by Lily Morton
I push down on him. “Don’t stop,” I say hoarsely. “Come in me, Mags.”
He grabs my hips, and slams into me a few times before giving a truncated groan. There’s a burst of heat inside me as he comes into the condom and then I fall forward, his arms immediately surrounding me and holding me tightly.
Eventually, I manoeuvre off him and fall to my back, staring up at the ceiling and gulping air.
“Well, I think you should definitely keep that ashtray on the bedside table, Mags. It obviously helps,” I mutter.
I steal a glance at him, and he starts to laugh, the sound loud and hearty in the quiet room and I can’t help but laugh too. He deals with the condom, tossing it rather cavalierly over the side of the bed, where he’ll probably step on it later. I repress a smile. I hope I see that happen. Then he rolls into me, throwing his arm over my stomach.
“Stay for a bit,” he orders.
“Well, just for a minute or so,” I whisper. “I’ve got to go through my ribbon box before I can sleep.”
He chuckles. “Make it a pretty one, sweetheart.”
I settle back into the pillows, enjoying the warmth of his body against mine, the hairs on his chest tickling my ribs and the dampness of his cock against my leg. The scent of sex is heady. I breathe in and close my eyes for a second.
I don’t know how long it is before I stir. Shit, I must have fallen asleep.
I push my hair back from my face and squint at the clock. It’s three in the fucking morning. So much for closing my eyes for a second. I haven’t slept this long in ages.
I look over at my bed partner. He’s lying on his side facing me, and the moonlight plays on his face, highlighting those high, broad cheekbones.
Asleep, he looks younger, the sharp lines of his face softened and lacking the vitality that usually infuses his expression. His hair has fallen over his forehead, and my fingers twitch with the urge to push it back. That impulse towards tenderness is utterly alien to me.
It’s an enjoyable novelty to be able to observe him without his face becoming amused and smug as if he’s caught me out in some weakness. I catalogue the lines of his body and the beauty of the hand outstretched towards me, looking somewhat innocent.
My fingers tingle, and the customary urge to draw swamps me. Over the last several months, this need has been magnified times a billion. The old, sweet, familiar lure of my art has now become a desperate compulsion.
I’m not going to sleep anymore, so I ease carefully out of bed, feeling a lovely twinge in my arse. Mags stirs, and I freeze for a second, but then he smacks his lips and turns to his other side. I let out a slow breath and creep out to the lounge, where I stoop to pick up my clothes that are strewn all over the room, evidence of the desperation that had seized us earlier.
I dress quickly and then let myself out. I pause for a second with my hand on the front door, seized with the contradictory desire to go back to his room, take off my clothes and slide into bed again. I could wake him up with his cock in my mouth and hear that breathy grunt he gives when he comes. I could let sex sweep me under to a place where I can’t think anymore.
I won’t do it, though, and, when I quietly shut the door, the click of the lock sounds somehow final. I make my way back to my flat, telling myself sternly to get over it. “It was just sex,” I whisper into the quiet hush. “Letting off steam. Put him out of your bloody head.”
But even as I grab my sketchbook and pencil, he’s front and centre in my mind. I exhale slowly and start to draw. My pencil moves quickly, and I lose myself in the quiet joy of drawing. It’s a familiar lifelong happiness made especially poignant at this moment in my life. When I’ve finished, I sit back and frown. On the cream-coloured paper, Mags lies stretched out naked amongst his messy sheets and lit by moonlight.
“Shit,” I say with feeling.
Chapter Twelve
Mags
I wake when the blinds pull back from the window and the room fills with early morning sunshine. I stretch out in the warm sheets, and memory slowly returns as my muscles protest at the movement. Smiling, I reach out across the bed, but there’s nobody there, and the sheets are cold to my touch. My eyes fly open, and I scowl at the empty stretch of bed. Where the fuck did Laurie go?
I look around the bedroom, but there’s no sign of him. I’m alone in the pristine environment of my bedroom and a shocking feeling of anger stirs inside me. He went without saying goodbye.
I’m being ridiculous. I don’t like men staying in my bed overnight. They make the bed hot and the room messy.
So why am I so cross? Not just cross—I’m furious. Laurie left me with no word of goodbye, creeping out of my flat like a thief while I was asleep. Worse, I’m remembering how I’d asked him to stay, curling around him, urging him to remain in my bed.
I groan and scrub my hands through my hair, telling myself to calm down. It doesn’t work.
I stalk through the flat a few minutes later, unshaven, barefoot, and dressed in just my shorts.
“Mr Carlsen,” my housekeeper gasps. “Are you alright? Are you ill?”
“I’m fine, Mrs Sinclair,” I call as I reach the front door. “I just have a small errand to do before I have breakfast.”
“But Mr Carlsen, you’ve forgotten your shoes.”
Her scandalised voice fades away as the door closes behind me. I march to Laurie’s flat and bang on the door. I wait a few seconds and then bang again. After hearing the familiar faltering footsteps, I knock three more times for good measure.
“Okay, hold your horses,” he grumbles. The door flies open, and he appears. The cross look on his face melts quickly away to shock. “Mags,” he says. He looks me up and down, and his lip twitches at my attire. “Oh, poor you. The dress code for court is so stuffy.”
I consider trading witty quips and immediately discount it in favour of action. I grab his face, cupping his jaw in my palms.
“What the—” His question becomes a groan as I kiss him.
That sultry sound is like a match dropped in a bucket of petrol. I shove him back against the door, plundering his mouth with furious kisses. All the tension leaves his frame, and he melts against me, his hands in my hair, pulling and tugging, as he sucks on my tongue.
I pull back, our mingled breaths coming hot and fast. “You left,” I say.
He hesitates. “I did. I needed to paint.”
I relax slightly, and his gaze slants away from mine. “I’m sorry,” he says. “I didn’t think you’d mind.”
The slight trace of pity in his voice makes me go hot all over with embarrassment. “Of course, I didn’t mind,” I say immediately, stepping back. “It was just a little rude. I don’t keep men, but I do like to say goodbye before they fuck off.”
It’s not the truth. It’s not even close. But when relief flashes over his face, I feel sick and dizzy, as if I’m in a lift that dropped too quickly. I’ve never been on this side of the conversation before. This must be how my hookups feel when I give them the brushoff in the morning. I’m just grateful I didn’t decorate my genitals.
“Shit,” he says. “I’m sorry. It was a bit rude of me.”
I shrug.
He laughs, his relief now obvious. “God, I thought for a second that you’d developed feelings.”
“Don’t be ridiculous,” I say through stiff lips. My whole body flushes hot and cold. Am I developing feelings? I shelve that horrific thought for later.
He shakes his head, and leaning in, he kisses me softly. He smells of paint and tastes of coffee. I want to grab him close and squeeze him, but I repress that terrible urge and step back. “Come and have breakfast,” I say, making my voice light and even.
“Is that a euphemism?” His smile is wicked.
I laugh, feeling easy once more. “Don’t be an idiot. Come and have breakfast, and then I need you today.”
“Is it as a receptacle for your penis?”
I roll my eyes. “That is the least attractive thing you’ve eve
r said to me, Laurie, which is really saying something.” He laughs. “No, I need you to come with me. I have to pick up Don today.”
A furrow forms between his eyebrows, but it vanishes as he smiles again. “Don? Is that one of your men?”
I raise my eyebrows. “No. Don as in Armageddon. The dog you made me buy. The shelter approved me yesterday, and today I am to collect him. This was your bright idea, so you can come with me and see it through.”
“Have you given any thought to naming him something else?”
“I will think about it,” I say in a lordly fashion. “Now, come and eat. You are skin and bone.”
Two hours later, I turn to him. “I think my name was entirely appropriate, yes?”
Laurie and the lady who works at the shelter observe the red setter merrily chewing up his blanket in his cage. Water is sprayed everywhere from his bowl, and the remains of some chew toy that wasn’t up to standard are strewn in the corner. Even as we watch, he sits up and starts to howl.
“Oh, look at him. Isn’t he sweet?” the lady gushes. “He’s saying hello to his new daddy.”
Laurie snorts, and I turn to look at her. “I’m sorry. His new what?”
“His daddy,” she says cheerfully, undoing the latch. “Now, you have to be quick to catch him because he’s a sod for running off. Yesterday, it took us three hours to get him back. The naughty little boy kept playing hide and seek. Oh, bugger!” she exclaims as a flash of red streaks past us. “He’s off again.”
I turn my head slowly to look at Laurie. He’s studiously ignoring me, but he’s also bright pink in the face. Probably from repressing laughter.
“Come here,” the lady cries. “Time to go home with daddy.”
The dog gives her an old-fashioned look and darts away. Laurie loses his battle and breaks into peals of laughter.
“I’m sorry,” he wheezes. “It isn’t funny. I’m sure he’ll settle.” He snorts and breaks into more laughter.
“I am no longer calling him Don,” I inform the idiot beside me. “He is now called Endof.”
“Ooh, that’s nice,” the lady calls. “Is it a Swiss word?”
Laurie bites his lip and I give the woman a blank look. “I am Danish,” I inform her. “And no. It is merely the conjunction of three words—end of days. I have shortened it to Endof.”
“Well, that’s lovely,” she says briskly. “Now grab the lead, and we’ll get your boy home. Tell him daddy wants him home.”
“I am going to repay you for this,” I say darkly to Laurie, who has tears in his eyes. I snap my fingers. “Come here, Endof,” I say loudly. The dog stops capering about and stares at me. “Now,” I say firmly. “Come.”
I hide my astonishment when he does exactly that. When I turn around, Laurie and the lady are staring at me. “One should have the touch,” I say airily. “They just need to know who their master is.”
“Okay, now I understand the twinks,” Laurie mutters. “It’s all in the tone of voice.”
I ignore the fool and follow the woman back to her office to complete the huge amount of paperwork that would only make sense if I was adopting Prince William. Eventually, we’re done and smiling my thanks to the woman, I make my way back to the car. Laurie falls into step next to Endof and me.
The dog pulls on his lead and makes an alarming choking noise. After we’ve stopped to ascertain that he isn’t dying but is instead apparently stupid, we set off again. Endof paces along shaking his head and looking around for a new opportunity to cause mayhem.
“So, what is next for us?” I enquire of Laurie. “Should I purchase a battering ram, and we can practise destroying my front door? Or maybe we could pour boiling oil over my furniture?”
His lip twitches and he reaches down to pet the dog, who immediately acts as if Laurie is a member of his long-lost family. “They all sound quite anarchic choices, Mags.”
I sigh. “That is all that is left to me now that we have Endof.”
“I could have sworn you just said we.”
“I did. This was your idea, so you’re going to help me.” I consider my upcoming schedule. “I have a trial in Nottingham starting soon. You may have Endof for the duration.”
“I may have him? You make it sound like I’m begging you for his company.”
I nod in a regal fashion. “You were. You were just doing it very quietly.”
“One might even say silently.”
“Ah, Laurie, after the way our bodies came together, our minds are as in tune as a couple of violins.”
There’s a stunned silence. I can’t help the uptick of my lips, and he shoves me. “Fuck you. You had me going there. A couple of violins? Mags, I’m beginning to think it’s a good job you’re so vehemently single if that’s your idea of romantic talk.”
“I have no idea what romantic talk is,” I say, opening the door of my car and letting Endof into the back seat. He immediately shakes himself violently sending hair and canine saliva all over the leather seats. I give a sigh of resignation and return to the conversation. “It’s not exactly something that has happened to me in my life.”
Laurie climbs into the passenger seat. “Nor me.”
I shoot him a glance. “Not even with the creators of your mixtapes?”
He looks bewildered for a second and then laughs. “Not really, seeing as the playlist consisted of songs like ‘I Wanna Sex You Up’ and ‘Fuck Forever’.”
I start the car and join the London weekend traffic.
“This is a nice car,” Laurie says, patting the leather seat.
“I don’t use it much. I prefer to walk or take the Tube.”
“You get on the Tube? You?”
“Why are you saying that in such a tone of disbelief?”
“Because you don’t look like you’d do public transport. It’s like Charles the First going to a hatmaker.”
“Your analogies are completely ridiculous.”
We both jump as Endof thrusts his head between us, panting happily.
“Aww, lickle baby,” Laurie croons. “He wants to be next to his daddy.”
“What an abhorrent selection of words,” I say in disgust.
Laurie pets the dog. “We need to get him a harness.”
“I have so many questions now,” I murmur.
He chuckles. “He needs a harness, a lead, food bowls, and something to secure him in the car so he can’t get hurt. He’ll also need a check-up and a health certificate.”
“Why? Is he taking a job with the government?”
“You need it if you’re travelling with him now that we’re not in Europe.”
I consider that and then nod. “Yes, we’ll need that. Get on your phone and see if there’s a vet around here.”
“Aye-aye, captain.”
“And start making a list,” I say, ignoring his sarcasm. “It’s like taking a baby home,” I say as Endof licks my ear. “That is disgusting,” I inform him, but he just gives me a doggy grin.
“Never wanted children, then?” he asks, tapping away on his phone.
“I’d rather have syphilis.” He snorts with laughter, and I elaborate. “I’d be a terrible father, and the idea of being responsible for a small person is horrific.”
“You’re going to be responsible for Endof,” he points out and then shakes his head. “I’m pretty sure the poor dog will end up looking after you anyway.”
I give that statement the attention it deserves, which is nothing. “How about you?” I ask. “No desire for little Lauries?”
He wrinkles his nose in a way that should not be as charming as it is. “Nope. I like my life the way it is. No ties. No expectations. No one will perish because I decide to spend two days working on a picture without stopping for food. I’ll settle for spoiling my nephews and nieces.”
“We agree, then,” I murmur. “You do need to eat properly, though,” I inform him. “One cannot work properly if you don’t have sufficient fuel.”
“I’m not a Vauxhall Corsa.�
�
“Definitely not. They’re far less trouble.”
He chuckles and then becomes occupied in directing me to the vet’s, his voice a warm drawl in my ear.
An hour later finds us in a waiting room. Endof is sitting demurely at my feet. His appearance is severely misleading as he’s just spent the last hour howling at all the animals within his radius and has probably severely traumatised a gerbil. Consequently, everyone in the room is giving us a wide berth.
Laurie sits back in his seat, his leg crossed over his knee and his foot jiggling. I’ve come to know that he cannot sit still and must constantly be jiggling some body part or moving around. My mother was much the same. I wonder if he’s still when he paints. He’s reading a magazine about dogs and enjoying himself by throwing facts at me.
“Did you know that dogs can sniff at the same time as they breathe?”
“I did not,” I say, petting Endof when he forces his head into my hand. “I also didn’t know that a greyhound could beat a cheetah in a race, and dogs have a preferred paw, and all the other useless information you’ve provided me with.”
“You should read more,” he says in a serious voice, flicking over another page.
“I do,” I say patiently. “Because of yet another dictate from you. I’m reading the third book you made me buy.”
He looks up, instantly interested. “Do you like it?”
I hesitate before saying, “I don’t not like it.”
“Such peerless literary criticism.”
I roll my eyes. “I have a lot on my mind. Fiction doesn’t help with that.”
He looks suddenly concerned. “What’s the problem, Mags?”
“Could it possibly be that my name isn’t Mags?”
“No. Try again.”
“It’s nothing really.” Endof eyes a Persian cat in an expensive-looking carrying case, and I nudge him with my knee. “No,” I say. “Not in a million years.” He pants, giving me what looks very much like a dog smile accompanied by wild eyes and a crazed air. “You are a monster,” I inform him. I turn back to Laurie to find him watching me. “What?”