Silas

by Tilly Delane

  “Show me the woods,” she says in a low purr, and before I can respond she’s suddenly tugging me along again, down towards the moat.

  Grace

  I’d spotted the entrance to the moat as soon as we got here. Not that it’s hard to find. You park up and level to your right is the chapel, the motte is in front of you and the dirt bank that leads into the dried-up moat is on your left.

  I practically pull Silas along behind me, back down the motte, and then we slide down the bank together. He huffs a few times in pain but doesn’t complain. Like he ever would. I couldn’t imagine doing anything but being laid up in bed if I had those injuries of his. And here he is, driving me around, taking me to Bramber, holding me tight and now horsing around in the mud with me.

  And it’s super muddy when we hit the bottom. Squelching. It’s also immediately dark around us, in that beautiful, inimitable gray-green light of the woods that I love so much.

  The smell of wet earth and of last fall’s decaying leaves that cover the ground below our feet mixed with the fresh spring scent of the blossoming trees on the mound above our heads hits my nostrils. Their root systems grow down over the bank and into the trench of the moat, and you have to be careful not to trip over the hidden ones that snake along the ground like fingers, so we have to step carefully as we begin making our way around, hand in hand, until I find the thing I’m looking for.

  Silas

  It’s a different world down here. Quiet and dark and earthy.

  It speaks to a part of me that hasn’t been awake in a long time. The one she’s been prodding and poking and bringing back to life ever since she turned up. The one she is trying to rustle awake a bit more now, if my gut instinct is right.

  I see her eye up each and every single one of the occasional trees that have rooted down here, in the middle of the moat. They’re all much younger than the ones above us, slender and often growing a bit askew, leaning this way or that. I know the moment she finds the one she deems right, her eyes lighting up with mischief.

  The tree is tilted heavily, easy to lean against. She tries to pull me around to back me up against it, and I know in a flash what it is she wants to do. No chance. No matter how much I would love to see my dick in her mouth, I stand my ground and she frowns at me.

  I shake my head and spin her around to turn the tables on her.

  Grace

  He backs me up against the tree in three quick paces, braces a hand on the trunk above my head, cradles my jaw in the other, the way he does, and then starts kissing me again with fervor, taking up where we left off above. It’s dominant and sexy and yet I want to howl with frustration. This wasn’t what I had in mind. I wanted to taste him, seduce him, give him back some of what he has already given me.

  In the last two days, this man has given me two earth-shattering orgasms and I haven’t even seen his cock yet.

  I had plans for that. They involved my lips, my tongue, a little bit of teeth and hopefully a whole load of come to swallow. I want to see him lose it the way he makes me lose it.

  While I’m half seething about his diversion tactics and half being driven wild by his kisses, his hand leaves my jaw, trails down my neck, slips under my neckline and into my bra. He cups my breast and squeezes, hard, giving me a jolt all the way to my clit. How the fuck does he do that? He keeps kneading my tit rhythmically, scissoring my nipple between his index and middle finger every so often. I see sparks every time those pincers clamp down on me and I have to shut my eyes, leaning more heavily against the trunk in my back. I moan into his mouth. He withdraws to let his lips trail around my jawline, up to my ear.

  “You are so fucking hot,” he growls and pinches my nipple again at the same time. Then his tongue licks, all flat and soft, along the shell of my ear and I forget all about him holding out on me. I forget my own fucking name.

  Another moan escapes me, louder this time.

  “Again, louder,” he whispers as he relaxes and shuts those fingers around my nipple then circles my ear with his tongue again.

  I actually buck at that ─ while I give him exactly the noise he’s after. What did I say about demand not being sexy? Boy, was I wrong. I hear him choke at my response and draw back. I open my eyes. He’s looking at me, shaking with lust. His face is flushed, he’s panting. I’ve never seen anything sexier.

  “I want to touch you,” I implore hoarsely. “Please.”

  A flicker of pain lights up in his eyes then dies again. He nods sharply.

  “My way,” he says, and then he takes the hand that was steadying him against the tree trunk down from above my head, runs it lightly down my arm and takes the back of my hand in his palm, lacing his fingers through mine.

  He brings our hands to his bulge and pushes them down hard. This much I was allowed to do before, so I already know he’s big. Not huge, not stupidly hung, not intimidating, but big.

  He’s wearing Levis today and once he gives me a little room to maneuver, I can slip my fingers through the gaps between the buttons of his fly. When I do, I hit the opening in the boxer shorts just right and a second later I’ve got the silky skin of his shaft under my fingertips. He shivers under my touch, groaning, and it gives me a rush like no other.

  He’s still got his palm over my hand, but he’s forgotten to be bossy about it, so I start unbuttoning his fly, one-handed, my instinct telling me that if I bring the other hand into it, he’ll clam up again. Instead, I use that one to reach into the stubble on his cheek, stroking his face reassuringly while I, we, liberate his cock from its prison.

  I glance down as soon as it springs free. It looks gorgeous, all smooth and thick with a nice, gentle curve. I don’t get to look for long because as soon as he’s exposed, his head falls forward, the cheek I’m not caressing leaning against mine, the beard bristles scratching me lightly each time he moves.

  We’re really close up against each other now, cheek to cheek, his hand still on my tit and my, our, hands on his cock. There is barely room between us for what we do next, but it makes it so much more intense.

  We start pumping him, slowly at first, and I’m learning with every move just how much pressure he likes. His grip on my hand gets firmer, his breathing in my ear louder, and I can feel those early drops of come running down onto our entwined fingers. And then, suddenly, without warning, he really starts fucking into our hands. A steady but fast rhythm that makes my insides clench like crazy because I know he would drive me insane with it if he was inside me. The idea is making me moan in tune with him and I grip onto his jaw, trying to steady him, me, both.

  And then he falls forward, silent, violent shudders racking his body.

  His cock pulsates, like a heart beating in my palm, and a ream of semen spills over our hands.

  Silas

  I’d forgotten how good it is to feel somebody else’s hands on me.

  For the touch not to be solely your own. I’d forgotten how light you feel when you come down to earth after the explosion. I’d forgotten how much I craved intimacy.

  This woman. She has no idea.

  I take one hand out of her bra and with the other one let go of hers. I wipe my spunk off on the tree, button up, and then I gather her into my arms. I’m still shaking, and I still can’t find any words, so I nuzzle her neck and I hope that speaks for itself.

  She laughs lightly while she takes a leaf out of my book and wipes her hand on the bark behind her before she accepts my embrace.

  “Picnic?” she whispers into my ear as she hugs me back softly. “Somebody mentioned food.”

  Grace

  The next ten days are probably the favorite of my entire adult life. We basically go and live in each other’s pocket.

  By day, Silas keeps helping me with working through my list, never once questioning the significance of the items on it, no matter how mundane. Sometimes I tell him what they are about, like I did with the tombstone at Bramber, sometimes I don’t. Sometimes he doesn’t realize that what we’re doing is even on th
e list. Like when we go to Devil’s Dyke and buy a soft ice cream with a 99 Flake stuck in it from an ice cream truck. He probably thinks Devil’s Dyke was the point when, actually, we could have had the ice cream truck soft ice cream with the 99 Flake stuck in it wherever.

  The list is not really about places. It’s about details. Favorite stories I used to get Mum to tell me. Mostly, it’s just a stupid exercise in trying to stay on her trail. I read a thing once, a quote by someone, about how we don’t let go of grief because often grief is the last thing that connects us to that person. What a load of horseshit. Show me the person who said that, and I show you someone who is incapable of forming relationships. Because if you had a bond with the dead person in the first place, you don’t fucking need the grief to cling on to. You have memories. And they are never the ones that come with a hash tag. But sometimes you can write their essence into a list.

  Those are the days. At night, Silas and I carry on exploring one another though nothing happens beyond getting each other off with our hands and mouths. I say that, but I’m still not allowed to go down on him, while he will put his mouth on me all the friggin’ time. Everywhere. The man’s tongue is God’s gift to women. Or at least to this woman. He can play me like a fucking instrument and I’m rapidly learning that, yes, the multiple orgasm thing is actually a thing.

  But no matter what, there is still this barrier on his side that I can’t break through. A darkness that descends upon him each time I accidentally trip those invisible don’t-touch-me-there wires. It’s frustrating and more than once I want to ask him what his deal is, but I always chicken out at the last minute. I’m not scared of the answer, but I get the feeling if I press him, he’ll never open up. So I just wait, hoping that he’ll get there before I have to go home, back to a Silas-less life. The thought of having to go back home at the end of my stay makes me almost unbearably sad, so I concentrate on remaining grateful for small victories. Like the first time he lets me jerk him off without holding my hand. Or the way he let me bite his ass when I had my hands on him about an hour ago.

  It’s early afternoon. We came home from today’s outing to an artisan market, where I managed to buy a hand-knitted black beret from a little old lady who ogled Silas in the most comical way, shortly after lunch because it had started raining cats and dogs.

  As soon as we got back, we ran upstairs, shelled out of our soaked clothes and started making out. I can’t call it anything else. We’re like two teenagers finding our way around our bodies. His bruises have started to fade a little now, slowly turning from purple to eerie green, and if I do it lightly enough, I can touch his abs now. But I still like exploring his back best. He’s got the most amazing shoulder line and back muscles. They don’t ripple when he moves, they fucking flow. But he still can’t lie on his front, so he was propped up on his side, me behind him, when I began slithering down on the bed, to bring my face level with those glutes I’ve had my eye on since I first saw them in the drawing. I wrapped my arm around his hipbone, took his already rock-hard cock in my fist and started pumping him leisurely. Once he started squirming in my hand, I gently clamped my teeth into the hard muscles of his butt. Then I licked over the bite. Bite, pump, lick. Over and over ─ and each time he bucked into my hand, I thought I was going to die with pleasure. And that was before he took care of me.

  I luxuriate in the memory while I lounge in bed a little longer and bemoan the fact that he’s left me here by myself. I wish he’d stayed after he’d wrung the last orgasm from me. But he’s decided it’s time he picked up his gym routine again, so he doesn’t lose his next fight.

  Because, of course, there are fights. Bouncing, my ass. And the next one is a big one. It happens after I’m gone. That much I know. It’s all I’m allowed to know.

  ‘Cause it’s illegal.

  Figured that one out all by my little lonesome self. To his credit, he didn’t deny it when I asked him straight. Just nodded and then shut me up with a kiss.

  Silas

  The rest of TripleX train in Fight or Flight in Brighton. I don’t. Aside from the fucking stupid name, it’s full of arseholes, most of whom I know. And I’m not exactly welcome there either. It’s owned by old man Benson’s best mate, Cecil O’Brien. Yeah, the surname thing is no coincidence. He was Mum’s husband before the guy who fathered me came onto the scene. She never changed back to her maiden name, so I got Cecil’s surname despite the fact my father was a Hayes, apparently. Fucked off when I was still in nappies. Made room for the next cunt, who I also barely remember, and then the next cunt and his fucking brood.

  My teeth clench when I think about them, him, but no, not going there today. Cecil never stopped having a big hard-on for Mum. When they got together, she’d just lost a baby, having come home pregnant at the height of her modelling career, and was everything a man could want in a woman. Sassy, beautiful, successful in her own right. Brighton’s very own Linda Evangelista. And I think that’s what he still sees when he looks at her now.

  But it’s also why he hates my guts. I’m the living, breathing reminder that Mum fucked around on him. To be fair, she did it once. He, by all accounts, did it constantly. If I were actually Cecil’s kid, I’d have eleven half brothers and sisters. No shit. Five of them from one woman, two of them from another and the rest came out of miscellaneous vaginas over the years. I don’t get guys like that. If I have a woman, I have a woman. One. But if I look around me, I seem to be the odd one out. Everybody fucks around on everyone all the fucking time around here. Small town England. We don’t show a nipple on TV before 9pm, but we fuck our best mate’s girlfriend then swap her back for our own. And nobody bats an eyelid. Not my style. If I had a woman, I’d want to be with her, make memories, grow old together, have a life.

  If I had Grace.

  I push the thought out of my mind as I open the door to the Shoreham Gym and Martial Arts Academy, normal fucking name for a normal fucking place, where one can do some cross training and then beat the shit out of a sand sack. Of course, they run classes, too, and I even take the occasional one. They’re all really nice guys here and David, the bloke who runs the place, will buddy you up with a training bro outside of class if you ask, but needless to say, there aren’t any sparring partners for what I do. Not that I need any more training in being an arsehole, I’ve had that all my fucking life.

  I nod at the characters that are already in the room, the same faces I see here normally. Four to six is a good slot. The classes don’t start till later in the evening, so it’s mostly council workers and office bods trying to stay healthy, couple of beef burgers but it’s not really the right gym for them. David doesn’t tolerate even a whiff of steroids in his shop. It’s why I like the guy. Nobody asks me where I’ve been for the last ten days, though I can see in some of the looks I’m getting that my absence has been noted. A couple of them know what I do for a living, the legit part anyway, and if I don’t show up for a while, they just assume I got busted up bouncing.

  I start my warm up routine and soon realise that a week and a half of the good life with Grace has already taken its toll. Not much of a toll but enough to take my edge off. I can’t afford that. My bruises are still hurting some but nothing like they did in the beginning, despite what I keep leading Grace to believe, and I power through my cardio and weights before I get to punching the sacks. I practice some kicks and punches before I suddenly feel like I’m being watched. I look around and sure enough, Arlo is standing by the door, looking at me, his right hand is in a splint and the left side of his face is mashed up. The hue of the discolouration tells me, that’s still courtesy of me. I frown at him and return to pummelling the sack in front of me. No idea what that fucker wants. Though it’s clear he’s come out here to see me. The guys know I train here. Wonder how he knew I’d be back today, though. Not really like I’ve been sticking to my schedule lately. I keep throwing my punches until I can feel him breathing down my neck. I stop and look at him standing next to me.

  “Ar
lo,” I acknowledge his presence and nod at the splint. “Boxer’s break?” I ask unnecessarily.

  “Yup.” He touches the splint with his other hand.

  “Yeah, I’m not surprised, man. You hit with all four knuckles. Did nobody ever teach you only to land the top two?”

  He looks at me wide-eyed. Fucking amateur.

  “Like that.” I throw a slow-mo punch at the bag, illustrating.

  “Right,” he says.

  “How’s the ear?”

  “I might need surgery.”

  “Sorry to hear that.” There is no harm in being polite. He grins at my unintended pun, so I know we’re good. “Why are you here?”

  “Just checking on how the Snake is doing. They say you got laid off for a month.”

  He’s scoping me out. Interesting. Well, two can play that game.

  “Sure did.”

  My choice of phrase makes me smirk. Such a Yank thing to say. Grace is rubbing off on me.

  “Rumour has it there is gonna be a big one,” Arlo fishes. “Off the record.”

  I bark a laugh. Like anything else is on the record. I see in his confused expression that he doesn’t get it, though, and I can’t be bothered to explain it. So I nod an affirmation and remain silent. Sometimes not saying anything makes people tell you more than they intended. ‘Cause they have this burning need to fill the silence. Arlo is one of those people.

  “They say it’s not gonna be at the club.” I prick up my ears. This is news to me. Diego gave me a date, 6th June, but there was no mention of a venue change. I’d assumed we’d be in the club, like normal. I’m inclined to proactively pick Arlo’s brains a bit now but it turns out, I don’t need to. “They say it’s gonna be at the Mansion.” This makes me look up and cock my head. Arlo grins. He can tell I’m surprised. “Apparently, you’re gonna be the entertainment at the old man’s 60th. And it’s gonna be brutal.”