Tattoos & Teacups (4 page)

On a completely impulsive move, I reached for his hand as we silently walked up to my apartment block. Chris didn’t say anything, just slid his warm, dry palm against mine and curled his fingers to fit in between my own.

I lived on the second floor of the building and had developed a habit of taking the stairs, only because the elevator so often smelled of stale bodies and spilled milk for reasons I could never quite fathom. Chris let me take the lead, and I got the impression he was checking out my ass, not that I was bothered by that. Not at all.

“Here,” I said, holding the door for him as he entered the flat. I moved quickly to flick on the lamps in the main room that the front door opened on to, preferring their soft light rather than the harsh, industrial feel of the overhead light.

“Nice place,” Chris said as he shrugged out of his jacket. I got the impression he really meant it, he wasn’t just trying to be polite.

Flea jumped down from where he’d been hiding on top of a bookcase, purring loudly and winding his way around my feet.

“You want feeding, hmm?” I said to the cat as Chris bent down to scratch under his chin.

“What’s his name?”

I grinned. “Flea.”

He cocked an eyebrow at me. “Seriously?”

“Yeah. Chilis?”

Chris laughed. “That’s actually awesome.”

“Thanks,” I said, walking through to the kitchen. Predictably, Flea followed me, still meowing. Chris followed too.

“Does he mind that you live on the second floor?”

“Nah,” I said and dumped cat biscuits and water in his tray and left him to it. “He gets in and out through the kitchen window. I couldn’t keep him in if I tried. Luckily for me he isn’t much of a mouser.”

When I turned back from the cupboard, Chris was so close I almost startled. Almost. He had what was becoming a familiar smirk on his face as he took another step closer and, with a hand on the counter either side of my body, effectively trapped me in my own kitchen.

Our height difference was only a couple of inches, if that. Nevertheless, I liked the way he tilted his head up to me as he ran his nose along the edge of my jaw.

“I want to kiss you,” he said in a soft voice that belied the straining tension elsewhere in his body. In his arms! His arms were all tense from pressing against the counter and… oh fuck.

I nodded, and Chris closed the short distance and pressed his lips to mine. I was expecting him to be rough, to demand and then take, but he was whisper light as his soft lips skimmed over mine, then caught my bottom lip between them.

I was sure he could feel my racing heartbeat as I deepened the kiss, wrapping my arms around his lower back to keep him pressed close to me. Tentative tongues flicked out to taste the other, and I could feel Chris smiling, not mocking me but just enjoying this slow, easy kissing.

It was totally unlike me, but Chris was totally unlike me in general so I figured I should just go with my instincts, so I insinuated my hands under the edge of his untucked shirt to skim over the hot, smooth skin of his lower back. At this, one of his hands left the counter and curled around the back of my head, threading through my hair and angling our kisses so he could reach deeper. Find more.

Chris hummed and ran his hand down my body, blatantly cupping my ass, but I didn’t mind. He rocked his hips against my own, and I didn’t mind that, either. Never before had there been that spark with someone, cliché as it sounds, but he ignited something in me and made me feel something that I hadn’t been sure I was capable of feeling.

When he moved and placed wet, gentle kisses on my neck, I may have whimpered. When his hand went to the buckle of my belt, I hesitated for the first time since he’d started kissing me.

“Let me,” he whispered.

It was fairly terrifying to let him slide leather through metal and metal through denim, over and over until my jeans were open and his hand, warmer than I was expecting, slid into my boxers.

My fingers curled around the edge of the unit behind me as he took a firm grip on my cock and stroked it with firm, even strokes.

“You’re not circumcised,” he said as he ran the pad of his thumb over the head of my cock.

“No,” I croaked. Then again, “No. It’s, ah… it wasn’t that common in Britain in the seventies. Still isn’t, as far as I know. Do you mind?”

It was fairly impossible for me to hold an actual conversation while he did that, and I was appropriately proud of the achievement.

“Not at all,” he said. “I’ll take a closer look later.”

His lips and tongue and teeth attacked my neck and throat as he worked me, teasing me, torturing me with softness and hardness combined, lust and power and submission. I wanted him. I needed him.

Then his fingers pushed deeper into my boxers to gently graze against my scrotum.

“Don’t,” I said, my hand shooting out to grab his forearm.

I wasn’t ready to explain, and my expression must have conveyed that to him. Chris took my hand off the arm that was still half buried in my underwear and placed it on his own back, took a better hold of my cock, and put his lips on mine.

My fingertips stroked the back of his neck as our kisses grew sweeter. He was still pushing me toward orgasm, there could be little doubt about that, but there seemed to be a different reason for it now.

When I grunted the word “Close,” he seemed to understand, and the movements of his hand increased until I was crying out, spilling over his hands and into my own underwear. Chris was hard too, I could feel it against my thigh, but he moved back and shook his head when I reached for him.

“Next time,” he said softly, bringing our lips together again.

In the ensuing silence between us, little sounds started to make themselves known: the cat scratching at his post, the television from the apartment above mine, the clanking of water in ancient pipes.

“I don’t think I’ve come in my own underwear for years,” I mumbled against his neck.

He laughed, a soft, throaty sound. “It’s a very underrated activity, coming in your underwear.”

And when he looked up at me, my heart dropped to my stomach.

“Do you get a day off during the week?” Chris asked as I ran my fingers through his hair.

I shook my head.

“If I don’t have lectures, then I hold seminars and a creative writing group too. And I have quite a heavy teaching schedule.”

“How come?”

“Because I’m good?” I said with a smile and a shrug. “I teach because I love it,” I said, and he turned his head to kiss the side of my neck. “I didn’t want to work in a high school where half of the kids don’t want to be there. All of my students chose my courses, and I love mentoring them.”

“I bet you’re a great teacher.”

“I finish early on a Friday, though,” I said, dismissing his compliment. “If you want to come over, I’ll cook dinner.”

“I’d like that.”

I was aware that it was late, that he wasn’t going to stay the night, and that making plans to see each other again in less than a week was probably his cue to leave. I didn’t want him to, though. There was a moment when I thought about asking him, but it seemed inappropriate somehow.

“Can I text you?” he asked as I showed him back through to the hallway.

“Yeah,” I said. “I’ll have to remember to put it on silent during my classes now, though.”

He laughed and reached for the door. “I had a really good time tonight,” he said and reached for my hand. I let him tug me close and kiss me gently. Then, while my eyes were still closed, he let go. I heard the front door click shut, then a few minutes later the roar of his motorbike.

Realizing I wanted to watch him leave, I dashed over to the window just in time to see him pull away.

Never before had I been this close to having something with someone. Chris was so different to me, in every possible way. And despite the handful of relationships I’d had before, Chris was different from all of them too.

“
T
HERE
’
S
not a lot to tell, so far,” I said to Marley, lying my pants off and hoping that the distance the telephone call was creating was enough for her not to be able to tell.

I selected a butternut squash and added it to my cart.

“I don’t believe you,” she said frankly. “Have you had sex yet?”

“Not that it’s any of your business, but no.”

A pair of red peppers.

“I still don’t believe you,” she said. I had to admire her persistence, but then again, when it came to gossip, Marley was practically an expert at wheedling it out of me.

“Don’t, then,” I said, forcing nonchalance into the words as a bag of potatoes signaled the end of the vegetable aisle.

“What’s he like?” she demanded in a brisk, no-nonsense tone, and I couldn’t help but smile. Her method could use work, but there could be little doubt about how much Marley cared.

“Young,” I said with a touch of guilt.

“I know that,” she said with a sigh. “Tell me something else.”

“He’s intelligent,” I said. “More than I gave him credit for. And he has this amazing sense of self, like he’s entirely comfortable in his own skin and he doesn’t need anyone else’s approval. I like that about him.”

“How big is his cock?”

“Marlene,” I said. “I’m scandalized. I have no idea. And even if I did, I wouldn’t tell you.”

“Liar.”

“Fairly big,” I admitted. “I’ve not had a decent grope yet so officially the jury’s still out.”

A small blue-haired lady was squinting at me with a murderous expression in the bakery aisle, so I made a swift change of direction, loaf of bread in hand, and headed for the deli. It seemed logical.

Over the phone line, I heard Marley sigh with happiness. “I love having a gay best friend,” she said. “And you’re finally living up to the high standards I set for you.”

“I’m so pleased you’ve finally managed to fit me into a check-box category,” I said sarcastically.

“Oh, don’t get your panties in a twist,” she said airily. “When can I meet him?”

“When he’s something more than a nice guy who I’ve seen a couple of times? I haven’t met any of his friends yet, Marley. We’re taking it slow.”

“Why the hell would you want to do that?”

“Because… because I actually like him, okay? I don’t want this to be another one-date-wonder situation.”

She was silent for a beat too long, then sighed dreamily. “You’re such a romantic. When are you seeing him again?”

“Friday night,” I admitted. “I said I’d cook so I’m trying to get some groceries in.”

“And wine,” she added. “Don’t forget the wine.”

“Lots of wine.”

“Yes. Then if the entire date goes to shit you can just get drunk, get naked, and masturbate.”

“A regular Friday night in!” I said chirpily.

“Make sure he’s good to you, Robert,” she said, her tone suddenly changing to serious. “I don’t want you to get hurt.”

“I won’t,” I said. I appreciated the gesture, but really, she was worrying about nothing. “I’ll fill you in on the gossip as and when I have some.”

“Appreciate it.”

“Tell the girls I said hi.”

“Will do. See you soon.”

By the time Thursday rolled around, I’d managed to work myself up into something akin to blind, breath-stealing panic.

The flat—and the cat—were given an unprecedented spring clean—even though it was September—in my haste to distract myself from my own thoughts. The place was… modest. It was never supposed to be my home; I’d bought it out of necessity. Being close to the university, it made my commute blessedly short, and it was the perfect size for a single man such as myself. The realtor had described the kitchen as quaint, cozy, bijoux—utter bullshit, of course. The place was tiny. Just enough room to back up against the refrigerator and receive oral sex, my brain helpfully supplied. To fight the memories of two nights before, I forced myself to stay in the bijoux room and tidy, rearranging my cupboards and cleaning out my salad drawer. Defrosting the freezer. New grocery list. Cat food. Milk, bread, beans. Condoms.

Shit!

The vacuum cleaner did a job on the carpets and another on the sofa, digging out stray cat hairs and banishing them to the swirling vortex of Dyson-made doom. Fear made me poetic. I rearranged my bookshelf. (Twice.) Considered the Dewey decimal system and discarded it in favor of good old-fashioned alphabetical. By author and genre. Therefore,
Anthropology
by Darren Abraham started my collection. I gave up when my brain told me to keep Kipling together but my new system demanded that poetry, novels, and short stories be separated.

Moved to the bedroom. Changed the sheets. Decided that I needed new sheets, ones without floral patterns that I’d inherited from my mother. Opened my wardrobe. Sank to the floor, clutching my chest as the spasms of a panic attack gripped me.

I thumbed speed dial on my phone and prayed that my mother wouldn’t answer.

“McKinnon residence,” Jilly chirped.

“Jill,” I said. “I need to go shopping.”

Chapter 3

“S
O
,
WHAT
are we looking for?” Jilly asked. Her arm was threaded through mine as we navigated the mall, stopping frequently to peer into windows at tiny-waisted, large-breasted mannequins with milky, unseeing eyes. They reminded me of something out of
Dr. Who
from my childhood and, due to that connotation, freaked me out.