Work for It, page 18
“It made her feel guilty, I think, when I tried to take care of her. But there was no-one else to do it—everyone treated her like a fucking pariah. She was that creepy girl who survived her whole family and walked in the woods at night and got knocked up at nineteen without a ring.” He rolls his eyes. “Anyway, once she knew that I knew… she tried to hide it even more. We didn’t argue much, but when we did, it was because she wouldn’t tell me anything. She felt like, if I helped her, that was a burden on me. Like she was a bad mother for needing me.” Griff holds my hand tighter, turning to look at me with a fierce challenge in his eyes. “But she wasn’t. She was perfect, and I loved her, and she’s the only person who ever loved me.”
I let go of his hand to slide my arm around his shoulders. And then, somehow, we’re lying back on the grass, and I’m holding him, and he’s letting me. Resting his head on my chest, the greatest weight I have ever felt. I wonder if he hears my heart pounding out his name.
“No-one helped her. That’s why she’s gone,” he says dully. “Because no-one in the whole fucking world helped her.”
“You did.” I kiss the top of his head.
Griff swallows. “I tried.” Then he’s quiet, and the sounds of the forest soak into my bones while I run my fingers through the raw silk of his hair. I feel the tension slowly leave his body. The sun is a little lower when he speaks again. “She overdosed a few months after my eighteenth birthday. She wrote me a letter and put on her pyjamas and got in bed.”
I bite my lip so hard, faint copper floods my mouth. “Oh.” Tighter, I hold him tighter, just in case he disappears. “I’m sorry.” It feels pathetic. It feels like a shadow of a sentiment.
But Griff looks up at me with those solemn, midnight eyes and says, so seriously: “Thank you.” Then he smiles.
He’s the most beautiful thing I’ve ever seen.
“You wouldn’t do a thing like that, would you?” he asks, and it seems so natural, so obvious that he’d know—of course he’d know—I reply without hesitation.
“I hope not. I haven’t been bad for years.”
“But would you ask for help?” he pushes.
In the past, the answer was always, No. But now I imagine my sister watching a stream with painful longing in her eyes, and I hope with all my heart that I mean it when I say, “I’d try.”
He lies down again, as if satisfied. “That’s all anyone can do, isn’t it? Try.”
Why do those words make my eyes sting?
“I have her ashes,” Griff says after a while. “I meant to plant them with something, but I never have.”
“Do you want to?”
“I do, and I don’t. I haven’t figured out where my head’s at yet.” A pause, a laugh. “It has been ten years. I should probably get a move on.”
“What’s the rush?” I frown, my hands tightening in his hair for a second before I force them to relax. “There is no should. Do what feels right, and if you don’t know what feels right, don’t do it.”
“That sounded almost like wisdom.”
“Makes sense,” I say dryly, “since I’m very wise.”
“Must be your age.”
I smack him on the head and find myself snort-laughing like Theo and I used to do when we were back at school. Griff grins up at me, and then he’s laughing too. It’s like rolling around in sunshine. Right now, I don’t think I recognise myself, but not in a bad way. It’s just… I’m lying in the dirt—and God knows how many animals have shat here—grinning and grabbing someone, pulling his body over mine until he kisses me, kisses me, kisses me, his hands cradling my face, his calloused thumbs stroking my cheeks. Being me has never felt like this, so no, I don’t recognise myself.
Our hearts are so close, I imagine I can feel Griff’s thumping against his ribcage, and he can feel mine. He pulls back just enough to rub our noses together, and I smile as if I’ve never cried. I should be retching at all this cuteness, but I think this man could inspire me to heights of tacky and corny behaviour such as the world has never seen. In fact, I know he could.
Do I really have to leave?
“Do you have to disappear on me,” he begins, and I have a what-the-fuck, he’s-reading-my-mind moment before he finishes, “and see Mrs. Hartley tonight?”
Oh. Right. Yes. I’m absurdly grateful that he’s not asking the more serious question, because if he was, I would tell him Yes. Yes, despite my frequent moments of hesitation and my strange, reluctant thoughts, I do have to leave Fernley. Which is why I can’t let this attachment veer any further out of control.
“Yes,” I lie, “I’m going home to Maria. I told her I would.” But what I mean is, I don’t know if I’d ever recover from waking up next to you.
“You’re friends,” he says, studying my face.
“I suppose so.”
“Will you still be friends after you go home?”
There’s a lump in my throat, one it takes me several ragged seconds to swallow. I hoped he wouldn’t ask me this, and he isn’t—at least, not for us. He’s asking for Maria. “Of course we’ll still be friends,” I tell him briskly.
“So you’ll come back?” he pushes, going for my jugular without even trying.
“That’s not how I operate.” I wish I could sit up, but Griff’s still lying over me, his weight on his forearms. The fact that he hasn’t pulled away, even though every word he says exposes how small I can be, is an awful sort of miracle. He’s still looking me full in the face, still caging my body with his, and it doesn’t even feel like a trap. It feels like permission to show him exactly how terrible I am. As if it doesn’t matter, somehow.
“How do you operate, Olu?” His voice is quiet.
I know the wrong answer could hurt him. It’s written all over his face, and for the first time, I wish he’d go back to being stone. He shouldn’t ask me. He shouldn’t ask me. Because right now, I look at him and think—why in God’s name wouldn’t I come back? But that’s precisely why I have to leave on schedule, before all of this sours and the magic fades and Griffin stops smiling at me.
They always stop smiling at me.
“Maria,” I tell Griff stiffly, “will have my number. If she wants to call me, she can.”
“Right,” he says softly, and for the first time in a long time I feel the twinge that means someone’s disappointed in me.
But that’s probably all in my head, fuelled by the sneaky tangle of guilt in my chest. That guilt reminds me that Maria isn’t like my other friends, who can hop on a plane to reach me if it’s urgent. She has three children and just enough money to keep herself in Earl Grey and red wine. She needs a real, supportive friend, not someone who sees her home as part of a quest toward self-actualisation. So I suppose she’s another person I’ll hurt when I leave.
I came here to escape my own shittiness, but it seems I’ve brought it with me and spread it around.
Usually, that thought would have teeth. But today, for some reason, it doesn’t bite quite as hard. I remember my decision to hate myself less, and hear Griff’s gravelly voice in my head: “That’s all anyone can do, isn’t it? Try.”
I’m trying, I’m trying, I’m trying.
Finally meeting Griff’s eyes, I tell him, “I don’t know if I’ll come back to Fernley. I don’t go back. I’m not sure how to do it yet.”
He stares at me for a moment, and I’m certain that this is going to ruin everything. That he’ll lose patience with me—which would be understandable—and I’ll lose all his quiet, steady warmth.
But that doesn’t happen. Instead, he dips his head and presses his lips lightly to mine. He stays there as he speaks, so that I feel every word: “Let’s go home.”
13
Griff
I don’t know what to do about Olu. But I don’t think he knows what to do about himself, either, and I refuse to push him. Not when I could end up pushing him away.
Walking home, the lightness between us is replaced by something heavy and possessive and a little bit desperate. The air is a mixture of the storm of want in me and something… something in Olu that I still can’t name. He has an edge to him, and it doesn’t seem like my fault—but if he wants to wear that edge down on me, I think I’ll let him.
Then we get inside the house, and he shoves me up against a wall, and I know I will.
He kisses me hard, bites my bottom lip. His eyes catch mine and he says, his voice low, “Okay?”
“Whatever you want, remember?”
“A lot,” he tells me as he drags me through the kitchen. “I want a lot.”
Climbing the stairs takes a while because we’re kissing every five minutes, feeling our way up the steps with our eyes closed. He falls, and I catch him by his shirt. I trip, and he keeps me upright, although I’m not sure how. We sort of collapse onto the landing, and then he’s straddling me and dragging his shirt off over his head.
He orders breathlessly, “Get naked, Griff.”
“You’re sitting on my chest.”
“Excuses, excuses. Do as you’re told.”
“Get off, you prick.” That’s what I say, but what I do is roll us over until I’m straddling him. I’m not sure how our clothes come off in the end, but it’s fast and it’s hard and it happens. By the time we stumble into my bedroom together, we’re both butt-fucking-naked and laughing. We stand face to face in the fiery glow of the sunset through the windows.
His smile shoots straight to my heart.
“Let’s play,” he says softly, his laughter fading. My dick jerks, hard and aching against my belly. I’m not sure what Olu’s doing, because I’m trying not to look at anything below his neck. Me coming fast once seemed to flatter him, but if I do it twice, he might be concerned. This time, I’m going to last. Trouble is, the brilliant shit that comes out of his mouth really doesn’t help my cause.
“Lie down and touch yourself,” he tells me. It’s an order, but a silky one, his tongue flicking off his teeth. If I do as I’m told, maybe he’ll put that tongue on me. I can tell from the look in his eyes that he wants to put something on me.
Or in me.
I have this feeling that Olu wants to fuck me, and I’m only slightly bricking it—but my nerves are the electric kind that set my whole body on fire. Good nerves. Sex nerves. Because I’ve thought about it before, but no-one’s ever wanted to try it—not like that, and not with me. So I sprawl back on the bed, my pulse thrumming hard through my dick.
He murmurs something under his breath, and for a second, I almost think he said Beautiful. But I don’t know. I didn’t really hear. He sits on the bed too, right at the foot, his green gaze dancing over my bare skin and kissing the tip of my cock. My balls ache. I’m biting my lip bloodless.
“Touch yourself,” Olu says again. “I want to watch.”
I lift my hand to obey, but a question leaves my mouth without permission. “Why?”
He arches an eyebrow, looking regal as fuck even while naked. I don’t know how he does that. “Why, what?”
My brain catches up with my mouth, and I’m embarrassed. Tough shit; I asked, so I can’t take it back. “Why do you want to watch me?”
Something shifts and softens in Olu’s eyes, molten gold spilling beneath the green. He crawls over my body and I feel the warmth of him everywhere, even though we aren’t quite touching. There’s the ghost of his chest above mine, the hum of almost-there heat in the air between our cocks, the faintest contact when his knee brushes my thigh. He looks me in the eyes and says softly, “I want to watch you because I love looking at you. You,” he tells me quietly, “are gorgeous, Griffin. I want every inch of you. So show me.”
I’ve never done anything like this before, but for him, I try.
Olu
I sit back while Griff lies there, bold and magnificent, lazily stroking himself with one big hand. I want to fucking eat him. I want to swallow him whole.
But I restrain myself, difficult as it is, and watch him take his pleasure with a slow deliberation that makes me want to lie down and beg. Not that I will; I’m in control right now. I’m in control, because I need him to be mine—and if he’s to be mine, I have to take him. The thing is, Griff seems just as eager for this as I am, which I find… surprising, all things considered.
People never want me the second time as much as they did the first.
A little voice in my head, one that sounds like me rather than my father, demands, Since when is Griffin just people? There is no-one in this world like him.
I decide not to think too hard on that. Luckily, Griff’s cock is the perfect distraction: it’s as heavy as the rest of him, curving darkly against his stomach, the swollen head gleaming. He twists his fist over that head with each downstroke, his pre-come making a slick, wet sound as he glides, his jaw clamped tight on muffled grunts of pleasure. Those endless eyes crash into me as his hips jerk.
“You like me watching you,” I say, tendrils of heat coiling around my limbs.
“Yeah.” It’s soft, faint, deliciously debauched. His hair is even messier than usual, his cheeks flushed above the line of his beard, his gaze almost glassy. He’s losing it for me. This is just how I like him.
I reach over and run a hand down his powerful thigh. Then I grip his knee, pushing until his left leg is bent up against his chest and I can see everything I want. The heavy weight of his balls, so soft and vulnerable, bouncing with each hard stroke on his cock. The meaty curve of his incredible arse and the shadow of all that it hides…
When I spread him wide, he groans, “Fuck, Olu,” and his strokes speed up. The tight ring of muscle I’ve exposed is dark and sweet and tempting. I kiss the back of his thigh and a heavy breath shudders out of him. I bite, then suck, and he gasps, “Yeah, yeah, yeah,” so I bite again. Harder. My eyes are still on that ring. I want I want I want, so I drag my mouth over his arse, toward his hole, and then I lick.
He arches his back so hard, I’m surprised he doesn’t fly off the bed. The sound that explodes from his chest isn’t really a word, or if it is, I don’t understand it. After what he told me the other day in his shower—the way he said, “Never done that”—I wonder if this is the first rim job he’s ever had. Or maybe it’s not. Maybe he’s just so desperate for it that he’s gone from strong and silent to a gasping wreck, his hips thrusting at nothing, little teardrops of pre-come rolling down the veiny underside of his shaft. I watch one drop glide over his balls as I tongue him harder, getting him slick and wet for me. God, I love this. I love—
My thoughts are out of control because I need him.
I give Griff one last kiss before I rise up on my knees, my voice harsh. “Do you have—”
“Drawer,” he chokes out, and reaches for the bedside, but his limbs seem slow and heavier than usual like he’s moving through syrup, and his expression is dazed. To see him like this, to make him like this, might be the definition of pleasure.
I catch his reaching hand, pushing it above his head instead. Then I lie over his body, my cock sliding through the slippery mess he’s made of his own stomach. “Do you want this?”
“Yeah,” Griff says softly, and lifts his head to kiss me. His mouth is sweet and gentle, but below the waist, we’re thrusting jerkily against each other. His free hand grabs my arse and squeezes, and I grunt into his mouth. I’m on fire again. I pull away, reach for the drawer, and rifle through a surprising amount of crap to find lube and condoms. When my fingers are slick, I lie over him again, looking into his eyes as he draws his knees up for me.
“Tell me,” I say, and reach between us, my mouth against his throat as my finger circles his hole. “Tell me exactly what you’re asking for.”
“I don’t—I can’t—”
“You can talk to me, Griff. It’s me. You do whatever you want with me.” And I, it seems, do whatever I want with him. Because as long as our bodies are skin-to-skin like this, I barely remember what self-consciousness is.
He squeezes his eyes shut and relaxes against my finger. Teeth sink into his bottom lip, as if he’s still trying to trap words inside himself—but then something in him buckles, and he gasps out a shaking breath. “I want you to fuck me. I do. Just do it, just do it, just…”
I push, slow and steady, until his body lets me in.
“God, yeah,” he moans, his eyes wide open now, his lips parted. He looks as if he barely remembers his own name. I hope he doesn’t remember to hide from me, either.
I bite into the meat of his shoulder as my finger strokes him carefully, tenderly—but Griff rocks his hips, screwing himself like he doesn’t give a fuck about gentle. I should’ve known, really.
“More,” he begs, so I give him a second finger. He sucks in a breath when I scissor them, stretching him open, getting him ready for me. “I can take it,” he says, words coming faster now. “I want you. Kiss me. Olu—”
I do. I put my mouth on his and swallow every cry as my fingers push deeper. By the time my knuckles come to rest against his arse, he’s gasping nonsense right into me. It feels as if we’ve swapped: I’m so full of need that I can barely speak, but everything in his head is spilling from his lips and it’s glorious.
“You’re fucking incredible,” he swears, “so incredible. Just fuck me, just give it to me and everything will be fine, okay? Okay?” Even now, as Griff writhes beneath my body and babbles because of me, it feels as if he’s soothing all my quiet worries. I don’t know how he does that.
When I pull out my fingers, he sits up slightly and grabs a condom, fumbling with the foil, then grabbing my dick. He slides the latex over me, his hands warm and rough, this moment weirdly perfect.
I cup his cheek and look him in the eye. “Are you sure?”
“Didn’t know I was this hard to read.” He clears his throat and says gravely, “Olu. Please put your dick in me before I do it myself.”
I’m still laughing when he falls back against the bed, dragging me with him. Even when we kiss, I’m laughing. Even as I add more lube, slicking his hole until it drips onto the sheets, I’m laughing—if a little breathlessly. But when I push the head of my cock against him and feel that slow, easy give, the laughter stops. When he takes it so fucking good with his fist shoved in his mouth and his face twisted with pleasure… oh, I’m not laughing then.
