Work for It, page 21
“Holy fuck,” I hiss, my hands cradling his face, my hips jerking because I can’t control myself right now. He sucks me so hard, so wet, and those eyes, those eyes—I hit the back of his throat and he swallows. My knees are weak. My vision’s starting to blur a little bit. I slide a hand from his face to his throat, so I can feel the muscles working my cock, and he moans like he likes it. I know he likes it. So I squeeze a little bit, and Olu sucks some more, until his face is pressed against my body and I’m buried in him. I could pass out right now.
Instead, I watch as he pulls slowly back, leaving my dick cool and glossy. His lips are slick and he’s breathing hard when he lets me go—but it’s only a second before he sucks me deep again.
The next time he comes up for air, I whisper, “Let me.”
He opens his mouth and I feed him my length, inch by inch. His eyes are green fire, wide and wild, his pupils blown like he’s high on me.
“You’re beautiful,” I tell him. My thumb strokes his face. My cock drowns against his wet, eager tongue. I can hear him gagging on it, just a little, and I murmur, “Do you like that?”
When he moans again, I feel the vibrations down to my balls.
“You want me to take you upstairs?”
He nods around a mouthful of me.
I take a risk because time is running out and I want, I want, I want. My voice cracks as I ask, “You want me to fuck you?”
He pulls back, taking a single breath before his words tumble out. “You can fuck me anywhere.”
“Good,” I say simply, but inside I’m all relief.
If I had it my way, I’d spend the rest of my life bending Olu over kitchen tables or taking him outside and shoving him against trees. But what I have is a week, a rare opportunity, a handful of soon-to-be memories and a man who doesn’t know I love him.
Because I do. I pull him to his feet, and he gives me one of those precious, private grins and kisses my cheek with the mouth that just sucked my dick, and I absolutely love him. I love his ice and I love his fire, I love his distance and I love his trust, and I love his sharp words and his secretly soft heart. I love him, and if I told him, he’d probably have a heart attack and run a mile.
I tow him upstairs and shove him onto the bed—the same bed where I’ll lie alone after he leaves, haunted by the scent of him and the memories. But I won’t think about that now, not when he’s here and hard and grabbing me with hands that shake. Hungry; he’s hungry. I know it because I feel it too. We stumble out of our clothes and in five minutes flat I’m on top of him, sliding my cock against his, aching with the possibility of it all.
“Tell me how you want it.”
“Hard,” he says.
“Do you think—?”
He grabs a fistful of my hair and growls, “Hard.”
Alright; that’s what I’ll give him. But I’ll take care of him too. I find the lube, a condom, and then I flip him over. “Your ribs,” I start.
“Are fine,” he insists, and the bruises do look faded. So I pin him, giving him my weight because something tells me he’ll like it. Moving down his body, I press my forearm tight against his lower back as I get him wet and ready for me. My slick fingers glide over his arse, his skin gleams and his body arches, and every moan he makes goes straight to my dick. I ease a finger into him and feel his heat pulling at me, dragging me deeper. My head dips, my teeth sinking into his hip while he chokes out my name, and I’ve never felt as fucking good as I do in this moment.
“More,” he pants, “Griff—”
He’s okay. He’s okay, so I give him another finger, and another, fucking him open fast and reckless. Like he wants it. Like he trusts me to give it to him. “Tell me,” I order, because I need to know. “Tell me it’s good.”
“It’s fucking good, Griff. You’re—good—for me.” He probably meant to say that all sharp and in control, but it comes out breathless and needy in a way that ruins me.
“You are so fucking perfect,” I tell him, and it’s only the truth. “You’re perfect, Olu.” I curve my fingers inside him and rub at his sweet spot until he can’t say another word, until every exhalation sounds more like a sob. Then I pull out and spread him wide, look at how I’ve wrecked him.
“Alright,” I murmur. “Now you can have my dick.”
He reaches back with one demanding hand, grabbing my thigh and dragging me closer while I fumble with the condom. Finally, I’m wrapped up and splayed on top of him, my cock gliding between his slick cheeks. For a second I wonder if I’m too heavy—
“Hold me down,” he orders, no room for argument. “I want…”
“You want to feel me, babe?”
The way he whispers “Yes,” does something dangerous to my heart.
His head is turned to the side, and I press his face against the pillow with one hand, pinning his hip with the other. “Arch your back.” When he obeys beautifully, I tease his hole with the fat head of my dick, giving him just the tip until he’s almost spitting.
“You fucking bastard,” he growls, bucking beneath me. But I’m bigger than him.
“This is what you want,” I tell him, and he doesn’t disagree—he can’t disagree. But he can call me an evil shit and swear that, “If you don’t fuck me now, Griff, I will ruin your life.”
“I find it really hot when you threaten me.” My dick pulses like it’s testifying.
“Fuck me, then,” Olu snaps, but there’s a desperate edge to his voice, and he’s rutting against the sheets like he can’t stop. “Fuck me.” This time he’s begging, and that’s more than enough to break me.
When I finally give in, it’s bliss. His body is all tender, demanding heat, clenching around my cock like a fist. I press my face against his shoulder and shove the last few inches of my shaft inside him, hearing his breath hitch as I thrust. He’s chanting my name into the pillow like I’m a god. Sometimes he makes me feel like one. And even though it’s reckless, even though it’s fucking pointless, I can’t stop myself from whispering into his skin, “I love you.”
For a moment, every inch of him freezes—but there’s no ice to it, somehow, and a second later, he’s relaxed again. He lifts his hips and fucks himself back on me, and we both make this low, strangled sound of pleasure at the same time. Being inside him is like touching the centre of the earth. Being with him in any way is like dying and going to heaven. Olu is everything.
“I love you,” I say again, biting out the words like they’re a crime or an insult. That’s how he’ll treat them. Maybe that’s why, a moment later, I grab his hips and fuck him hard. If I give him this, give him what he asked for, he won’t have a chance to catch his breath and tell me I’m a twat. I go up on my knees and pound him into the mattress, and he grunts with every thrust, slamming his palm against the headboard so hard it reverberates through the frame. He’s skin and sweat and salt and right now he’s mine, all mine. He’s holding on to me so tight, grabbing any part of me he can reach with a desperation that feels like being loved back. Every beat of my heart is twice as powerful now and twice as important, because it works for both of us. Everything I am is cradled in the palm of his hand, and I can’t even make myself be afraid.
So when Olu comes with a low, drawn-out moan that shivers like surrender, what am I supposed to do? I lose whatever threads of control I had left, grab his shoulders, and drag him closer as I fuck him deep. It’ll never be deep enough—I want to live inside him, the only place in this world I could ever be safe, even if I’m too big to fit. Three hard thrusts, and my release bursts over me like a shockwave. The pleasure’s so intense it’s almost painful, and then I’m lying halfway on top of him—so I don’t crush him too badly—kissing the perfect curve that is the back of his head.
As we lie there, messy and weak and gulping down air, I say for the third time, “I love you.” Three times makes it magic, that’s what my mother taught me.
Finally, he responds, and he sounds achingly sad. “Don’t.” But he turns in my arms and kisses my jaw, my cheeks, my temple, again and again and again. “Griff. Don’t.”
How can I not?
15
Olu
That night, I sit at Maria’s kitchen table feeling like a lump of clay. I suppose it’s better than feeling like an alien; at least clay is from the earth.
“Are you alright, darling?” Maria asks, giving me an odd look from her place at the kitchen sink. She is scrubbing her daughter’s football boots. Watching her makes me think of Elizabeth, and the nights we spent dyeing pink pointe shoes brown.
“I’m fine,” I tell Maria and myself. I simply miss my sister and all the friends I’ve been avoiding. Or perhaps I’m dehydrated because Griff drained every last drop of come from my body. I should take a sip of the cordial we made together, which I’ve brought round to share with Maria, but every time I taste it I remember licking raspberry juice off Griff’s forehead, and I hear him saying in that gravelly voice, “I love you.”
No, no, no, no, no. I cannot think about that. I refuse.
“You don’t seem fine,” Maria says, and I wonder if the easy bluntness of Fernley residents has something to do with the north/south divide.
“Well, I am,” I insist. “Why don’t you sit down and let me clean those boots?”
“Every time you come here, it’s, Maria, let me wash your dishes. Maria, let me mop your floor. Maria, let me wipe your arse. Behave yourself!”
“I just like to help,” I mutter.
“Relax. How’s Griff?”
Well, that was a subtle subject change. The woman has all the finesse of a brick wall. “You mustn’t ask me questions like that.”
“And why not?” she snorts.
Because they make me feel guilty.
But that’s ridiculous. I have nothing to feel guilty about. I didn’t tell him to fall in love with me, and really, who falls in love with me anyway? He has only himself to blame. He really, truly, does. Besides which, I highly doubt it’s a permanent condition. He’ll be fine as soon as I’m gone.
Maria is watching me over her shoulder with too-sharp eyes, so I decide to change the subject. Unfortunately, it seems my mind has become one-track. “You do know I’m leaving soon, don’t you?”
“Of course I know. You live in my flat.”
Ah. Yes. I wince a little, though I’m not certain why.
Until she adds, “Although, that’s not why it’s been on my mind.”
I cock my head. “On your mind?”
“Yes. I don’t particularly want you to leave.” She puts a squeaky-clean football boot—not that they were especially dirty to begin with—on the draining board, and turns around to face me. “I do realise you have to go. But I will miss you, love.”
“Miss me?” I echo, sounding woefully confused. It’s just that… well. I think Maria’s rather wonderful, especially in all the ways I’m not, so the fact that she likes me in return is something of a surprise.
But then I catch myself and think—Why? I have wonderful friends, friends I pacify with the odd text when I’m down and distant, friends who let me do that but make it clear they’ll be there the instant I call. I have the respect of people I respect in turn, countless times over, so it suddenly seems illogical to believe I don’t deserve it.
My fingers flex, searching subconsciously for a pen. I need to hash this out in my journal. But first I have to tell Maria that, “I’ll miss you, too. I really, really will.”
She smiles, the sort of encouraging smile I’ve seen her use with her children, which makes me think I might be missing something. When I stare blankly at her, clearly not grasping what, she laughs and rolls her eyes. “That’s nice to hear, Keynes—but I’m assuming we’ll still be friends, after you go, and I’ll see you again.” Perhaps that’s supposed to be a question, but she says it rather firmly.
And it’s easier than I expected to reply, “Yes. Yes, of course we will.” I sit back, pleased with myself. That felt rather like progress.
Then Maria ruins it all by adding, “Or maybe you’ll fall wildly in love with Griff and stay here forever.”
I pick up my glass of cordial from the worn kitchen table, trying to cover my reaction. That reaction being: pain. Burning, intense pain. “You are grossly overestimating the depth of my relationship with Griff.” It’s the biggest lie to ever leave my mouth, but I can’t admit the truth, now, can I? I can’t say that staying with him sounds like a fantasy, or that the reality scares me. I can’t tell her that watching Griff know me better and better, and love me less and less, would end me. The knowledge is carved into my tired, useless heart, and that’s enough. This happiness I’ve found with Griffin is as sweet as sugar, and it will dissolve just as fast. Happiness tends to do that, I’ve found.
“How disappointing,” Maria frowns. “I was hoping I could keep you.”
“I’m afraid not. But you have my number. If you don’t call me,” I say darkly, “I will call you.”
“That was ominous,” she smirks.
“It was supposed to be.”
Her laughter warms me right through. There in my friend’s quiet kitchen, I feel a little bit strong. But later, when I crawl into my bed alone, I find a thousand weaknesses waiting to devour me. You don’t have to leave this behind. You don’t believe Maria will wake up one day and find she despises you, so why believe it of Griff?
I tell the weaknesses sternly, Empirical research. I can’t make foolish choices just because my feelings about myself have started to improve. Friendship and intimacy are two different things, and one of those things has consistently proved beyond me. But the weaknesses swear that Griff isn’t like everyone else, that we’re something entirely different together, something precious, never-before-seen under this sun. Something perfectly us.
Griff
Time slips through my fingers like fine soil. It’s running out. He’s running out. We’re running out.
I spend most of the weekend with Olu, and every work day after that, and it’s bliss—but he never stays the night. I love him as hard as I can, and I think he drinks it down through thirsty roots, but his petals stay curled up tight. He’s my shy rose, or he would be, if he were my anything. But he’s not, because he’s still leaving.
I know he cares about me. I know he does—I feel it in his hands, the way he traces his fingertips over my skin when we lie together. So why can’t I open my mouth and ask him what will happen to us?
On Sunday, his sister calls him while we’re walking home, and his face changes completely when he hears her voice. I thought he was golden before, but with her, he’s the centre of the fucking sun. He says Elizabeth the way my mum used to chant spells under the moon, he asks about the baby so desperately, I know he wishes he was home, and it’s painfully clear that I will lose this war no matter how hard I love him. Olu has an entire life I’ll never touch, and he’ll never ask me to.
The reminder makes me wonder what, exactly, I have. More and more, the answer feels like ‘not much’. Rebecca shows me furniture and job listings, and I help her choose patterns and draft cover letters. It turns out that the harvest was incredible, but my satisfaction is a gnat bite; I am not fulfilled. I tell Henry about it, and he shows up on Wednesday to hold a staff meeting congratulating us—but mostly he congratulates himself. He avoids looking at me all together, like the sin of asking for credit has turned me see-through, and I realise that a lot of people look at me like that. As if I’m see-through.
Thursday night, I take my mother’s ashes to the woods and try to put her in the earth. Just like ten years ago, I can’t. Olu rubs soothing circles over my back and takes me home again, and the way he holds me in my bed should make me happy—but all I can think is that it should be our bed. There should be an our bed and there never will be. I want to punch Henry’s smug face in; I want to roar at every villager who looks right through me; I want to shake the ones who watch me as if I’m a rabid dog.
I want to burn the woods Mum used to love, because I walk through them now and I can’t even see her ghost anymore.
Have I always been this unhappy, or is Olu drugging every cup of tea he makes me? Maybe there’s dissatisfaction sitting right under his tongue and I’ve been drinking it like cordial.
Oh-fucking-well. I’ll spend the rest of my life remembering how good he tastes.
Olu
As my last week in Fernley slips past, I should be irritated by Griff’s charged silences, by the way he looks at me when he thinks I won’t notice—with this dull, hopeless pain that rips my heart to shreds. I should be lashing out at him the way he’ll inevitably lash out at me.
But I’m not.
I soak in all his little hurts and they feel like mine. They are mine, though I’m much better at hiding them. For such a quiet man, Griff now wears his heart audaciously on his sleeve, and I wish awfully that I was brave enough to touch it. But I suppose that’s what it all comes down to: I’m not.
On our last Saturday morning together, I show up at his door like the desperate thing I am, hiding my growing panic behind a pathetic smile. Lately, my mind is sharper than ever, emotions painfully intense rather than cotton-dull. Blame it on the pills; I certainly am. This is what I wanted, but it feels like being infected by rogue programming. I keep having thoughts I didn’t authorise. Thoughts like, Leaving him isn’t smart; it’s cowardly. Thoughts like, You should love him enough to take a risk. Thoughts like, Are you sure forever isn’t standing right in front of you?
Griff opens the door and drags me into his arms, scattering my confusion. When he kisses me, all I can feel is perfect. Then he lets me go and reality returns. “So,” he says, and I can’t read his expression. “Tomorrow.”
Ah.
Behind him, his kitchen is cool and fragrant as ever, rich with green things. I can see by the raspberries and sliced lemons on the counter that he’s busy, can smell the sugar on him, and want to run my tongue over his skin in case I can taste it too. In an ideal world, I would join him and mess up whatever genius recipe he’s devising. We’d shower together when we were done, and doze the afternoon away, and maybe I’d take him somewhere in the evening. Somewhere far away from here, so he could see things I don’t think he’s seen before. In an ideal world, I would be and do whatever Griffin Everett needed. In an ideal world, I’d be brave.
