One Under

by JL Merrow

  “No, it’s fine.” Jory smiled. “Knowing it’s only temporary makes a big difference. And the place is overdue for a shake-up, so it keeps me occupied.”

  “You’re just doing it for the summer?”

  “Yes. I take up a teaching post in September at Gawen’s high school. Deputy head of the English Department.”

  “Yeah? How’s he feel about that, then?”

  “He’s happy, I think. Although whether it’s about me working at his school or because it means I’ll be staying in Porthkennack, I don’t know.”

  And if that wasn’t a timely reminder that him and Jory weren’t going anywhere, Mal didn’t know what was. “Oi, he ain’t hoping you’re going to get back with his mum, is he?”

  “As we’ve never actually been together, I doubt it.” Jory stared out to sea. “You’re probably thinking I’m a terrible father.”

  “Nah, it wasn’t your fault. Shit happens. And you’re making up for it now.” Which was the main thing. Not like Jory’s sister, who’d had a second chance to make things right with Dev and had just chucked it in the toilet. “You should totally bring him down here. Bet he’d love it. Smugglers and pirates and all that crap, kids go for them lot, don’t they?”

  Jory smiled. “I will.”

  “Although . . . ain’t it a bit embarrassing for the family, knowing your great-great-whatever-grandparents were involved in smuggling? I mean, they had to be, didn’t they? No way that tunnel could have been dug on their land without them knowing about it.” Mal gave Jory a sidelong look. “That brother of yours, Bran, he’s gotta be really pissed off about the criminal past.”

  “You’re not thinking like a Cornishman. Back in those days, everyone was involved in smuggling—or free-trading, which is how they viewed it. A lot of people saw it as morally justified. The English taxes were so high, the Cornish people would have starved without the free-traders.”

  “You say English like it’s a . . . like Cornwall’s a separate country.”

  “That’s because it is. Or was. A separate race, with a separate language. If you go back a few centuries, the idea of Cornwall being part of England was in many ways just that—an idea, not a concrete reality in the everyday life of the Cornish people.”

  “You, mate, sound far too English to be saying it like you miss them days.”

  Jory stretched out his arms, his hands clasped together over his head. Mal basked in the view, even better than the one in front of them, as all the muscles in Jory’s arms and shoulders stood out sharply, nothing hidden by the thin, stretchy T-shirt. “I may not sound Cornish, but it’s in my blood. Sometimes . . . sometimes I wonder how on Earth I ever stayed away so long.” He turned to give Mal a sharp look. “I suppose you feel the same way about London.”

  “What? Nah, I . . .” Mal stopped to actually think about it. “I dunno. I mean, yeah, it’s where I’ve lived all me life, but I dunno about it being in my blood or nothing. S’pose cities are like that. Most people who live in ’em came from somewhere else, even if it’s a few generations down the line. You got all this history here, and you can read about it or whatever and think, ‘My great-great-grandad was living here when that happened—in the same house’—and it’s more, like, connected, innit? And yeah, London’s got a ton of history, but I ain’t got a bloody clue where all my ancestors were when it happened.” He laughed and raised his bottle of cider. “Probably in a pub somewhere, though. Cheers.”

  “Cheers,” Jory said, and raised his own bottle before drinking.

  “It’s weird to think about, though, innit?” Mal nudged a piece of driftwood with his foot. “This place, this actual patch of sand, hundreds of years ago, swarming with smugglers and excise men. ‘Brandy for the parson, ’baccy for the clerk’ . . .”

  “‘Laces for a lady, letters for a spy,’” Jory carried on the quote, which Mal was well chuffed about cos he hadn’t been sure he’d remembered it right.

  “Yeah, and ‘Watch the wall, my darling, while the gentlemen go by.’” Mal grinned. “Sounds a bit risky now you think about it.”

  “I don’t think Kipling had that particular interpretation in mind.” Jory chuckled.

  “He was Victorian, wasn’t he? They were all a bit repressed. Not good for a bloke, that ain’t. You gotta let it all hang out.”

  “Could let anything you like hang out here,” Jory said. “No one’s around to see.”

  Was that a come-on? Mal took another swig of cider to cover his sudden nerves. Then he shivered at a gust of wind, and Jory’s arm wrapped around his shoulders and Mal thought, Yeah, that was a come-on all right.

  “Is this all right?” Jory asked, and Mal really wished he hadn’t, because he’d been quite happy ignoring the question and enjoying the moment.

  But, shit, it was just a fucking cuddle. Not even with both arms. Tash gave him cuddles that were more full-on than this, and there’d been nothing dodgy going on there cos Mal liked his balls where they were, ta very much. “’S fine,” he said, relaxing into it a bit.

  Jory let out a breath and squeezed him tighter.

  “Fuck, I want you.” It sort of slipped out without Mal meaning it to, and when he saw the look on Jory’s face, there was no way he was going to take it back. And, well, he liked Jory. A fuck of a lot.

  One little shag wasn’t going to hurt, was it? Him and Dev had screwed around back when both of them were single, and it hadn’t ruined anything. They were still best mates. Tash was right. Life was too short.

  Yeah. One little shag would be fine. Mal closed the last bit of remaining distance between them, pulling Jory fully into his arms. He felt great there—warm and solid. And he smelled fucking awesome, a hint of fresh sweat from scrambling down the tunnel all mingled in with the briny sea smell that got into everything round here. Mal nuzzled into his neck, wanting more of it, and Jory tightened his grip round Mal’s waist before lying back in the sand, taking Mal with him.

  Oh yeah. Mal was half-hard already, and when he felt the thick, hot ridge digging into his hip, he was all the way there quicker than you could say, Fuck me, those tights don’t hide nothing. He ground down on it, and Jory groaned, which turned Mal on even more, like a feedback loop which was going to end up busting the eardrums of the world. He kissed Jory roughly, biting his lip and shoving in some tongue. Jory tasted wicked, like cider and pickle and pirates. Mal wanted to eat him whole.

  Strong hands were kneading Mal’s arse like it was made of dough. Fuck, he wanted those fingers inside him. He scrabbled at his zip, desperate to get his jeans undone.

  Jory breathed a word or two that could have been, Oh God, and then the world flipped, and Mal was on his back, Jory looming over him like the hottest fantasy he’d ever had. And seriously, all that education was definitely good for something, cos Jory had Mal’s jeans open and shoved down his hips in about 0.3 seconds flat. And, and he’d somehow got his own dick out, fuck knew how, magic maybe, and they were pressed together with Jory’s big hand wrapped around them both, and Jesus, Mal was gonna die.

  It was all going to be over way too soon, so Mal summoned up the dregs of his willpower and pushed Jory a few inches away. “Wanna suck you.”

  Jory took a deep, deep breath, then rolled off Mal and onto his back on the sand.

  Mal raised himself up onto his elbow and drank in the sight. Christ, he was amazing. But not nearly naked enough.

  Jory narrowed his eyes. “Need directions?”

  “Nope. Just waiting for you to get that shirt off.” Mal stripped his own T-shirt off, in case Jory needed a visual cue, and yeah, that seemed to work cos seconds later he was gazing in lust at the glory that was Jory’s chest. It was, like, all muscle, except for a healthy amount of hair that Mal had the weirdest idea he wanted to floss his teeth with.

  Maybe he wouldn’t mention that bit out loud.

  “God, you’re gorgeous,” he breathed instead, and fuck him if Jory’s nipples didn’t tighten as he said it. Mal wanted to kiss them and grope them and rub
his dick on them all at the same time. He settled for lying down on Jory, chests together and dicks— Fuck, yeah. “Wanna come all over you,” he heard himself say, and judging from how Jory’s hands clamped on his arse like a vice, there wouldn’t be too many objections coming.

  Heh. Coming.

  Christ. Mal was drunk, but not on cider. He was drunk on Jory. Totally gone, off his head, nuts in the bonce, and away with the fairies. And they weren’t touching enough, so Mal pushed his jeans all the way off any old how, and then he peeled Jory’s tights down a bit further, and yeah, that was better.

  “You’re beautiful,” Jory said softly, and it made Mal’s heart hurt, so he kissed Jory silent, ate his words and was still hungry for more.

  Lips were good, yeah, were fucking fantastic, but there were many other parts of Jory he needed to taste, so Mal swirled his tongue one last time around Jory’s mouth and then moved down to bite at his neck. Jory bucked up, groaning. And that was, fuck, that had to be the best positive reinforcement in the world, so Mal switched to sucking, right down low by Jory’s collarbone, where Jory would be able to hide the mark for work. He was considerate that way, Mal was.

  Then he moved straight on down to Jory’s chest, because he could be a selfish bastard too, and he’d been gagging to taste one of those rosy red nipples. And jeez, that was good, all hard under his tongue, just asking to be bitten, like the little tart it was. So Mal bit it, just a gentle nip, then he moved on to the other one. And Jory was gasping and groaning, and his hands were all over Mal, stroking and squeezing, as if Mal was a juicy piece of fruit on a market stall. It was so fucking awesome, and he’d known it—he’d known him and Jory would be perfect together—so why the fuck hadn’t they done this before?

  And okay, maybe he skimped a bit on the rest of Jory as he kissed his way down the treasure trail, but Christ, who could blame him? The first taste of Jory’s dick was . . . It was like being plunged into the sea, held underwater until you turned half fish and learned how to breathe down there. It was like seeing colour for the first time, or the piercing bright dawn after working a night shift underground. Too much, far too much—but you still wanted it. Needed it. Mal swirled his tongue around the head because, God, he had to taste it all.

  Jory swore, the words all choked up in a sob, and it went straight to Mal’s dick, which was just hanging in midair, untouched. And that was a fucking tragedy. Mal shifted position until he was lying on Jory, humping his leg like a husky in heat, his mouth still on that gorgeous cock. Jory’s balls fit in his hand as if they’d been made to measure, and he rolled them and tugged on them as he carried on sucking.

  “Oh God,” Jory gasped. “Going to—” He tried to push Mal’s head off his dick, but fuck that for a game of soldiers. Mal held on tight as jet after jet of hot spunk hit the back of his throat, making him gag and swallow. Christ, that was magic.

  Mal’s eyes were watering by the time he finally let Jory push him away with shaking hands.

  Jory’s chest was heaving, his eyes glazed. “God . . . That. You.”

  Sitting back up on his knees, still straddling Jory’s legs, Mal grinned and wiped his mouth with the back of his hand. “Oh yeah.” He grabbed hold of his dick and started stroking it, slower than he needed, just enough to keep himself on the edge. “You ready for this? Gonna paint you all over.”

  Jory actually, honest to God, shuddered. And, like, not in a bad way, at least not judging from how his hands tightened on Mal’s knees, which were the only bits of him Jory could reach.

  Mal sped up his hand, jerking himself off for real now, drinking in the sight of Jory laid out beneath him, all sweat-slick and sex-drunk. He was so beautiful it hurt. “Gonna mess you up, make you so fucking filthy . . .” It ended in a drawn-out groan as he shot his load, streams of jizz jetting out and landing in streaks on Jory’s chest and, fuck, yeah, on his face too. Christ, that made an awesome picture. Mal was going to remember that till the day he died. Like Jory was Mal’s, all his, marked up so no one else would dare to touch him.

  He collapsed down by Jory’s side, breathing hard, then grabbed Jory and pulled him in for a quick, hard kiss that smeared spunk from Jory’s beard all over Mal’s chin.

  If he hadn’t just had sex, he’d think that was well gross . . .

  Shit. He’d just had sex. With Jory.

  Mal scrambled to his feet and pulled on his jeans, his fingers clumsy. That had been . . . And Jory’s face . . .

  Sitting up and wiping himself down with one of the paper napkins he’d brought with the sandwiches, Jory was smiling like he’d won the bloody lottery. “That was amazing. I knew we’d . . . Listen, I want you to come back to Roscarrock House with me. Meet Bran and Bea. Once they know we’re together—”

  “Whoa, hey, hold on, mate.” Mal’s mouth was dry, but he had to shut Jory up, he had to, cos every word was like a knife between his ribs. He wished so fucking hard he could be like Jory, could believe this would all end up in happy-ever-after land, but he couldn’t.

  His stomach was twisted up in knots, and his chest felt bruised inside, like he’d eaten a dodgy curry and come down with pneumonia all at once. Or like that time the dickhead who’d picked on him all through primary school had seen Mal in the park holding hands with another lad, and barged in with his mates to give them both a kicking.

  It was all going wrong. It was only supposed to be a shag. It wasn’t supposed to mean anything.

  He hadn’t wanted things to change between them. Being mates with Jory, that was good—but he couldn’t let himself hope for more. He couldn’t. “Look, it was great, but it’s just . . . I mean, I’m only here for a holiday, so . . . It was only a bit of fun, yeah? No need to bother your family and all that.”

  Christ, Jory’s face. Mal couldn’t look at him, so he turned away and grabbed up the hard hat that was lying upturned on the sand. “We’d better get back, yeah?”

  Jory couldn’t understand it. What the hell had gone wrong?

  There was a simple answer to that. He’d been trying to make what had happened on the beach into more than what it was. Christ, he might as well have asked Mal to bloody marry him, with all that babbling about them being together and how Mal should meet his family, for God’s sake.

  “Them that asks no questions isn’t told a lie . . .”

  He was an idiot. A stupid, pathetic, needy idiot. But, damn it, what was he supposed to think, with Mal blowing hot and cold all the time?

  Jory’s rising bubble of anger hit the guilty knowledge that Mal was recovering from a trauma, for God’s sake, and punctured wetly, leaving only a hot tide of humiliation in its wake. “Look,” he said urgently as they climbed through the dark, the way seeming far longer than it had coming. “I’m sorry about . . . I shouldn’t have assumed.”

  Mal didn’t turn. “’S okay.”

  Jory barely caught his muttered words. He didn’t sound okay.

  When they finally emerged at the other end of the tunnel to skies streaked with red and pink, Jory tried again. “Back at the beach . . . Just forget what I said. Too much cider. There’s no need—”

  “You might as well take the short cut back from here,” Mal interrupted him. “No point you going out of your way.”

  “It’s no trouble,” Jory insisted, beginning to feel desperate and, worse, angry. For God’s sake. Did Mal think he couldn’t be trusted to keep his hands to himself if they walked together?

  “Nah, ’s okay. Cheers and all. Here you go.” Mal handed over his hard hat, and their fingers brushed. Mal flinched. “I think . . . maybe we shouldn’t see each other for a bit.”

  The words were like a blow to Jory’s already churning stomach. “What? No, that’s—” He pulled himself up short. He wasn’t going to be pathetic, damn it. “Fine. If that’s what you want.”

  Mal nodded, then turned on his heel and walked away.

  Jory stood there for a long time, just watching the sun set.

  Then he walked the lonely path back to Roscar
rock House.

  Mal’s feet were aching by the time he got back down to the Sea Bell, and he felt weary to the bone, even though his rucksack had been a lot lighter than on the way up.

  He’d fucked things up good and proper with him and Jory. Like he’d known he would. One little shag . . . Yeah, right. Dick-brain. Dick. Brain.

  He didn’t get it, though. Him and Dev had shagged loads of times and never stopped being friends. Why the hell couldn’t it work like that with Jory? Why couldn’t they just be mates who shagged?

  Christ, he wanted Dev here. Not for a shag, cos they didn’t do that anymore since Dev had got together with Kyle, but as a mate. His best mate. Someone who could tell him why this thing with Jory was doing his head in so much.

  All he knew was that he needed to stay away from Jory Roscarrock.

  That was the only way not to fuck things up even more.

  Tasha was behind the bar when he walked in to slump on a barstool. She took one glance at him and rolled her eyes. “What you done?”

  “Oi, who says I done anything?”

  “Your face. Better not go near any police lineups, cos you look guilty as hell.” She took a step nearer, and her nose wrinkled. “Oh my God, you didn’t?”

  “Didn’t what?”

  “You know.” She cast a glance around before leaning over the bar and lowering her voice. “Do the dirty. With him.”

  “‘Do the dirty’? Since when do you call it that?”

  She curled her lip. “Since Jago started fining me a pound every time I swear at work. And don’t change the subject. You did, didn’t you?”

  Mal hung his head. “It just happened, all right? You know what it’s like.”

  “Jesus, Mal, couldn’t you keep it in your kecks for once? What happened to ‘He’s me best mate’s uncle’?”

  It sounded dead pervy when she said it like that. “What happened to ‘No skin off my arse’?”

  Tasha glanced over at Jago, then leaned in close and lowered her voice. “Yeah, well, you got me thinking, dintcha? Like maybe it ain’t such a good idea after all. Dev’s like . . . He needs his family, you know? But he ain’t going to choose some uncle he’s never met over his best mate if it all goes tits up. And, babe, you got tits up all over your face.”