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My final reflection was that a vegan picnic, after half a day’s work and hot sex, was no substitute for a greasy fry-up. Thank God Evan was a vegan who considered free-range eggs acceptable; otherwise I might have had to eat the dog.
As I made short work of a hardboiled egg, Evan pointed to my cottage, the plain walls dusky grey in the late afternoon light. I’d thought about painting them cream, just to freshen it up, but never got around to it. “That side of your house there,” he began, “If you turned that sitting room wall into French windows and built a patio, the views would be phenomenal. All year round.”
He bit into something, apparently a cauliflower and chickpea patty, which could easily have been sicked up by Zeus. “The patio would be sheltered too—a lovely spot for eating outside in the summer.” He was right of course; my sister had suggested the same thing countless times. And from up here, cream walls would be pretty as a picture. Maybe now I had someone, I’d get around to doing it.
“You could keep hens too. You know, in one of those cute plastic runs that look like an igloo. And a couple of bird feeders in the little garden out the back. I bet it would attract all sorts.”
Evan didn't need to know, but I’d been thinking along the same lines myself. I had a small plot of land set aside for a pair of alpacas too, just for the hell of it. If he carried on like this, we’d be selling tickets to the public. “It may have escaped your notice, buddy, that this farm I run is a serious commercial venture, not a bloody petting zoo.”
Snorting, he gave me a fond hair ruffle, which did strange things to my insides. “You’re very funny,” he pressed a hard kiss to the corner of my mouth, “when you pretend to be all serious.”
I sat up straighter, trying to be indignant, but he was kissing me and playing with my hair. “What do you mean? I’ve got a herd of three hundred bloody cows! Supermarkets up and down the country sell my milk! And I’ll have you know my breeding programme is very well-respected—agricultural students fight to get placements here to observe how I run things!”
Not the least bothered, he grinned and helped himself to some more dog sick. “I bet you don’t tell them you sing nursery rhymes to your cows as they come into the milk stalls.”
Shit. I felt my face turn pink. I didn’t realise he’d overheard.
“And you know all of their serial numbers by heart. And, for your information, a few minutes ago, you were muttering something about your bull in your sleep!”
“I never.” Funny, my sister had remarked exactly the same thing at Christmas after she’d woken me from a drooling post-prandial slumber in front of the telly.
“And,” he continued, with the hammer blow, “you have a sixteen-year-old poodle as a guard dog, for fuck’s sake. Babe, you run the biggest petting zoo in the south of England. You just haven’t realised it yet.”
For that, he found himself on the losing side in a grass fight.
CHAPTER 10
A hot heaviness bore down on me, stirring me awake. Significantly weightier than Zeus, but not as smelly. Nice-smelling, in fact; the air juggled my own familiar odours but mixed with some tantalising others, an aroma bringing with it a heated recollection of the night before, when we’d re-enacted the non-vegan parts of our afternoon on the picnic blanket.
Evan didn’t snore as loudly as Zeus either, a peaceful, regular, soft rumble. My insides turned to melted butter with a sudden onrush of affection.
He was bloody heavy, though, and my farming body clock warned me it was too early to wake him. Very carefully, I shifted him off and rolled away onto my side. Hopefully, I’d drift off again.
Some rustling followed, and a warm body enveloped me from behind. A hairy arm snaked around my belly and firmly dragged me back into him. Was this how Freddie and Reuben slept every night, or my sister and her solid, dependable husband? Safely cocooned under a duvet, breathing each other’s air, dreaming each other’s thoughts?
A minute or so later, Evan’s hot shaft rubbed up against the crack of my arse. Seemed we were both early risers. Grinning to myself in the dark at my inane private joke, I wriggled back into him. The hand draped across my belly stroked lower. Light fingertips carded through the whorls of hair framing my cock, accompanied by another, more definite drag of an iron rod down my crease. A satisfied moan rippled through me. If I had to be awake at four a.m., then this alarm call was a thousandfold more palatable than milking the herd.
Evan’s fingers abandoned my pubes to greet my cock. Groaning contentedly, I pushed back against him, quietly getting off on the twin pleasures of his exploratory fondling of my shaft and delicious friction against the sensitive skin around my hole. I’d return the favour after he’d had his fun and, with a bit of luck, get a good distance beyond the outer rim.
Using a firmer, surer grip, his palm curled around my dick, and the tentative finger-walking turned into a more purposeful up-and-down rhythm. A warm mouth nudged at the back of my neck. Soon, we were rocking together and perfectly in tune. His leaking cock glided slickly between my buttocks, his quiet sighs of pleasure in pleasing harmony with my own.
Until he opened his mouth and spoke, anyhow.
“God, I want to fuck you so hard, Rob.”
The fast-approaching train of my orgasm slammed on the brakes. I stilled completely as more bewildering words tumbled out of him in a needy but deliberate rush, moist and wet in my ear. "So fucking hard."
My dick shrivelled to the dimensions of a chipolata. Every throwaway word of yesterday’s dreamy conversation flashed like a digital presentation before my eyes. Whatever, whenever? And I’ll follow your lead? I may have said those things—the guy was a newbie to the game. But I hadn’t meant…that…Do whatever works for you? Christ, just because I’d let him have his way and stay on top on the picnic blanket hadn’t meant…it hadn’t meant…
I snatched at my breath. “Hate to break it you, Evan. But that’s generally my line.”
I could count on the fingers of one hand the number of times I’d bottomed. Back in the haze of the hayloft, Freddie and I had taken it in turns, both quickly finding out which role we preferred. We were incompatible tops, but happy to keep on honing our skills anyway. Then a couple of random encounters in my youth—naïve, clumsy, and not especially edifying, underlining what I already knew. And now this, with a man who, in the sleepy hours of an early dawn, I’d found myself dreamily plotting a future with. A man whose swollen dick already butted against my hole, whose lips planted a hot, wet trail along my jaw.
A man who apparently wanted to fuck me. Hard.
“But you can,” I heard myself add. “If that’s what you want. For you, yes.”
“Are you sure?”
