Tortoise Interruptus, page 4
“Both, actually.” Steve licked his lips in a way that should be illegal in a public place. “Are you going to eat that?”
There was, Tip discovered, something undeniably erotic about watching a man eat. Or at least, there was about watching Steve eat. Something about the unabashed pleasure on his face as he savoured the onion gravy, or was it the masterful way he carved his liver and bacon? At any rate, Tip found himself staring mesmerized at his companion, his own meal entirely forgotten.
“I thought you were hungry,” Steve said with a grin. “Eat up, this is delicious.”
“It is, isn’t it?” Tip replied dreamily, making patterns in the gravy with his fork.
“You know, the ancient Roman physician Galen thought the liver was the seat of all passions,” Steve purred suggestively. “Let me help you out with that,” he added, leaning over to spear Tip’s liver.
“Um. I really don’t think I’m going to want dessert,” Tip said, abandoning all pretence of eating. “Can we go? Now?”
* * * *
The road back to Newchurch had never seemed so long, winding and insanely full of tourists insisting on travelling at twenty miles an hour. Steve drove with a restraint that was theoretically commendable but in practice, in Tip’s considered opinion, bloody frustrating. “Does your Aunty June drive?” he asked.
Steve braked good-naturedly as the driver in front dithered over a turning, then decided not to risk it. “Yes, why?”
“Then I’m surprised the island isn’t entirely populated by tortoises. Actually, I wonder if anyone’s ever checked whether the number of tourists departing by ferry equals the number that arrived? She could have been decimating the population for years.”
“I think there might have been something about it in the papers by now if so,” Steve said in a reassuring tone. “People do tend to complain about it if their relatives go missing.”
“Probably silenced by agents of the English Tourist Board, ruthlessly suppressing anything that might be bad for business. Or maybe there’s a confederation of witches, covering up for each other…” A thought had finally struck Tip like a clump of wet seaweed. “Um, you know how your Aunty June’s a witch? And your Aunty May, too? So does that mean you’re a, a man-witch?”
Steve grinned. “You make me sound like a particularly meaty baguette—it’s not just a sandwich, it’s a man-wich.”
Despite his worries, the imagery made Tip gulp. He couldn’t deny a powerful urge to get his lips round Steve’s meaty baguette…Recollecting himself, Tip gave Steve a stern look. “You haven’t answered the question.”
“Oh—no, I’m afraid it only passes down the female line. I’ve got about as much magic in me as David Blaine’s boxers.” He sounded regretful, so Tip made sure his sigh of relief was inaudible.
“So, er, what do you do, Steve?” Tip asked.
“Honey.”
“You want me to call you Honey?” It sounded a bit American, but Tip couldn’t say he had any strong objections. He’d draw the line at Pumpkin, however. That was just wrong, on so many levels.
“I mean,” Steve went on, “I produce honey. Well, not me personally. The bees tend to take care of that side of things. But I harvest it, put it in jars, and market it. We’re doing rather well, actually.”
Tip stared. “You’re a beekeeper?”
“Well, on an industrial scale, but yes, essentially that’s what I am.” Steve grinned. “I hope you’re not allergic or something.”
It was fate, Tip decided. Destiny had brought him this man, and if he had to be a tortoise for a while, well, it was a price worth paying. “No! No, actually I’ve always had a bit of a thing for beekeeping. Do you…” Tip cleared his throat as his voice went a little hoarse. “Do you wear all the gear? The protective suit, and the veil, and everything?”
“Oh, yes. And the gloves, of course. I’ve got a pair of sheepskin leather gauntlets—I like to be able to feel what I’m doing, if you know what I mean.” Steve’s smile turned wicked. “I could show you them some time, if you don’t mind getting on a ferry. You could even try things on if you like.”
Tip’s throat was almost too dry to speak. Leather gauntlets…veils…“Drive. Faster,” he managed to croak out.
Still grinning, Steve slammed the car into gear and overtook three carloads of tourists at once.
* * * *
Janey and Mike were clearing tables as Tip and Steve reached Tiptree’s Treats. “Tip!” she called out. “Are you all sorted, now?”
“I, um…tell you later,” Tip garbled out. “We’re, um…”
“Busy,” Steve put in firmly, dragging him across the room by one hand. “Extremely busy. Important matters to, ah, attend to.”
Janey cocked an eyebrow, her hands on her hips. “Well, I suppose you’d better go and attend to them, then. Try not to disturb the customers.”
“Hope your little problem doesn’t crop up!” Mike called, and just as they got to the stairs, Tip distinctly heard him whistle a couple of bars of “Bestiality’s Best, Boys” in the jaunty tones of a man who’d never been cock-blocked by an unscheduled species shift.
Smug git.
They stumbled into Tip’s bedroom with barely the presence of mind to close the door. Still, if Janey or Mike wandered by and got an eyeful, they had only themselves to blame. They’d had fair warning.
“Finally,” Steve groaned. “No aunties, no sisters, no interruptions.” He ripped off his shirt, and as that magnificent chest was bared, Tip’s knees managed a little magic of their own, transforming bone and cartilage into jelly.
Fortunately Steve caught him on the way down, once again swinging Tip up into muscular arms as if he weighed no more than a fainting Hollywood damsel. Which, as it happened, was pretty much the case, but Tip had never been able to view it as an advantage until now. Every muscle in his body went blissfully limp, making the contrast with a certain part of his anatomy even more dramatic.
Steve laid Tip reverently down on the bed. “I can’t wait to get you naked again,” he growled, undoing Tip’s jeans one-handed while leaning down to press hot, breathy kisses into his throat.
Tip moaned, rational speech entirely beyond him—and whimpered as the kisses disappeared. Before he could find the words to protest, he found his jeans being dragged off his hips, taking his boxer shorts with them. The friction of their passing was torture to his needy cock, but he had no time to dwell on it as Steve was lifting him up to pull off his shirt. “God, yes,” Steve murmured, one hand roving all over Tip’s body, stroking and kneading, while the other worked frantically at his belt buckle. What was more, Steve’s trousers slid off with nary an interruption to the caresses; Tip had to admire a man who could multi-task like that.
Through a supreme effort of will, Tip managed to lift spaghetti-like arms and wrap them around Steve’s neck in an attempt to pull the man closer. Despite his efforts having more of the force of a gentle hint than any actual, well, force, it worked. Steve lay down beside him, the bedsprings creaking a startled warning.
Steve’s cock felt like a red-hot poker searing Tip’s thigh, branding him as Steve’s own. Tip gasped as Steve nuzzled into his throat once more and resumed kissing and sucking. The kisses moved slowly, sensually downward. Tip was in agonies, desperate for that mouth to reach its ultimate destination. “Please…” he mewled, and was rewarded with yet more teasing until finally, finally, soft lips closed over the head of his cock.
Tip’s head reeled with the ecstasy of it. Steve’s mouth was doing wicked, wanton things to him. “Don’t stop!” he panted. He was overloaded with sensation; he felt light-headed, almost as if he were underwater.
Wait a minute…
Tip’s cry of alarm turned to a sort of embarrassed cluck, and all ecstasy stopped abruptly as he very literally retreated back into his shell.
After he’d wobbled back and forth, see-sawing on his carapace, for a couple of queasy moments, Tip stuck his head out once more and glared at his lover as best he could across the expanse of his plastron.
“Ah,” Steve said, looking a bit sheepish and finally reaching out to turn him over. “Looks like Aunty June’s spells really aren’t up to scratch anymore. Still,” he said, sprawling on the bed and pumping his cock idly in a way that left Tip seething with chelonian frustration, “look on the bright side.”
There was a bright side? Tip hissed in a way that he hoped expressed just how dubious he was about that.
“Well, if half the time I take you out for dinner you lose your appetite, and the rest of the time you end up turning into a tortoise, it looks like you’re going to be a really cheap date.”
Tip clucked with the derision that comment deserved.
“And,” Steve added with a winning smile, “what with all this coitus interruptus, just think how amazing it’s going to be when we finally manage to go all the way.”
There was that, Tip thought resignedly.
Bowing to the inevitable, he lumbered up Steve’s hip and onto the man’s groin. If nothing else, he was willing to bet Steve had never had a plastron job before.
THE END
ABOUT J.L. MERROW
J.L. Merrow is that rare beast, an English person who refuses to drink tea. She read Natural Sciences at Cambridge, where she learned many things, chief amongst which was that she never wanted to see the inside of a lab ever again. Her one regret is that she never mastered the ability of punting one-handed whilst holding a glass of champagne.
She writes across genres, with a preference for contemporary gay romance and the paranormal, and is frequently accused of humour. Find her online at jlmerrow.com.
ABOUT JMS BOOKS LLC
JMS Books LLC is a small queer press with competitive royalty rates publishing LGBT romance, erotic romance, and young adult fiction. Visit jms-books.com for our latest releases and submission guidelines!
JL Merrow, Tortoise Interruptus
