by Lily Morton
“Speak for yourself,” his mum scoffs. “I’ve had a bet with Sam, Aidan, and Kate since you were thirteen.”
“Oh my God,” I say faintly.
She hugs me. “I’m so happy,” she whispers into my ear. “So happy.”
“Why?”
“Because no one knows him like you, Charlie.” She swallows. “No one will ever care for him like you. I know he’s safe with you.”
“He is.”
“And you’re safe with him. It’s perfect.” She turns to Misha. “Don’t fuck this up, Misha Lebedinsky.”
“Me?” he says indignantly. “Why would I fuck it up?”
She arches her eyebrows. “Because Charlie is the loveliest man you’ll ever meet. You won’t find anyone like him ever again. He’s also immeasurably better tempered than you.”
Misha shakes his head. “Shows what you know,” he says.
“I am better tempered,” I protest.
He pats my cheek. “Course you are, dear. Course you are.”
Jackie laughs. “Oh, this is so brilliant. We’re going to have so much fun. The girls and I will show you our outfits and then we can see the two of you in your suits.” She leans closer. “They’re serving champagne.”
Misha watches as a sales assistant wheels over a huge rack of clothing. “Oh, what a wonderful Saturday morning,” he says sourly. “That champagne had better be in a Nebuchadnezzar. It’s the only way I’ll get through this.”
“Drama queen,” I say affectionately and let him draw me into his family.
Chapter Fifteen
Charlie
I crouch over Misha, panting and riding his cock hard. I can already feel the tell-tale tingle in my balls, and I lean back, clutching his thighs and feeling my hair hit the sweaty skin on my back. “Oh God,” I groan.
I spread my legs wide and strong hands grip my hips, guiding the fast and dirty grind I’ve instigated. Misha grunts as I squeeze my muscles tight around his cock. “Fuck,” he mutters and gives a low stuttered groan as his cock jerks inside me. I watch his face contort, his mouth open as he pants through his climax, and then I close my eyes as he grabs my dick in his big hand, and I spurt over his fingers.
For a long few minutes, the room is silent as we lie panting and occasionally groaning as aftershocks hit us, and then I grab the base of his cock, securing the condom as I lever off him.
We both moan, and I collapse into the sheets next to him as he removes the condom and ties a knot in it before throwing it into the bin next to the bed.
“I’ll clean up in a minute,” I mutter.
“No need.” He grabs the base of the duvet and dabs my stomach and hand before wiping his dick. I chuckle and he shoots me a look, his eyes bright in his face. “What?”
“Haven’t you ever read any romance novels, Misha? This is the point at which you’d go into the bathroom and get a wet towel and then clean me tenderly.”
“How do you clean someone tenderly?” he asks, mystification rich in his voice.
I smile. “I’ll give you a clue. Not with bedsheets.”
“Charlie, we’re going to stick this in the wash today anyway, and it’s king size.” He spreads his hands and shrugs. “Better than an itty-bitty Kleenex. At least you’re properly clean and not lying in a wet patch.”
He reaches over and adjusts the massive pile of books that have quickly accumulated on my bedside table since I’ve been spending every night in his bed. “This is like the Leaning Tower of fucking Pisa, Charlie,” he says disapprovingly. “One day, this will collapse and fall on you. It will instantly knock you out, and it will all be the fault of you and your bookworm tendencies, and I shall make sure to tell you that.”
“I need to read them,” I protest. “They’re the Printz Book Award entries.”
“Even worse,” he sniffs.
I look at him and smile. “You don’t like the Printz Award? Well, quelle surprise.”
He sits up to examine the top book, putting his hand out as the stack teeters. He shoots me a speaking glance, and I laugh. “Look at this,” he scoffs. “So pretentious. I always think the top book awards are like that story of the emperor’s new clothes.”
“Someone wanders around naked?” I ask, mystified.
He rolls his eyes. “No, just loads of top literary critics who proclaim that a book is good and everyone else immediately jumps up to say they agree, because they don’t want to argue with an expert and they want to appear literary. I prefer the awards voted for by readers. More honest.”
“Why didn’t I think of that?” I say slowly. “I’m going to do a library book award and make up displays. We can have weekly voting.”
“Less librarianing and more loving,” he advises me quickly, because he obviously recognises that I’m about to become swept up with ideas. He smiles at my grunt of disapproval and throws himself next to me before reaching down as my legs spread automatically. I give a happy sigh as he pets the skin around my hole before pushing a couple of fingers gently inside me. I hate the emptiness when we’ve finished fucking, and he knows it.
He kisses my neck and then my mouth before giving a contented rumble. After a few minutes, he removes his fingers and draws me next to him to lie in a patch of sunlight.
I nudge him. “Nice day for a white wedding.”
He groans. “Please don’t say that, Billy Idol.”
“But it is. Especially when it’s your mum.”
“Oh God,” he says faintly. “Charlie, can’t we say I have flu and can’t make it?”
“Even if you had flu she’d still expect you to walk her down the aisle.”
“What about Ebola? Would that matter to Bridezilla?”
I laugh. “Jackie isn’t Bridezilla. She’s very chilled.” I nudge him again. “You’re the one having a meltdown.”
“I do not have meltdowns,” he says, sounding highly indignant. Then he catches my eye and laughs. “It was so much easier when I was sleeping with men I didn’t know. They couldn’t lecture me in any way.”
I still. “Do you mean that?”
He shoots me a surprised look. “Of course I fucking don’t. You know that.” He pauses. “You do know that, don’t you, Charlie?”
We’re interrupted when his alarm sounds, and a few seconds later the radio comes on. Misha has always hated the sound of an alarm. “Magic” by Coldplay starts to play, and I smile, rolling on top of Misha.
“What are you doing?” he asks, giving me the sleepy smile that’s so special. It’s soft, the edges blurred with sleep and a good orgasm, and I love that I’m the one who gets to see it.
I smile determinedly down at him. “This is my song for you,” I say.
He cocks his head to one side. “Does Chris Martin know that you’ve nicked it?”
I pinch his side. “I mean it.”
He stills and looks at me. “What?”
I take a deep breath. “The words of the song. I really mean them.”
He cocks his head to one side, listening for a few minutes, and then he smiles at me, pulling me down to kiss him. “Really?” he asks almost bashfully.
“Really,” I whisper. “My song for you.”
We look into each other’s eyes as Chris Martin sings about love. It’s a word that hasn’t passed our lips since we’ve entered this new phase of our relationship. I’ve skirted close a couple of times, because of course I love him. How could I not?
He’s always been the most important person in my life, but I’d always thought that eventually, I’d have to make my partner number one. I never thought Misha would occupy both spots, and I’ve never been happier. He’s everything to me now—best friend, lover, sounding board, and cheerleading squad.
However, because it’s so good I’m also half waiting for the other shoe to drop. It’s a fact that Misha has never stuck around long enough with any of his lovers to develop feelings. Will he be scared if I tell him what I feel? It’s a strange situation in that he’s the first person I tell my worries
to and now he’s part of the problem.
He looks up at me and smiles.
“What’s your song for me?” I ask, rather abruptly.
“Erm, let me think.” He winks. “‘I Wanna Sex You Up.’” I frown, and he laughs. “No, hang on, it’s ‘Fuck Forever’ by the Libertines.” I manoeuvre off him, stung, and his laughter dies immediately. “No, wait,” he says. “Where are you going, Charlie?”
I stand up. “For a shower.”
“No, don’t go.”
His words fade away as the aura rises, clouding all my senses. The next moment, darkness descends.
When I come to, I lie there for a second, taking stock of the situation. I’m completely naked, as is Misha. He’s sitting on the floor cradling my head in his lap and stroking my hair, and I know he’s been talking. I’ve lost track of the number of times I’ve come round to hear the comforting rumble of his voice. But this is the first time it’s happened when we’ve been naked, and I’m oddly embarrassed and vulnerable—feelings I’ve never had around Misha before.
“Hey, you,” he says softly. “You’re back.”
I struggle up to a sitting position, feeling his hands support me. His touch and his voice are easy and soothing, but I feel a wave of shyness cover me, and I stagger to a standing position and climb onto the bed. I reach for the duvet, and he tucks it carefully around me.
“You alright?” he asks, stroking my hair back.
I swallow, grimacing at the horrible taste in my mouth, and he reaches for my water, helping me to a sitting position and pressing the glass into my hands.
“How long was I out?” I croak.
“Only a couple of minutes,” he says brightly.
How is it that he’s so at ease when I’m not? Oblivious to my strange turmoil, he carries on talking. “I caught you before you went down, so you never banged anything.”
Silence stretches, becoming almost awkward, and a frown appears on his face.
“Thank you,” I say finally, sipping my drink and trying to parse my mood. It seems to be hovering somewhere between gratitude and mortification and maybe nestling into a bit of grumpiness. My mum always described it as being out of sorts, and that’s exactly how I feel right now.
I know Misha has always taken care of me during the turns with no sign of any turmoil and I’ve never felt a jot of embarrassment, even when I pissed myself once. But I’m not sure how I feel to have him taking care of me now that we’re lovers. If I were a cat, my fur would be raised.
I open my mouth to say something to break the silence, but instead I yawn widely. My head is throbbing.
“Why don’t you sleep?” Misha says. His voice is confident and warm, and his expression fond. He pushes my hair back. “You always feel terrible after one of these turns.”
“I need to record it,” I mutter. “For Freda.”
“Will she up your meds?”
“I don’t bloody know,” I snap. Where did that come from? “Sorry,” I mumble, grabbing his hand as he goes to move away. “I just want to be rid of them. I want them to stop like they did last time.”
“But Freda said it would take time to get you stabilised again and this is the first time you’ve had one in a week. That’s good, isn’t it?” he says coaxingly like he’s talking to a seven-year-old.
“I suppose so,” I whisper and close my eyes, the image of me lying naked in front of him while I had a seizure playing in my head. Not exactly sexy. For a split second I think of all the perfect-looking men who’ve patrolled through his life. Immediately, I wince and force my eyes open.
He’s watching me steadily. “Why don’t you stay in bed?” he says softly. “Get some sleep.”
“But the wedding?”
“But nothing. You’re more important than anyone. I want you feeling okay, and you never do after a turn. You can come to the reception later.”
“Not so important that you can think of a song,” I mutter and push the duvet back.
“What?” he asks.
“Nothing,” I grumble, unsure who the crosspatch is who’s inhabiting my body at the moment.
He steps back and holds up his hands. “Okay, grumpypants, I’m going to start the shower. We’ll shower together this morning if that’s okay. You still look a bit out of it.”
“How sexy,” I huff and take myself off to the bathroom, feeling my mood wobble a bit more when I see that he’s laid my medication out on the counter with another glass of water. With other boyfriends, I’d have been charmed by this evidence of care, but now it’s Misha, and I just want to scream. Confident, charming Misha who could have anyone and definitely a bloke who won’t have to take medication for the rest of his life.
I swallow down the confused rage and take the tablets, forcing a smile for him.
I make the smile stay there while we shower together, and he washes my hair tenderly as I lean against him. I want to be Charlie Sunshine for him. I’ve done it for all my other boyfriends, and as I love him so much more than anyone, I need to do it better for him. I want him to have fun with me, not be bogged down by everything. So, I plaster a smile on and hug him as he rinses my hair.
My smile falters slightly when he fastens my epilepsy bracelet over my wrist and lifts my wrist, kissing the veins softly. I want to at once throw myself into his arms and also drag my hand away from his and lock myself in the bedroom until I can get my thoughts clear.
Unfortunately, there’s no chance of doing that as we have to leave for the wedding. This day does not have a good feel to it.
The wedding is beautiful. It’s held in a small South London church, and I watch with tears in my eyes as Misha leads his mum down the aisle towards her new husband. Misha looks wonderful in his morning suit, the striped trousers clinging to the long muscles in his legs and the grey frock coat emphasising the width of his shoulders. But it’s his expression that captures most of my attention. Proud and calm and with a faint echo of piss-taking. It’s in the tilt of his lips and those blue eyes. Like he’s laughing inside at some joke that nobody else can hear. He shoots me a sudden look as they walk past and drops me a wink, and I feel my spirits rise. Maybe I can hear the joke too.
The reception is being held at a small boutique hotel in Kensington, and the food is gorgeous, although I pick at mine. I typically feel low-level nausea after a turn, and today is no exception. My stomach roils, and admitting defeat on the dessert, I put my spoon and fork down. Luckily, Misha is at the family top table and can’t see how little I’ve eaten, so I won’t get a lecture.
I look around the table where I’m seated. It’s filled with three couples who I think are related to Jim, Jackie’s new husband. After introductions were made, they’ve mostly occupied themselves by talking together. I was supposed to be sitting with Aidan, as my dad is at a university function, but Aidan had an emergency come up at work and will be here later. I don’t mind. I can’t find much conversation in me. If I opened my mouth, I’d probably beg to lie down, so it’s best all-round that I don’t.
My attention is raised when one of the women says Misha’s name. I glance up to see two of my tablemates staring at the top table. “That’s Jackie’s son,” one of the women, a redhead, says. “He’s very handsome.”
The other woman shrugs, her dark hair starting to slip out of its updo. “Not surprising. Jackie’s pretty, and have you seen the girls?”
The redhead nods. “Their father must have been something,” she muses. “Judging by the son.” She laughs, a light tinkling sound that irritates me even though laughter usually makes me smile. “Adam’s mesmerised, anyway.”
I frown as I notice Misha is in deep conversation with the man who’s been sitting next to him for the meal. He’s a good-looking man in his mid-twenties with longish dark hair and a light tan. I think he’s some relation of Jim’s. Maybe a nephew. Whoever he is, he’s obviously very interested in what Misha has to say, leaning forward far too close and laughing a lot. I swallow. I know the look on Misha’s face. I’ve seen
it many times in our past.
The dark-haired lady’s voice intrudes. “He’s a good speaker anyway. His speech was very funny.”
I smile because it had been a lovely speech. Very typical Misha. He’s entirely at ease about speaking in public, and, while toasting his mum and Jim, he’d been wry, yet still warm and affectionate.
The redhead chuckles. “Made me laugh, that bit about laying down his responsibilities now that Jim has entered the family. I expect it’s a relief for him after looking after his mum and sisters for so long.”
The other woman looks towards the table again. “Well, if Adam has anything to do with it, he won’t be alone tonight.” She shrugs. “Adam’s a good catch for Misha. He’s got a good job in the city. I think he just came back from Barcelona.”
My smile dies as I look up at the table where Misha is laughing at something this “good catch” has said. A waiter delivers two shots to them, and I watch wistfully as they grin and throw them down. He can’t do that with me. I’ll never be able to drink again.
His words from the speech ring in my ears—the ones about laying down responsibilities—and suddenly my dark mood from earlier descends, landing on my shoulders with a heavy weight. What on earth is Misha doing with me? I could possibly be the biggest responsibility he’s ever had, and he’s jumping right in without a second thought.
I look at Adam again. He’s dressed expensively, and he wears the same look of effortless confidence that Misha does. He’s just back from Barcelona. The only place I’ve just got back from is Southwark Public Library.
I realise that I’ve got to my feet when the chair makes a squealing noise, and conversation at the table stops. “Sorry,” I say, running my hand through my hair and feeling strands dislodge from my ponytail. “Just nipping out for a second.” They smile nicely and go back to their conversations, and I scarper.
I’m making my way to the bathrooms off the reception area when I hear Misha call my name. For an instant, I actually consider bolting, but I make myself stand still and wait for him to catch up.