Boyfriend Material(100)

Or maybe I couldn’t. Maybe I was too fucked up. But Oliver had stuck with me through my dad’s bullshit and my mum’s curry, he’d held my hand in front of reporters, and let me dump and undump him through a toilet door. He’d become one of the best parts of my life. And so I was fucking well going to try.

“Um,” I heard myself say, “I want to be good for you too. I’m just not sure—”

He lowered himself over me, all heat and strength, and the perfect glide of skin. “You are. This is.”

“But I—”

“Shhh. You don’t have to do anything. You’re enough. You’re…”

I gazed at him, not sure what was coming next. From the look on his face, he probably wasn’t either.

“Everything,” he finished.

Well, this was…new. Having to deal with sex-feelings and feeling-feelings at the same time, teaming up to leave you all achy and open and hopeful.

His mouth covered mine, half kiss, half groan, and I flung my legs around him to draw him in closer. He seemed to find this encouraging, which was good because he was meant to. And soon he was driving our bodies together in this samba of promise and sensuality, his mouth painting me with shivery little kisses, and this was amazing—like “oh God stop, oh God never stop, oh God” level amazing—except, for whatever reason, I couldn’t work out what to do with my hands. And suddenly I had these enormous alien mitts floating around at the end of my arms with no clear instructions. I mean, should I have been trying to get at his cock? Or was it too early? Did he mind having his hair stroked—or was that just weird? Was pulling it a bit much? Wow, his shoulders were really defined.

I’d finally settled on spreading my palms fretfully over Oliver’s back when he reared up, caught my wrists, and bore them gently to the pillow on either side of my head. Which, admittedly, wasn’t totally unhot.

“Um,” I said.

“Sorry.” A flush crept down his neck and across his chest. “I…can’t seem to help myself.”

It was strangely comforting to see Oliver even a little bit out of control. Even if it was in quite a controlling way. And at least I didn’t have to worry about my hands anymore, although that might have been cheating. “It’s…okay. I think I’m into it. I mean”—I gave a shaky laugh—“not if you’re going to pull out your leathers and start telling me to call you Daddy.”

He nipped at my throat in playful rebuke. “Oliver will be fine.”

His fingers curled around mine, unexpectedly tender given he was on top and holding me down, as he leaned in for another kiss. I pushed against him, not because I wanted to get away, but to feel what it was like to be…inescapably held.

Not awful, as it turned out. When it was Oliver.

My movements turned squirmy. And I heard myself moaning softly. And, God help me, needily. Which was scary and embarrassing and weird.

“Please trust me, Lucien.” In that moment, I was sort of relieved and sort of horrified to hear the vulnerability in Oliver’s voice. “It’s okay to have this.”

“Then what are you having?”

“You.” He smiled, eyes glinting silver. “I’m rather enjoying having you at my mercy.”

And that was when I remembered something—how fucking good it could be, just to be with someone. To let them see you. To be enough.

“How about”—I strained up and kissed him. Well, bit him. Kissily—“less mercy, more having?”

He legit growled.

And things got excitingly rough for a while, my self-consciousness fleeing with Oliver’s self-restraint. I made a few token efforts to wriggle free, but he always distracted me, with my name on his lips, or some fresh touch to a place I never knew could be so sensitive, and by the time he stopped holding me down, I was too far gone to notice.

There was only him and me, and the crumpling sheets, and the play of the streetlights through the curtains.

I was pinned by the sheer pleasure of it all—of Oliver’s ragged breath and the stream of his caresses. Of his deep, deep kisses, ceaseless as the sky in summer. The drag and press of our bodies, the rub of hair and the glide of sweat.

And the way he was looking at me, tender and fierce, and almost…awestruck, like I was a different, better person.

Although maybe, just then, I was.





Chapter 39


What was I thinking? Not only had I agreed to meet Jon Fucking Fleming at the busiest point in my working year, but now he was taking me away from my gorgeous nearly boyfriend who would otherwise be sexing me silly. I guess I was just that good a person.

To my surprise, The Half Moon turned out to be one of those craft beer places, all exposed brickwork and trying too hard. My dad was late—not that I’d really expected otherwise—so I got myself a pint of Monkey’s Butthole, which apparently had notes of mango and pineapple, and a toasty bitterness that lingered right to the end, and found a spare table amongst the beards and ironic lumberjack shirts.

For a while I sat there, feeling like the sort of person who went out on his own to drink artisanal ales which, thinking about it, was probably a perfectly respected pastime in the artisanal-ale-drinking community. Oddly enough, this wasn’t very comforting.

Having spent the past half-decade missing deadlines and then telling myself it was fine because my friends knew where they stood with me, I felt at once angry at my dad for pulling the same shit and angry at myself for taking so long to realise what a crappy way that was to treat people, and also for being hypocritical about it.