by Clare London
He laughed again. “Well, I might as well be hung for a sheep as for a lamb, then, right? I know what you said about happy endings, and domestic routine, and all that. And this whole situation is meant to be on a no-strings basis. But I need to tell you, I want to see you again. And again. This has been such a good time, I can’t bear it ending. I don’t want to lose your company—lose you.”
I felt that warm, twisty feeling in my chest again, the one they say is a sign of… what? I couldn’t say love yet, but it was certainly something special that I wanted to investigate further. “If we’re in confession mode, I’d better say that I talk bollocks sometimes. Or at least, that’s what Alice just said.”
“What?”
I tightened my grip on Nick and rolled us down on the bed. “I think you were right. I did take on this quest for more reasons than finding old friends. Yes, I wanted to know how the guys turned out, but I think I also wanted to see if they had a better model for life.”
“You were looking for that? For yourself?”
“Maybe. Life has been getting boring for me recently.” I stroked his jaw, relishing the feel of a day’s bristle on my fingertips. His mouth had been tight with tension during his confession. Now his lips were full with kissing. “I suppose I wanted to know if that was naturally me, or if it was because of what I was doing.”
“You really want to be Bear Grylls?” Nick said with a mischievous smile as his fingers started to unfasten my shirt buttons. “Or Scott of the Antarctic?”
“You haven’t been talking to Alice, have you?” I frowned at him, even as I smiled in return. “Seriously, I think I do want it. The happy ending. A home. A destination. Maybe not now, but one day.”
Nick nodded. He’d reached the top button of my jeans, and it surrendered to him just as shamelessly as the shirt buttons. “I’ve always thought you can have both, you know. The journey and the destination.”
“Very philosophical,” I teased. But he was right. It wasn’t about being gay, which I’d settled happily with many years ago. It was about Nick and me: what we both wanted. Together. Adventure with someone familiar would have—had had—an extra thrill. “I’ve been scared, I suppose. Of settling for something less than the best. Of getting bored. Of missing out.”
Nick’s voice was muffled because he was tugging down the zip of my jeans with his teeth. “And now you’re not?”
Definitely not. I’d been looking for the wrong thing completely. And I’d decided that independently, not just because Nick’s breath was hot on my groin and his hand had slipped inside my briefs. “Let’s book another night here,” I said.
“What? Not right now….”
I laughed as his chin jerked up and nudged my swelling cock. “No, not right now. I’ll go down to reception later, and then we can get an early start tomorrow.”
He paused. “Huh?”
“We don’t have to go back home yet,” I said, and quickly, because no one in his right mind would want to be chatting when he had his lover’s mouth two inches from his dick, would he? “Let’s just take off and see some more of the country. No quest, no old friends, no plans. And let’s forget the no-strings rule. You see, I don’t want to lose you either. I want to see where more time and fun can lead us.” A sudden thought caught me. “But can you get the time off? Do you want to do that? I’m sorry, I’m just assuming—”
“This is definitely the right time to assume, Dan. That’d be great.” His chuckle tickled the hairs around the base of my cock. “Adventure plus the best company. Can’t be beaten.”
Happily, I wriggled underneath him. “So, what do you think?”
“Huh? About travelling? About adventure? About the fact I want to fuck you until your arse aches, your calves go into cramp, and you’re hoarse from begging for more?”
My whole body shuddered with anticipated pleasure. “I wondered if this was… I am… you know. What you expected.”
“Shit, Dan!” Nick gave a hoot of laughter. “You’re asking me for feedback? You’re thinking back to a nervous, hurried, teenage kiss in the dark twelve years ago? Well, don’t worry, I’m more than happy to tell you just how much better this is, more than I ever dream—”
“Don’t bother,” I cut in swiftly, laughing, pressing my fingers over his damp lips. “Just fuck me. Please.”
End of the quest?
Chasing the ace?
I suspected I’d found it—and this time, it was the winning card.
Exclusive Excerpt
How the Other Half Lives
A London Lads Story
By Clare London
Martin Harrison keeps himself to himself and his central London flat as neat as a new pin. Maybe he should loosen up and enjoy more of a social life, but in his mind, that’s tantamount to opening the floodgates to emotional chaos. He agrees, however, to join the flat-sitting scheme in his building and look after another tenant’s flat in exchange for a similar watch over his when he’s travelling for his work.
A floor away in the same building, Russ McNeely is happy with his life as a freelance cook and a self-confessed domestic slob. He also joins the flat-sitting scheme, both to be neighbourly and to help keep his flat in order, as Russ also travels for his work.
For a while, the very dissimilar men never meet. Martin is horrified at the mess at Russ’ flat, while Russ finds Martin’s minimalist style creepy. But in a spirit of generosity, each of them starts to help the other out by rearranging things in their own inimitable way.
Until the day a hiccup in the schedule brings them face-to-face at last.
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Chapter 1
Flat 2a, Abercrombie Buildings, London, SW18
M. Harrison (no unsolicited mail accepted)
“NO, OF course I’m not trying to harass you.”
My best friend, Ethan’s, voice is very calm and deliberately soft. From the moment he arrived, he insisted he wasn’t here to annoy me or to interfere with my life. He doesn’t appear to realise that he’s causing the very effect he’s trying to avoid. I often wonder about the empathetic skill he’s meant to possess as a creative artist. Personally, I find his modern abstract work disturbing in the extreme, whatever the Sunday magazines say in his praise.
“It’s just a friendly word, Martin. Don’t be defensive.”
He pushes back his long blond hair with an impatient yet studied gesture. As an apparently trail-blazing painter, he often refers to his “media image.” In the past I’ve suggested he gets his hair cut in a more practical style and wears clothing more suited to his age, but even from Ethan—whom I’ve known for years and am very fond of—continued eye-rolling can become very wearing. So I just listen as patiently as I can.
“It’s just that your friends can see you… objectively, as it were. And we worry about the impression you give to others.”
“Impression?” I bite my lip. He’s perched carelessly on the side of my sofa, swinging his foot. I stare at it, worried that his boot buckle will snag on the fabric. The sofa is a Victorian chesterfield, and the upholstery is new.
“Martin, are you listening to me?”
“Do I have any choice?” I place my drink back on the walnut card table, on a carefully placed coaster. I straighten the top right edge of the coaster so that it lines up with the base of the nearby lamp, then nudge it a fraction the other way, which is much better. “Look, I’m fine about the impression I give people. People can like it, or get over it. If they don’t have the wit to cope with an alternative point of view, then that’s their problem.”
Ethan gives one of those long-suffering sighs that I provoke so frequently in him. His eyes soften towards me even while his mouth purses. I often wonder whether he’d have been better suited to a career in theatre. His whole demeanour is one of compassionate disappointment, to the extent that I think he must practise it in his leisure time. I suggested that once to his partner, but Harry snorted and spat his drink out all
over the table. Thank goodness it wasn’t in my flat—red wine stains can be a nightmare to get out. Harry had growled a protest at me, though I was certain his eyes had been laughing. Of course, I’d only been trying to help Ethan gain a deeper empathy.
Today, Ethan’s face is rather flushed and he seems even more frustrated than usual. “God, Martin, but that’s exactly what we’re getting at! Your total lack of tolerance for, or interest in, the rest of the human race. How the hell are you ever going to meet anyone new? Or, God forbid, meet someone romantically if you show them no more respect than you do a piece of furniture?”
I stare at him pityingly. “Actually, Ethan, I consider a fine piece of antique furniture far more worthy of respect than most of the pieces of human detritus you persist in thrusting my way in the name of romance. Please leave me to organise my own social life and choose my own companions.”
“And when was the last time anyone passed that interview?” He looks both annoyed and bemused; I suspect he’s struggling to remember the meaning of the word detritus. “You’ve lived in this building for six months, but you have no idea who your neighbours are. You’re not involved in neighbourhood committees, you don’t play any sports, you have weekly grocery deliveries so you never even mooch around the supermarket. You work long and erratic hours, and I’ve never known you to entertain anyone here except for me and Harry. Look at the pair of us here, tonight! Just sitting in, drinking a couple of beers, talking about work. Our regular Thursday night get-together has been like this for months. You’re an island, Martin, and some would say a bloody unadventurous one at that. Do you even know where your local pub is?”
I frown, because he knows I’m not comfortable with the effect of alcohol at the best of times. “I have a place of my own, surrounded by my own things, arranged just as I like them.”
“Arranged? But that’s what I mean!” Ethan stands up, his whole body vibrating with dramatic tension. “You can’t always arrange everything in life. You’ve got to loosen up a bit, be receptive to new experiences, new relationships. Things can be… irrational sometimes, you know? People too. Martin, you are so anally retentive that being around you makes my teeth clench.”
“Thanks.”
He shakes his head—another impatient gesture I inspire—and continues to wheedle. “So, that didn’t sound quite right. I just want you to be happy. To engage with life, to enjoy the fun and the benefits. Will you please listen to me for once? Properly?”
He really does look distressed now, and I have no intention of challenging him on the “benefits” issue. I know exactly what he means, and it inevitably includes sexual relationships. He knows I’ve never been really comfortable with those either. Such interactions can—and do—so often lead to mistakes, confusion, and embarrassment. Better avoided in case of failure, is my opinion, though that’s one I keep to myself when faced with the obvious romantic affection that Ethan and Harry share and don’t think twice about demonstrating in public. Just a touch or a kiss, of course, not full-on intercourse. Though I wonder, sometimes, when I see the look of devilment on Ethan’s face. Thank God for Harry’s more sensible attitude.
But this is how most of my conversations with Ethan go nowadays. It’s another observation I’ve pointed out to Harry when the three of us meet up. Ethan has a low emotional threshold, a tendency to overreact. Or maybe that’s just around me. Harry smiles gently whenever I mention it, and his eyes sparkle, which leads me to assume that despite Harry’s more sensible attitude, Ethan’s excitable reactions are actually no problem to him.
“I’m listening,” I say to Ethan now, seeking to keep his exclamations down below the decibel level of a low-flying jet. “If it makes you less outraged, I’ll try to, as you say, loosen up a bit.”
His eyes are rolling again now. But because I am fond of him, and because he’s been a constant, decent friend since we were at college together, I cast around in my mind for some consolation prize for him. “There’s a notice on the communal board downstairs, suggesting a flat-sitting scheme, for when tenants go away. That would be useful for me, I admit, for when I go to auctions. There would be someone located in the building to pick up my mail and check the heating thermostat settings. And there’ll apparently be adequate police checks for all the contributors, which is reassuring.”
“Reassuring, indeed,” Ethan murmurs, his brows suspiciously arched.
“I’ll sign up for that, okay? To show my”—my throat feels a little dry—“public spiritedness. But nothing more! I don’t want to join book clubs or learn conversational Spanish. And as for taking part in the local choral society concerts….” I’m trying to explain my feelings to Ethan as convincingly as I can, but maybe my small shudder does that just as well.
He nods in some kind of surrender. “That’s a good start, Martin. Well done. We just… I’d just like to see you enjoying life a little more. You’re good-looking, you’re witty and clever, and you’re good company.” He catches my glare. “What? You can be if you try.” He grins, a glint of mischief in his eyes. “Yeah, okay, if you try really hard. I think you have a lot to offer someone, if you’d just—”
“Ethan,” I say, quite firmly. He’s such a good friend that I generously ignore the fact he disturbs the feng shui in my flat every time he comes around, but enough’s enough. “You don’t need to make me your mission in life. You have your own idea of happiness, and I’m pleased for you. But I have sufficient enjoyment of my own already.”
He knows enough to let the subject drop, and we chat more generally before he leaves to meet Harry after his music class. And I force myself to wait until the door closes before I rush to tidy up his glass and smooth the covers of the sofa where he sat. Then, to be fair to him, I look around the flat, trying to see my life with his objective eye. All I see is… me. The room is delightfully tidy and soothingly quiet. The pale cream colour on the walls blends pleasantly with the old wood and classically understated fabrics of the furniture. I feel most comfortable here, with no desire to face the vibrant colours of Ethan’s modern art or the loud volume of Harry’s latest music.
Of course, when Ethan talks about my enjoyment of life, he’s not really talking about furniture and fittings. I’m not completely oblivious to other people’s emotional priorities, am I? Just occasionally, I do wonder about the difference between us, and more specifically, the fact that Ethan’s happily dating Harry and I’m… not dating at all. Or how long it’s been since my last unsatisfactory attempt.
I confess I’d had hopes of that ambitious young solicitor I met at an auction in the summer—until I found him pricing up all the items I’d identified as having potential, then putting in anonymous higher bids. That kind of using hurts me more than any sexual infidelity. I should have known better than to seek compatibility with someone who could leave the house with mismatched socks.
As I continue to maintain, relationships are confusing, irrational, and messy. In fact everything I abhor, and they are best left well alone. After all, there’s nothing wrong with wanting people on my own terms. And nothing wrong with enjoying one’s own company either.
Nothing wrong at all.
More from Clare London
Tanner Mackay and Niall Sutherland were once far more than just fellow intelligence agents. But then a mission went horribly wrong and everything fell apart, sending Tanner into hiding and splitting the team and their affair wide apart.
Now an unknown traitor is threatening the team, and their ex-boss is determined to reunite them before it’s too late. She finds Tanner in a run-down trailer park, bringing with her a most unwelcome refugee in need of temporary sanctuary: Niall, the man he thought he’d never have to face again. The man he’s sure feels exactly the same in return.
Trapped in a situation that’s both claustrophobic and highly dangerous, Tanner and Niall will have to revisit their past and reconsider their perceptions, their loyalties—and their desires—in order to survive, let alone forge a future together.
&nbs
p; The past always catches up with you. Max Newman should know—he’s been running from his ever since he dropped out of Uni and made a disastrous move to the seedier side of London. Now he’s returned to Brighton to lick his wounds. Though Max believes the club scene is better left behind him, one night he lets his friends drag him out dancing. And suddenly the simple life he’s tried to lead gets complicated.
At Compulsion, the Medina Group’s newest hotspot, Max meets Seve Nunez, a member of the Medina management and a man used to taking what he wants. The sexual chemistry between Max and Seve immediately leads to an intimate encounter in the backyard of the club—just the kind of dangerous behavior Max tried to leave behind. Despite that, he can’t help but crave more, and Seve seems just as eager.
But Max soon suspects that Seve may not be the scrupulous businessman he claims. Max has seen the Medina Group at work before, and what he saw got a good friend killed. He’s not sure what future he has with Seve, but he’ll have to decide whether to trust in Seve’s innocence or keep running. The wrong choice could land them both in mortal danger.
Anti-terrorist operatives Evan Riley and Adam Nolan couldn’t be less alike. Evan is easygoing, sharp-witted, and sociable, while Adam is the gifted and cooly controlled leader of the operation. But as their team spends nine straight months in a safe house on the coast, Evan sees much more in Adam. For Adam, the sea holds bitter, shocking memories that haunt his days and nights. But despite his stubborn refusal to allow himself to live, Evan is determined to be the one to help Adam face his personal demons and the idea of a future together.
How tangled can a romantic web get?
When gruff mountaineer Dominic Hartington-George seeks sponsorship for his latest expedition, his London PA insists on a more media-friendly profile—like dating celebrity supermodel Zeb Z.