The Man He Needs

by Sarah Masters

  “It’s okay,” he says, to himself, I know.

  “The kitchen?” I raise my eyebrows, acting as though this is totally normal behaviour. And it is, isn’t it? We just happened to do things arse about face. “I could kill for a cup of tea.”

  He glances at me, the look asking whether that was just a random comment or whether I had plans to knife him in the back while he’s filling the kettle.

  “I’ll make it,” I say. “Gives me a chance to find out where everything’s kept.”

  He smiles, shoulders sagging, though he doesn’t fully relax them.

  I get it. I do.

  In the kitchen—all modern appliances, I hadn’t expected anything less—I turn the tap and fill the black and chrome kettle. Poke about in cupboards for the tea bags because he’s gone for the minimalistic approach. No tea, coffee, or sugar caddies here. I find the spoons in the draw under the sink unit and stop myself from turning around to see what he’s doing. I need him to see me casually working away, no tension in my muscles, no jerky movements. If I turn, he’ll probably think I’m keeping tabs on him, waiting for him to let his guard down before I streak out of here as if my arse is on fire.

  Tea’s made. Now I turn around, a steaming cup in each hand. He’s sitting, folded arms resting on the tabletop, cheek against them. He’s watching me. Damn, he looks so weary, like his tears have worn him the fuck out.

  “Here,” I say, passing a cup to him, no idea whether he prefers his tea with milk and sugar but I’ve added it all the same. I sit, smile, and have a sip of mine. It’s been ages since I did something for myself, and it didn’t feel weird doing it in someone else’s place either. It’s like I belong here, that this is home.

  “Thanks.” He lifts his head as though it’s heavy and takes hold of his cup. “I… I’m sorry. So sorry.”

  “Hey, it’s okay. Forget it. I have.” I sip again. Fuck, that’s hot.

  He cocks his head. “How can you say that, be like this after what I’ve done?”

  “Told you. I’m staying. Not getting rid of me.”

  “This is fucked up.” He frowns.

  “No, we’re fucked up, but who gives a shit?”

  He laughs then, shaking his head, and I hope he’s started to let himself believe just a little bit.

  “We’ll drink this,” I say, “and then you can show me the rest of the house. Only if you want to, though.”

  “I want.”

  We drink in silence, watching each other, me taking in the sight of him and how that sight makes me feel, wondering if he’s doing the same thing. It’s like we don’t need words. Both of us have said a lot tonight, possibly more than we’ve ever told anyone before, and now we’re the keepers of one another’s secrets.

  It feels good.

  With the tea finished, I purposely rise first. He glances up, body immediately going rigid, his eyes clouding with what I can only assume is fear.

  “The rest of the house?” I raise my eyebrows again.

  Alfie stands, the size of him massive compared to me, and I wonder at how amazing it is that such a big man, one who looks like nothing has ever hurt him, can be a softy inside. He leads the way up an uncarpeted oak staircase—at least I’m guessing it’s oak—and shows me a white-tiled bathroom with a shower to die for. I can see us both in there, wet, washing each other, fucking in the steam.

  It’s something to look forward to and beats the hose in the cellar any day.

  He opens his bedroom door, and I picture him in that king-size bed all alone, crying nights because his world was a pile of shit and he couldn’t find any way to fix it. I reach out for his hand, relieved when his fingers wrap around mine.

  His taste matches mine—funny, that—his cream comforter edged with a border of chocolate brown silk something I’d choose. The pillows look so puffy I could lay my head on them right now and fall asleep in his arms, but I have a plan that recently came to mind, something that could possibly wait, but if we don’t tackle this now we’ll just keep putting it off.

  “Bloody nice,” I say. “The whole house is nice. I need to find myself a job if I’m staying here, help pay the mortgage.”

  “You don’t need to.” He squeezes my hand. “I earn enough.”

  “Yeah, but it isn’t fair. I’ll get some cash-in-hand jobs or something. Saves me the hassle of continually being sacked.” I laugh, knowing I need to face Ted at some point, tell him I know what he’s been doing and that no matter how long he keeps it up, I won’t ever be coming back.

  Not that he wants me.

  Alfie needs to sort things out too. Maybe find John if he wants to, mend bridges. Perhaps even stand outside his childhood home, remember the times there. That’s all in the future, though. We have something else to do first.

  “So, food.” I smile at him. “I don’t know about you, but I haven’t eaten since lunch.”

  “Shit. Fuck. I forgot. The time. We talked. I—”

  “It doesn’t matter.” I stand on tiptoe to kiss his cheek. “Shoes. I need shoes.”

  He widens his eyes, takes in a huge breath, and I tighten my hold on his hand.

  “We’ll go out to get something. It’s fine. It’ll be all right, I promise.”

  He spews a ragged breath and turns away, letting go of my hand to walk downstairs. I’m right behind him, stopping in the hallway while he opens a closet door and pulls out my boots. I haven’t seen them in so long I’d forgotten what I’d worn that night when we came back here. But there they are, my black Doc Martens, slightly scuffed but well loved. I take them from him, careful not to look into his eyes, because if I do, I’ll come undone. I’ll bottle it, stay indoors, and that isn’t going to solve anything.

  We have to go outside.

  I slip them on, tie the laces. “Jacket?”

  “Oh. Right.” He delves into the closet again, handing me my coat, slipping his on. “Where are we going?”

  He sounds frightened.

  “You’ll see. Come on.” I pat my pocket—my wallet’s still there, then—and try to remember how much cash I had left after we left The Mason’s. It might not be much, but it’ll be plenty for what I have in mind.

  I jerk my head towards the door, let him open it and step outside before I join him on the step. Once he’s locked up, I hold his hand, not giving a fuck about the looks we’ll get from anyone we might see. They’re not important now, they never should have been, and shit, it feels damn fine to be walking with Alfie down the street like this.

  We don’t talk—if we did I think he’d let all his insecurities spill out—and it might well be better this way. After going down a couple of streets, his hand shaking in mine, I see the place I want to take him. The lights are bright inside, and the scent of salt and vinegar wafts towards us on the cold night air. I lead him across the road and into the fish and chip shop, lean against the counter and smile at the young serving guy.

  I clear my throat. “Chips, battered sausage, a big bit of cod and a chicken and mushroom pie. Oh, and a few sachets of tomato sauce. The ones with HP on the front.”

  A choked sound comes from Alfie, but I ignore it. If I look at him, the dam will break and I’ll be fit for nothing.

  “And I’ll have the same,” I say. “Exactly the same.”

  “Open or closed packets?” the guy asks.

  “Closed. We’re going home to eat.”

  I still don’t look at Alfie. Can’t.

  With my free hand I get out my wallet, tug my other from his and sort through the notes inside, pulling out enough to pay. I take the carrier bag from the counter and grab Alfie’s hand.

  We walk in silence again, the bag swinging beside me, and Alfie crying softly the whole way home.

  * * * *

  Dinner was a quiet affair, neither of us managing to eat everything I’d ordered, but it didn’t matter. What did was that he finally got that meal, that we’ve had the first painful outing and I am still here. With him.

  We shower separately, as thoug
h we’ve lived together for a good while already, and I join him in his bedroom once I’m done. I towel my hair, not that there’s much to towel, and don’t look at him as he rests under the covers. I don’t think I can bear to see what those eyes will tell me.

  Not yet.

  After hanging the towel over a hook on the back of the door, I walk towards him, not feeling the slightest bit awkward. He’s seen me naked, touched every part of me these past four weeks, so there’s nothing to hide here. Except tonight it’s going to be different. He’s going to be taken care of. He’s going to be the one lying there while I take care of him. He has to understand relationships are give and take by both parties, not give, give, give by one.

  I stand beside the bed and look down at him, my heart fucking bursting because, shitting hell, he looks so vulnerable despite his size. I see his eyes now, look into them and find a deep well of hurt, worry and need. Lifting the comforter, I then peel it back, away from his body so I can see the whole of him. Taking the lead—I’ve got to do this, got to focus on what he needs—I open a bedside drawer to find some lube. There it is, a couple of tubes, and I take one out, unscrewing the lid while looking at him again.

  A tentative smile tweaks his lips—lips that shake a bit—and I return it, hoping mine makes me look like I’m full of confidence and not worrying my arse off that this is going to go wrong. I put the lube lid on the bedside and climb between his legs, settling on my haunches.

  “I’m going to show you how you make me feel, all right?”

  He nods, hands clasped across his belly.

  “So you need to relax. Get those hands behind your head or something. Let me do my thing.”

  He obeys, watching me all the way, and I busy myself squirting lube into my palm. I press my hands together and rub, warming the fluid, then spread the wetness over the tops of each leg and the skin either side of his sac. Massaging gently, I take my time before I touch his bollocks, knowing how fucking hot that feels when he does it to me. With my fingers spread, my thumbs joined, I span each thigh top and draw down, caressing his arse cleft, skimming his hole then drawing back up. I repeat this several times until his breathing changes from quick, sharp snatches to long, sucking gulps. He’s relaxing, opens his legs wider, and finally, finally he closes his eyes.

  He trusts me—got to with his eyes closed like that. He’s at his most vulnerable now, and I can only imagine the torture he’s going through, wondering if this is the time I’m going to choose to hurt him by walking away.

  I couldn’t do it if I tried.

  It’s easy to massage the minutes away, dragging my hands up and down, sometimes circling his hole before bringing my hands back up to start the process all over again. His cock, proportioned to match the rest of him, has swollen to a size I know stretches my arsehole and brings me pleasure. I want him inside me, thrusting in and out, his thick head grazing the nub inside me, making cum spurt out of me as he jerks my dick, but that can come later. Plenty of time for that.

  “I don’t know how you’re doing this to me, how you’re making me feel like this,” he whispers. “But shit, it feels so fucking good.”

  “It’s how you make me feel. Good. So good. Wanted. Needed.”

  I continue with my touch as he opens his eyes for a second to look at me and smile, closing them once again to do what I do—drown in sensation.

  He’s ready now, so on the upward stroke I take his cock in both hands, smoothing up and down his length, fucking pleased with myself when he lets out a long moan. I’ve got him, have him experiencing exactly what I wanted, and the smile on my face hurts that I’ve accomplished what I set out to do.

  His dick thickens, the vein pulsing against my palm, and I watch what I’m doing. It’s horny as fuck seeing his dick bobbing out of my hands like that. Still fondling him with one hand, I shift from between his legs and settle at his side to give me better access to his crack. Cock in my right fist, I slide my other hand over his bollocks and down, two fingers gliding over the ridge between sac and cleft until the tips brush his hole. Gently, I push one finger inside, feeling his dick swell, seeing his hips rise as he welcomes the intrusion.

  “Ah, ah, ah…”

  “Tell me to stop if it hurts,” I say.

  But he doesn’t, and I carry on, easing my finger in and out while pumping him with unhurried movements. It’s so gentle, so fucking sublime that my balls retract and my cock strains for his hand.

  I want to come and he hasn’t even touched me.

  As though he knows, Alfie takes one hand from behind his head and reaches down, fingers closing around my hard-on. Freeing his other hand, he takes the lube and squeezes a glob on the tip of my dick, smoothing the moisture down, the tube falling onto the sheets. He moans again, and I join him with one of my own, my throat tight with emotion. This is how it’s meant to be. Not a spiteful taking, a ramming into an arsehole with no thought to pain.

  I close my eyes, listening to the sound the lube makes as our cocks are worked over. It’s a turn-on, that noise, like what his mouth might make when he sucks my dick. Our positions are awkward, but I don’t want to move in case it breaks the spell. The scent of the lube, some spicy effort that fills my nose and sends me lightheaded, helps relax me, and I give in to what he’s doing.

  It doesn’t take long before the burn begins, before my bollocks ache and his hand tightens around me. I do the same to him, upping my pace to let him know I want him to copy my movements. Together, we add speed, and I hope he’s doing the same as me, jerking faster, harder, so we come as soon as possible.

  There’s no turning back now. I’ve reached the point of no return, where, when I come, spots will fill the blackness beneath my eyelids and I give a hoarse shout. It’s there, right there, the tingle at my root that’ll spread up to the head. It does, fast and furious. I open my eyes and watch cum streak out, stretching my slit and landing on the hairs around his dick, landing on his dick. As I release a second stream, Alfie spurts his first, his guttural moans loud and rusty, his hips rising to shove himself deeper into my hand. I strengthen my hold to give him maximum tightness, the soft beat of cum travelling up his cock insistent on my palm.

  “Fuck, we’re there,” I shout. “Fucking there. Shit. Fucking shit!”

  “It’s… I’m… Oh, Jesus fuck!”

  His words, his inability to make sense brings on another jet from me, and shit, that feels so damn good. It hurts yet at the same time it doesn’t, and I’m beyond able to understand why that is. It doesn’t matter. Just doesn’t fucking matter.

  My hips spasm, the lube clacks, and our dicks slide effortlessly in our hands. At the same time we slow, breaths stuttering, choked. The lump in my throat returns, and I glance sideways at Alfie, pleased as fuck that he’s looking back at me with a sated smile.

  We’re going to make it, aren’t we? This is going to work. We’ll get through the best we can, two broken souls together, patching up our shattered emotions, healing one another.

  “I’m going to love you forever, Alfie, you know that, don’t you?”

  He nods. Smiles wider.

  And shit, I’ve done it. Broken us free.

  I am the wind. I am the man he needs.

  Also available from Totally Bound Publishing:

  Voices: Needing

  Sarah Masters

  Excerpt

  Chapter One

  Getting calls from the dead in the middle of the night wasn’t Oliver Banks’ idea of fun.

  He stared down at the body resting in the mulch, the limbs at odd angles. Her blonde hair, splayed against a backdrop of soggy leaves, stood out starkly in the beam of his pencil-slim flashlight. Christ, what kind of people did this to another human being? Crazy bastards, that’s who. Oliver had dealt with them before, had gazed down at bodies like this too many times to count, and here he was again, called out by the voices in his head and the unexplainable knowledge that someone had been murdered.

  The woman, early thirties he guessed, look
ed as though she’d been out walking. Mud-encrusted hiking boots covered her feet, one tightly tied, the other undone, laces like rigid, dried-out worm skins. Had the killer been interrupted in taking the boot off? And why the fuck would he have done that anyway?

  Oliver sighed. Sometimes it was pointless questioning the idiosyncrasies of the warped. Sometimes they just did things. No reason. Just because. He stared at the woman’s jean-covered legs. Mud splatters soiled the denim from the top of her boots to her thighs. Had she run through one of the many boggy areas in this now godforsaken field? Had she tried to get away from the bastard who had done this to her? Oliver hadn’t been given any details other than the site and the fact that a dead body was there. He’d hauled his arse out of bed then dressed quickly, stuffing his hair under a beanie hat.

  He looked down at his battered Nikes. They’d sunk into the ground and would leave perfect imprints.

  Fuck.

  He shifted his gaze back to the woman, whose stomach was exposed, her black T-shirt bunched to just below her breasts. The perfect, taut skin showed the woman had taken care of herself, had maybe visited a gym regularly. What a damn waste of a life. Her jacket, a black windbreaker, the fronts open, would have done nothing to keep off the winter chill. She wasn’t wearing a hat or scarf, no gloves either, unless whoever had killed her had taken them away. Another oddity that wouldn’t surprise Oliver. Killers took the strangest trophies.

  There were no marks on her neck or face, no obvious signs of how she’d been killed. No bruising, no knife wounds, no blood. If it wasn’t for her arms and legs clearly being broken, the woman might have appeared to have just fallen down and died. He closed his eyes, aware that morning would be here all too soon, that someone walking their dog might well discover the body. Or not. The recent rains had made this field treacherous, and if she wasn’t looked at soon by forensics and another burst of rain occurred, evidence would be washed away. Oliver had turned his ankle when traipsing over the field, a hidden pothole that he’d called all the names under the sun. If anyone chose to walk here, they were crazy.