Work for It, page 16
“No-one’s ever touched me in a way I didn’t want.” I think it might have crossed his mind, and I don’t want him to worry more than he obviously is.
He exhales and nods, but the news doesn’t erase the protectiveness in him, the way he curves his big body around mine and undresses me with slow, steady care. I know he likes the way I look, but when I’m naked in front of him, his eyes don’t devour me the way other men’s have. His regard is different, somehow. It’s demanding, with an edge of barely restrained want, but there’s a gentleness that says he’d rather die than rush me.
The back of his hand glides over the faded bruise at my ribs, down my abdomen, over my hip. Then he runs a finger from the base of my cock to the glistening tip, the reverse of what I did to him in the kitchen. Perhaps I understand his reaction now, because I release a strangled moan that might be his name. It certainly doesn’t sound like any noise I’ve ever made before.
Griff’s expression is almost wicked, definitely mischievous, incredibly satisfied. “Come on. Let’s get warm.” He switches on the shower, turns up the heat, pulls me in.
The stall is a narrow cubicle of glass, but there’s space for us to stand apart. We don’t. I face the hot spray, he moves behind me and wraps one thick arm around my body. I can feel the curve of his belly, the crisp softness of hair on his barrel chest. Then there’s the thick pressure of his cock spreading my arse, the tip leaking against my lower back. I want to taste it. I want to taste him. Instead, he’s tasting me.
He sucks the dip where my neck meets my shoulder, runs the tip of his tongue up my throat in a move so delicate I can barely believe it’s him. He whispers in my ear, “Olu, I want you.”
My words are meant to be a tease, but they come out as a gasp. “Would you let me fuck you?”
“I—” His hesitation is barely there, but it is there. “Don’t know. Never done that before,” he says. “But we could try.”
“No, Griff, I only asked in case you wanted—”
“I might want,” he interrupts. “I told you, I don’t know. What about you?”
In the past I was happy on either side of the equation, but everything about me feels unknown these days. “We’ll see,” I say eventually.
“It doesn’t matter. Come here. I need you.”
I turn in his arms and take his mouth, his lovely, tender mouth, and kiss him hard like the filthy creature he’s making me into. Our cocks slide between us, wet and rigid and so sensitive that each clumsy thrust sends an aching shiver through my body. Then Griff reaches for something, soap I realise, and slicks up his hand and grasps us both at once. I feel like I’ve been electrocuted. I grab his shoulders, needing his strength to hold me up because it’s been so fucking long since this was good. And right now, it’s good. Good like I never thought it could be. Perfect.
His hold is firm, his strokes long and slow, my spine burning with heat and my mouth a breathless, shameless, gasping thing. “Fuck,” I pant, my hips jerking as I stab up into his hand. I don’t think I’ve ever been like this. I should probably control myself, but I just can’t, and I don’t think he wants me to. He works us both with one hand, his other cradling my head as he nuzzles my neck. His beard scrapes my skin, a sweet burn that I hope leaves a mark.
Then he murmurs in that low, rust-and-stone voice, “That’s it, sweetheart.”
Oh, Jesus Christ. My body flexes like a fist. I want him harder faster more insistent every-fucking-where, and I’m too far gone to care how wrecked I sound when I moan his name. “Griff. More. More.”
“Yeah, babe.” His arm is an iron bar crushing me to him, his hand tightens until it almost hurts, and that’s exactly what I want. He sinks his teeth into my neck, hard, and I come all over us with a broken shout. Each hot spurt against my skin feels like a bolt of lightning. My legs shake, I’m holding on to Griff again, and in this moment, I would rather die than let go.
This, I suppose, is vulnerability. I should be panicking.
But how can I, when he grips my hips as if to hold us tight together, to keep us trapped in this moment? How can I, when he whispers such sweet things in my ear, things I didn’t know he was capable of expressing?
“You’re beautiful,” he tells me, but this isn’t like the other times. This is different because his eyes are closed, his face is buried against my neck, our bodies are pressed together. He can’t see me at all, but he keeps saying, “You’re beautiful. You’re so beautiful, Olu.”
Griff
We dry off in silence, but it’s the good kind; the kind I feel at home in. Olu seems so talkative all the time, so constantly on, but when I go quiet, he never looks at me like I’m an alien. He doesn’t try to talk my mouth open. He doesn’t leave me be, either. He just is, and I just am, and we just are.
I’m hard again, obviously. I could spend forever watching him fall apart the way he does. It’s like all his control is a huge, icy wall, but it’s so badly built that when I yank a single brick, he crumbles. Big time. Olu coming hard for me might have been the best sight of my fucking life. I don’t want to be done with him, not tonight.
But I also think that what we just did was… a lot, so I take my urge to kiss him again, and I crush it. I think he could do with something different right now, and I want to be the one to give it to him.
“Do you like musicals?” I ask.
He flicks a baffled look at me. “No. Where did I leave my clothes?”
“Take some of mine.” I grab a T-shirt from the dresser and throw it at him. “Yours are still wet.”
He catches the T-shirt and stands there, buck naked and unfairly gorgeous, staring at the grey cotton like it might bite him.
I can’t help myself; I laugh. “What, are you allergic to normal clothes?”
“What is that supposed to mean?” he demands, his scowl sudden and sweet and familiar.
“Normal clothes. Instead of pastel suits that cost a bomb, or designer jeans, or—”
“My jeans are not designer. They’re Levi.”
“How much were they?”
“I don’t know—ninety pounds. Griff, why are you laughing?”
“Put the T-shirt on,” I say in between chuckles. “And these.” A pair of my sweats smack him in the chest. “I promise they won’t make you poor by association.”
“You prick.” He makes it sound like an endearment. He’s smiling at me like the sun. “I don’t care how much your clothes cost, Griffin.”
“And I don’t care that yours are ridiculously expensive.”
“They’re not—ugh, fine.”
He looks good in my clothes. I’m not sure if it’s because he always looks good or because I want to be all over him in every way possible. He’s tightened the waistband of the sweats as far as they’ll go, since he’s built like a panther or some shit and I’m more like… let’s say a bear. The T-shirt doesn’t exactly hang off him, but you can tell it’s mine. You can tell he’s mine.
He’d probably be horrified if he knew how possessive my thoughts are getting, but that’s okay. I know how to keep my mouth shut.
When he speaks again, it’s abrupt and quick, like he’s been holding the words in. “I’m surprised you’d give me your clothes.”
“Why?”
“Because.” He shrugs and rubs a hand over his jaw. “I don’t know. I don’t give people my clothes.”
“People?”
“People I fuck.”
Well, that’s what I get for thinking all this soft shit. I nod as if I’m not flinching at the idea that I’m part of a generic group named People Olu Fucks. I don’t know why. It’s not like either of us ever said this was anything else.
My brain tries to tell me I’m an idiot. I tell it we don’t think things like that anymore, and if it’s not going to be a positive part of the team, it can piss off.
The silence between Olu and I changes as I shove on the last of my clothes. It’s not so easy anymore. Now it’s just heavy—or maybe it only feels that way to me. When I’m dressed, we stand and stare at each other like strangers instead of… instead of whatever we were ten minutes ago.
I guess this is how things work, when they happen fast. They unhappen fast as well.
After a moment or so of maybe-awkwardness, Olu claps his hands and says, “Well, then,” which is the universal phrase for I want to leave and don’t know how to put it politely. I may not be an expert in people, but I know that much.
It’s not like I can stop him, so I rub my hands against my thighs and nod. “Yeah.”
“Quite,” he says.
I don’t know what the fuck that means, so I grunt.
“Mm,” is his response.
Now I think we’ve slipped into a foreign language. If you asked me to describe myself in three words, my first choice would probably be patient, but I think I’ve had a personality transplant because suddenly I don’t know what that feels like anymore. “So are you leaving or not?” I blurt out.
At the same time, Olu says, “Why did you ask me about musicals?”
We stare at each other some more.
Then his expression ices over like a February morning. “Yes. Yes, I’m leaving.”
“No, Olu, I don’t want you to—”
“I did tell Maria I’d—”
“I thought you wanted to go, so—”
“You don’t want me to?”
“Wait, you told Mrs. Hartley what?”
Silence. More staring. I want to carve out my own fucking eyeballs, at this point. Only, then I wouldn’t be able to look at him, so maybe I’ll leave my eyes alone.
“I told Maria,” he says finally, “that I’d see her tonight, after her eldest goes to bed.”
For some reason, I demand, “What, are you fucking her, too?”
Olu raises his eyebrows and blinks very slowly. I think that might be Morse code for Don’t be an imbecile.
I mutter under my breath, “Sorry, Mrs. Hartley.”
“Did you just say sorry to Maria? She’s not even here. And, for Christ’s sake, Griffin, I’m gay.”
I think we’re having an argument. “Are we having an argument?”
“No, you’re just being an—” He breaks off, snapping his mouth shut. Then he says, “You’re just being difficult.”
I have the oddest feeling that he was going to call me an idiot. But then he remembered what I said to Rebecca last week, about feeling stupid. And then he stopped himself.
All of a sudden, everything about the last five minutes feels incredibly silly.
I misunderstand people all the time, and I’m shit at fixing it, but this time I really fucking want to. So I start with the simplest, truest part: “Sorry. I’m being a dick.”
“I agree,” he says immediately.
I should probably be pissed again, but I find myself laughing instead. When we first met, Olu had this magical ability to stick at the back of my skull and make me vicious with the need to get him out. Now he’s still stuck in my head, but I want him there, and all his predatory roars sound like kitten hisses to me.
Maybe something’s changed for him too—no, I know it has—because instead of dead-eyeing me the way he used to, he bites his lip, then laughs along with me. “Fine,” he says, rolling his eyes. “We’re both being dicks. Happy?”
“Yep.”
He snorts.
“Look,” I say, choosing my words carefully. “You—you said that thing, about people you sleep with, and I got weird because I like you. But I don’t want you to go. Unless you need to.”
Olu crosses his arms and shoots quick, considering looks at me, like a bird deciding if it wants to eat from someone’s hand. “It’s not even seven yet. I have hours.”
“Okay,” I say softly.
“Okay.” Then he adds, “About what I said before—I just meant, no-one’s ever given me their clothes. I was surprised.”
That news changes how I think about what he said. Instead of hearing, You’re one of many, I hear, I’ve always been one of many.
“Well,” I tell him, “I like you.”
“I believe you’ve said that already.” A pause. “Perhaps I like you too.”
It feels like there’s a star inside my chest.
“But not enough to watch a musical,” he continues. “Ridiculous things. People don’t just burst into song, Griff.”
“I know that. It’s not real.”
“Well, obviously it’s not real. Imagine if people went through life singing about their feelings every fifteen minutes. Arrests would have to be made.”
In the end, we watch I, Tonya. Olu tells me that, in some ways, she reminds him of his sister. I heat up two frozen pizzas and he says next time, he’s cooking.
That night, in bed, I murmur to myself, “Next time.” Then I grin in the dark.
12
Griff
“…But Lewis reckons the ivy is a reason not to move there. He says the upkeep will be a pain, and anyway, it’s ugly. He thinks ivy is ugly! Can you believe that?”
“No,” I murmur, stuffing another spray of elderflower into my bag. I wonder if Olu will come over again tonight. I have a feeling he might.
“And when I said I’d pay for the ivy maintenance as a compromise, he said that wasn’t a compromise. So I Googled the definition of compromise, and he said I was being petty! Can you believe that?”
I grunt a negative and part the bush I’m working on to reach another spray. Olu is sitting somewhere behind me, and I want to turn and look, but I can’t. I’ve been staring at him a lot today, and every time he catches me, he runs his tongue over his teeth and gives me this look that makes me want to blush. But I’m at work. I can’t run around blushing at work. So I won’t look anymore.
“Then,” Rebecca says, “I went to his parents’ house and shagged his dad. Pretty sure I won that round, don’t you think?”
“Yep.” Blissful silence follows. I snag another hard-to-reach handful of flowers, put them in my bag, then pause. Frown. “Wait, what? Rebecca—”
When I turn, she’s standing beside me with her hands on her hips, the office camera hanging around her neck and her expression… well, unimpressed is one word for it. “Griffin Everett,” she says, all stern and annoyed, “I’ve never seen you so distracted in my life.”
My cheeks heat. “Aren’t you supposed to be taking photos of all the smiling volunteers or something?”
“Light’s bad.” She waves her hand as if to swipe away the beaming sunshine. “What’s up with you?”
I try to resist, but I can’t help it. As soon as Rebecca’s words leave her mouth, my eyes fly like magnets to the sight I’ve been avoiding: Olu, sitting with his back against the trunk of an oak at the edge of the field, writing ferociously in his journal.
Just like he has been for, oh, the past two hours or so.
What the bloody hell is he writing? And how can he concentrate so brutally well while I’m a mess over here? The man is so controlled it’s almost supernatural. It’s also really hot.
“Ah,” Bex says smugly. Shit. She’s followed my gaze and figured out—well, probably everything, because of course she has. I wait for the trademark Rebecca Baird inquisition to begin, but all she does is turn back to me and say, “So, he does write.”
“Of course he does. He’s a writer.”
“Uh… yeah. I know. But last time I checked, you were convinced that was some kind of long con.”
I shake my head and start plucking elderflower again. “Doesn’t matter what I thought before, or what anyone else thinks. He’s whatever he wants to be.” It’s only when Rebecca stares at me, all big eyes and raised eyebrows, that I realise I spoke a bit too passionately.
“Oookay then,” she smirks. “So, I take it you’re fucking him now?”
My face bursts into flame. There are fire-breathing dragons living in my cheeks. “Jesus, Bex.”
“Aha! I knew it!”
“Be quiet.”
“It was only a matter of time.” She claps her hands with a witchy little cackle that’s part giddy and part evil. “I demand you publicly give me full credit for all of this at your wedding.”
My embarrassment twists and shifts. It’s not pink and spluttering anymore; it’s a quiet, grey disappointment that I’ve been trying to ignore. “I don’t know what you’re on about.”
“You know,” she grins, and smacks me on the shoulder. “Because I was the one who told you to—”
“No. No, I mean—this, me and him, it’s not a wedding situation. It’s not anything like that. Okay?”
“We’ve talked about this, Griffin. You have to fight your natural pessimism. Never say never.”
“He’d say never. He’s leaving.” At the end of next week, in fact—and I hate that I’m even thinking about it. I already know it’s going to fuck me up when he disappears.
But right now, he’s here. Right now, everything’s great. So I’m fine, right? Right. Or I was, until Rebecca brought up bloody reality. Now I’m panicking a little bit, because my skin is too tight, my heart is too big, my sneaky hopes have grown out of control like ivy, and I have no idea how to start cutting them back. I should’ve reminded myself, before I started all this, that getting attached would be a bad idea.
But I have this thing where I tend not to think ahead. Mum always said, Live now, Griff, not in the past or future. It’s no use being a phantom citizen of the present.
“You’re upset, aren’t you?” Rebecca winces.
“No.” My voice is firm. “It is what it is.”
“Maybe he’ll extend his stay. Maybe you could do long distance, or—”
“We’re not together, Rebecca.”
“Then what are you?”
“I don’t know. He’s all… sophisticated. He probably does stuff like this all the time, everywhere he goes.” But the words don’t sound right coming out of my mouth, not when I think about Olu as he really is. I shake my head. “It doesn’t matter. I don’t want to talk about it; I just want to do it.”
“That’s how you get your heart broken, Griffin.”
“This isn’t helpful, Rebecca.”
“Oh.” She perks up. “Did you want advice, then?”
