, deep kisses, and he didn’t give a damn who saw us.

But I laughed when a knock at my door had him springing up from my lap as if he’d been burned.

“Come in,” I called, standing too to start clearing away the remains of our lunch.

A colleague, Annette, stuck her head around the door.

“Oh, sorry, Robert. I didn’t know you had company.”

“Don’t worry,” I said. “What can I do for you?”

She launched into an exasperated complaint about the photocopier in the History department being broken and her card not authorizing copies on any other machines, not even in the library because of some official mess-up in the authorities department, and just as I started to figure out her point, she asked to borrow my photocopy card.

“I promise I’ll let you use mine when everything’s up and working again,” she finished in a rush.

“Sure, no problem,” I said. “Chris, would you pass me my bag?”

“I didn’t realize you were with a student,” she said guiltily. Then her eyes narrowed at the lunch bag on my desk.

“Chris isn’t a student,” I said calmly. “He’s my partner.”

“Oh,” she squeaked. “Nice to meet you.”

“Likewise,” he said drily, and I had to press my lips together to hide my smile.

Annette scuttled off, my precious card clutched tightly in her hands and the air of someone who knew something gossipy hanging around her like a mystic fog.

“Are you out here?” Chris demanded as I shut the door behind her.

“Sort of,” I said. His expression was fairly murderous. “Some people know, others don’t. I’m not too bothered, really.”

“You introduced me to her as your partner,” he said, stepping closer to me again.

“Well, you are,” I said and took hold of his hips. “I’m far too old for a boyfriend. And the word sounds too… flighty for my liking.”

“I’m not flighty?” He wrapped his arms around my neck.

“No,” I said emphatically. “In fact you’re the exact opposite of flighty.”

“What’s that?”

“Permanent,” I said as I touched my lips to his. “Absolutely permanent.”

As much as I might have liked staying in my office all afternoon, firmly locking the door and having sex with my partner, my partner over and over again, I had a seminar to host. Chris was due in rehearsals for the orchestra later in the day, which explained why he was dressed more conservatively than normal.

I walked him back to where he’d parked the bike and just about refrained from kissing him, instead letting him go with the promise that I’d text him before I went to bed. He was likely to go out to a bar for a drink when he was done with rehearsal, and I was okay with that. When I was with Brett, we kept tabs on one another’s every movement, almost without thinking about it. It was something that we’d developed over time, and after a while it struck me as faintly ridiculous that I couldn’t even meet up with my friends without telling him beforehand where I was going and what time he could expect me home.

There was certainly a freedom with Chris that I hadn’t had in previous relationships, and it struck me that experience would dictate that I was more cautious because of it. But despite all the facts that, on paper, suggested that I shouldn’t trust him, I did.

T
HE
flat was a mess.

There was no use in denying it any longer. In my moments of being wrapped up in my new boyfriend and all of the distractions that came with him, I’d completely ignored any kind of housekeeping. Dirty dishes piled up in the sink. I hadn’t vacuumed in days… maybe a week. Or more. My supply of clean clothes had dwindled down to almost nothing.

I had to clean.

Years of living on my own had made me self-sufficient enough to be able to do all the basic household chores needed to keep me alive. I could cook and wash and clean, although they were far from my favorite activities on a bright but cold Saturday morning in November.

It was different from organizing things, which was one of the few things that could calm me once I had riled myself up into a foul mood, usually over my job. Organizing things meant finding an order where there was disorder and making it aesthetically pleasing at the same. Whether it was the Dewey decimal system or alphabetizing my CD collection, order was good.

Mess, however, had no effect whatsoever on order.

I started with laundry, since I could get that going while I tackled things like scrubbing the bathroom, which definitely had not been done in weeks. There was a fair amount in the laundry basket and plenty more scattered around my bedroom. It was only when I was separating colors and whites and darks that I noticed that there was considerably more underwear around than there should be.

And I definitely did not own a bright red jockstrap.

As I worked through the pile that I’d amassed, I became more and more amused, partially because I was doing Chris’s laundry for him, and by the fact that by my finding it all on the floor, Chris must have been leaving the flat either wearing my underwear or none at all.

It wasn’t much of a task to separate out what was his from what was mine. A pair of tiger-striped boxers with RAWR printed across the back? Definitely his. Black Calvins? Mine. Animal from the Muppets? His. Bright yellow with the words “It Isn’t Gonna Suck Itself” on the side? Oh yes. His.

I considered clearing out drawer space for him, but I wasn’t sure if we were at that stage in our relationship yet. Instead I neatly folded a considerable pile of clean clothes that inexplicably contained T-shirts and a pair of sweatpants too and left them on the chair in my bedroom.

When cleaning the bathroom, I found a bright pink toothbrush living next to my blue one. It shouldn’t have come as a surprise since I’d watched Chris brush his teeth many a morning. And I joined him most nights as we brushed side by side, taking it in turns to spit into the white porcelain.

His phone charger was plugged in next to the bed. On the nightstand was a nearly empty bottle of Boy Butter H2O and one sad, lonely little condom in the bottom of a 24 Jumbo pack.

A closer survey of the contents of my fridge revealed two different types of beer that I didn’t drink, strawberry-flavored milk, a jar of face cream, and
Out
magazine. In the cupboard over the fridge, there was a tub of marshmallow fluff, half a box of Pop-Tarts, and a jar of beef jerky. None of these things had been purchased by me.

I spent about three seconds freaking out, then laughed.

Chris was probably the most unsubtle person I had ever encountered, so it was fairly understandable that it would come as a surprise that he’d practically moved in with me without my noticing. Pink toothbrush and all.

I
T
HAD
been a long, rainy, grey day, which was bad enough, but I’d left my umbrella at home, which meant every time I walked from one part of the campus to another, I got soaking wet. Another downpour had started just as I left my office, and I drove home with condensation fogging up the inside of my car.

The presence of Chris’s motorbike outside the flat was surprising, and I wondered where the hell he was, since the rain was still hammering down and the bike didn’t exactly provide much protection from the elements.

“Honey, I’m home,” I called as I let myself in.

He had clearly found a way in somehow, and I questioned my home’s security as he called out from the kitchen.

“I’d think you’d broken in,” I said as I shrugged off my wet jacket, “if it weren’t for the smell in here.”

“I cooked,” Chris said, appearing in the doorway wearing an apron with an image of a naked man on it and brandishing a spatula.

I gave him a light kiss on the lips. “I guessed that. Why? How did you get in?”

“Because I wanted to. And with your spare key.”

“How did you know I had a spare key?”

“Rob. Seriously. It was in a drawer with a tag on it that says ‘spare key’.”

I laughed and gave him another kiss. “Okay. You’re clearly a stealthy super-spy with hidden and untapped talents.”

“I am,” he said and preened at the compliment.

“So what did you cook for me?”

He led me through to the kitchen, where the steam and smells converged into a wonderful mess. “Moroccan lamb casserole and couscous and grilled vegetables with halloumi cheese.”

“Wow,” I said. “It sounds fantastic. I didn’t know you had such skills in the kitchen.”

“I like cooking,” he said as he stirred a large pot of what I assumed was the stew. “I don’t get to do it very often because it’s rare that we live somewhere with a decent kitchen. But your place is pretty stacked, so….”

“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 rejoined 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 honor 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. He was younger than me, yes, but he wasn’t young.

“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.