Why’s he being so weird with me? I catch his eye and follow the journey of his gaze. Bosley has a Ring doorbell camera fitted to the wooden frame. Without saying anything else, Pi grabs my elbow and pulls me round to the side of the cottage, down a very crunchy gravel path, and to the back door, which is also locked. There’s no security device here, and it’s a blanket of darkness, but there is a handy alcove between the cottage’s newer extension and the original limewashed building.
I push him against the wall. Kiss him.
He pushes me off. “There are no deadly spiders in the UK?”
Admittedly, it is a tad cobwebby in the alcove, and Pi already knows more about British wildlife than I do, but he needs that verbal reassurance.
“No deadly spiders. The house spider will shit you up, but it won’t hurt you. Deadliest creature we’ve got is probably a badger.”
“It’s cows, actually.” Sometimes I’m in absolute awe of how straight he can keep his face when he say things like this. “The highest number of animal-related fatalities in England is caused by cows. Usually by trampling ramblers to de—”
“Shut up, nerd.” I kiss him before he finishes his sentence.
He breaks free. “Okay.” Then kisses me again.
I’m unbuttoning his shorts, dropping them to his ankles, skating my fingers over his buttocks, and sliding down his pantsjust enough to give me access. “Turn around, princess. Hands against the wall.”
Pi turns without hesitation. “I don’t have any condoms or lube. Do you?”
“No, we won’t need them. Well, lube might come in handy right about now, but . . .”
The sentence and thought go uncompleted, as I unzip my fly and drag my hard cock over his hole, hold it there, and try to memorise every single minute detail of this perfect moonlit moment. The dimples on his lower back, the freckle at the very base of his coccyx, the way he smells, his shallow, needy breaths.
I want to slip inside him, feel his tight warmth wrapping itself around me, but neither of us has prepared for that, so instead I reach my hand in front of him.
“Spit.”
He spits into my palm. I add my own saliva, and I lube myself up as I would normally.
“Legs together, soldier.”
“Oh.” He snaps them closed.
I pull his bare flesh apart, creating a gap wide enough to slip my cock into, and I fuck his thighs.
It’s sometimes a little dry and raw, and I occasionally have to spit into my palm again, but precum joins the mix, and I kinda like the crude, desperate edge this moment has. It feels appropriate.
I’m trying to jerk Pi, but my movements are all out of sync, and part way through Pi takes over himself, stroking his cock with one hand, the other arm bracing him against the abrasive wall surface.
For once, I’m quiet. At least compared with my standard operatics. But we’re so in tune with each other by now that I already know he’s getting close, just as he knows the same about me. He’ll wait for me, though. Doesn’t matter how long he’sdangling off that edge, he will always make sure we hit that peak together. Or near enough together.
When I come, it goes all over his thighs, his knees, down his shins. I bury my face in the back of his T-shirt and cry out. Pi stills his hand and whines his orgasm out through gritted teeth. My eyes have adjusted quite a lot to the night, though it’s still too dark to see where his cum has landed.
I find a nearby plant with wide, soft leaves and wipe as much of my mess from his legs as I can. There’s some on his shorts, but I can’t do much about that here.
He rights his clothing, checks his watch, then leans against the wall and sighs.
We have this habit, a tradition maybe, that after we fuck, we never talk about it. We’ll just sort of pat each other on the back, congratulate each other on such wonderful orgasms, and part ways until the next meet-up.
I always feel like it’s for the best. That if we hung around in that sated post-nut haze, I’d end up saying something daft or dangerous.
“I wish we could stay here forever,” I say, and internally face palm. My voice is overloud in the still of the night, even with the bass and terrible singing thrumming from the pub across the road.
Pi says nothing for the longest time, but he also doesn’t leave either. “Me too.” He’s quiet again for what feels like an eternity. “We could just live here in Gadget’s garden like hobbits.”
“I’ve always wanted to be a hobbit,” I say.
“Same. Well, when I was a kid I wanted to be Legolas, but now that I’m older, I’m pretty certain life is, in fact, all about the hobbity things. Cosy houses, friends and family, lots of nature, good music, good food, potatoes.”
