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Ethan makes a tight sound in his throat.
I’m so stiff, it aches.
My voice grows rough. “We’re all squirming limbs, moaning and grunting, and I shiver with impending release. I need to come, but I want him to stay in me. It’s agony. It’s the most intense pleasure of my life.
“He’s panting and it tingles down my neck, my shoulder, my arm. I’m breathing heavily too. No way can I hold on any longer. I’m about to combust.
“Come inside me, I plead, squeezing around him. He swells and moves faster and I lick my hand and messily jerk my dick.
“He stills as he comes and comes, and I taste the residue of the river on his clavicle and cry out as my orgasm rushes through me.”
Ethan’s breath hitches and the bed stills. I can hear his breathing, gradually slowing in the silence.
“Does he—did he take care of you after?”
“He went to the loo and I rang you.”
“You d-did?”
“You picked up, and I said your name. Just that, and you laughed down the line and asked me if I was okay. And I was.”
“Finley . . .”
I shuffle down into the sheets and scoop the come from his cupped hand, eliciting a sharp intake of breath.
It’s wet and slick around my aching length. “What was it like for you?”
What I feel for you can’t be conveyed in phrasal combinations; It either screams out loud or stays painfully silent but I promise — it beats words. It beats worlds.
K. Mansfield, Letter
I groan when he wakes me up, and he laughs when I slap him away murmuring for more sleep. This is the best I’ve slept in ages; I’d like to dwell in this sated feeling. The sheets are a little crusted where I spilled last night, but it scratches my thigh lightly and I smile at the reminder.
Maybe . . . maybe there’s a chance we can do that again.
“Get up, sleepyhead. Cress and Ford arrived. They’re in the dining room waiting for you to say hello.”
I lurch upright and swipe the sleep from my eyes. “They’re here already?”
“It’s past ten.”
I eye Ethan; he’s fully dressed and it looks like he even shaved. “When did you get up?”
His dimple pops. “I’ve been swimming and made cheese scones.”
That’d explain the streaks of flour. “You, in the kitchen? Should I be scared?”
He snickers. “Cress seems to like them.”
The way he says her name feels like a challenge to me and I’m out of bed, yanking on fresh clothes. My hair is even worse than last night; it yanks at my scalp when I attack it with a brush. Ethan leans against the wall and from the corner of my eye I see him check me out.
I try to catch him in the act. He snaps his head away.
I’m doused with the icy water of reality. At night, dreams are allowed. During the day, nothing has changed.
We jog downstairs, Ethan with more bounce, like he’s excited to get back to our guests. I frown at his back, morphing it into a smile the moment we enter the dining room.
At a table piled with scones, spreads, and coffee, Cress and Ford are sitting next to each other in front of glaring windows, looking very twin-like. Their dark hair is the exact same shade, along with those crazy green eyes, and they’re both wearing black t-shirts and jeans. Ford is broader and heavier jawed to Cress’s delicate features, but there’s no mistaking their relation.
Cress jumps to her feet when she spots me and meets me halfway. Her hug is cheerful, like her hello, and she whispers in my ear. “You let him in the kitchen?”
I squeeze her back. “How bad?”
“The cheese is off.” She pulls back, glancing at Ethan. “Thanks guys, for letting us live with you. It’ll be the best.”
Ford sips coffee and hums. “It’ll certainly be something. What does one do in such a small place? Our taxi drove through town, and I swear it wasn’t more than four streets. Where are the bars? The clubs? The galleries? Theatres?”
“Ford!” Cress chastises, resuming her seat. “This isn’t London.”
Ford smiles roguishly. “You’re right. I’ll find something fun to do.” His green eyes hit mine, curiously. “Will we be seeing your friends again? Maria and . . . whatever-his-name-is?”
Ethan and I sit at the table.
“Rush? Sure. We can see them later this week if you’re up for it.”
Ford flashes his teeth. “I’m having fun already.”
Mrs Norris patters across the windowsill, jumps down, and then leaps onto Cress’s lap.
“Oh!” Cress pats her, delighted. “I love cats.”
Ethan grins. “She rarely jumps on anyone’s lap. She must like you.”
Mrs Norris looks smugly at me over the table and we have a stare-off.
Coffee lands in my cup, a scone on my plate. “Thanks, Eth,” I say and grimace at the giant scone before me.
