Short Stack

by Lily Morton

  “You’re so good at wrapping, Jude,” Billy says earnestly.

  Yep, I was right. It is lumpy.

  “Okay, you go ahead and open the door, Bill,” I instruct him, and we manage to manoeuvre the present down the hall and into the lounge.

  “Ta-da, Daddy,” Billy says, dancing about wildly.

  Asa comes towards us. “Jude?”

  “Open it,” I say nervously. “Hope you like it.”

  He props it against the sofa and tears off the wrapping. The last piece of red and gold paper falls away, and he goes still. “Jude,” he says reverently.

  “Do you like it?”

  He stares at the beautiful painting. There on the huge canvas in light oils is our tree on Frenchman’s Creek. The tree-lined water gleams in the late afternoon sunlight, which is shining down on the three figures sitting there. They’re absorbed in each other and very definitely a family.

  He looks up, and his eyes are wet. “It’s beautiful,” he says softly. “It’s Rebecca’s work, isn’t it?”

  I nod, smiling at Dylan’s mum’s name. “I gave her a photo of it in the summer. She wanted to do it for free, but I insisted on paying.”

  “It must have cost a fortune.”

  I shrug. “I took a modelling job.”

  “But you said you didn’t want to do that anymore,” he protests.

  I tuck a strand of his hair behind his ear and tug gently on his beard. “It’s modelling, not going down the mines. You’re worth it.” I smile. “I did it during the summer while you were in Ireland. Gabe babysat Billy for me.”

  He laughs. “I’m sorry. I’m sure you just said that Gabe babysat Billy.”

  I grin. “I did. Remind me to tell you about it later.” I look at the picture. “You like it?”

  “I love it,” he corrects me, standing up and drawing me into a hug.

  “Okay,” Peggy says happily. “I’m going to make breakfast. Why don’t you and Jude and Billy take this mad dog for a walk along the beach, and by the time you come back it’ll all be ready?”

  “You sure you don’t want a hand, Peggy?” I ask.

  “No, I do not,” she says immediately. “I like my kitchen to myself, thank you very much.”

  “I’m not arguing with that at all.”

  “That’s because you’re a very sensible young man.”

  I laugh, and we all race upstairs, throwing on jeans and jumpers and coats and whistling to Stanley. Using the path at the end of the garden that leads to the beach, we make our way down. It’s a cold, fresh morning with a blustery wind, and we start to make our way along the beach, nodding to the other people who’ve had the same idea.

  I smile, and Asa looks at me. “What?” he asks.

  “Just thinking what a performance you made going on that beach in Mallorca. Going on about everyone recognising you. And now look at you.”

  “I don’t care anymore,” he says simply. “When I’m with you and Billy, I’m just me. Asa Jacobs.”

  “You’ve always been just Asa Jacobs to me.”

  He draws me to him, throwing his arm over my shoulder. “I know. And that’s just one of the many reasons why I love you so much.”

  “Many, many reasons. I’m extremely loveable.”

  “Too many reasons to count.”

  “I love you too.” I look at Billy racing ahead with Stanley lolloping along next to him and then back at the big man walking beside me. I inhale the scent of salt on the wind and watch the sun gleam on the waves. “I love this life.”

  He smiles. It’s wide and warm in the early morning Christmas sunshine. “I know.”

  Marrying Jude

  Jude

  When I wake up, I’m lying in a patch of early morning sunshine. The windows are open, letting in a soft breeze and the sound of the street outside. For a second I feel disoriented, expecting to hear the surf, but then I remember that I’m in London in the pink palace. I stretch my hand out on a search-and-discover mission for a big bearded man, but when my fingers touch cold sheet, I open my eyes fully. He’s not here. Hmm.

  I stretch, and I don’t need to feel the ache in my arse to remember the wild night. I just have to inhale the scent of sex and amber and lavender on the sheets. He got back from Ireland last night, and our reunion was strenuous. I grin and brush my hair back, before registering the extreme silence of the house.

  Usually, it’s chaos – doors opening and shutting, footsteps banging up and down the stairs, shouting, and that’s just Billy. Today there’s nothing, and it’s sufficiently strange enough to make me leave the bed.

  I roll out of bed, and after a quick trip to the bathroom, I pull on an old pair of sweats that hang so low on my hips they’re practically indecent. Attired, if not adequately, I amble downstairs. My earlier impression is confirmed, as the house lies in a pool of sunny silence. It’s almost like one of those zombie films where the plucky hero doesn’t realise that he’s the only one around who isn’t gnawing on someone’s leg.

  My head is so full of these thoughts that it accounts for why I issue a very high-pitched shriek when Asa materialises from the cupboard under the stairs.

  “What the fuck?” I screech and pause to clear my throat before continuing in a much deeper voice than usual. “I mean, what are you doing?”

  Asa stares at me. “What the hell was that about?”

  “Zombies.”

  As normal, he gets my randomness and nods wisely. “Ah. It’s too quiet.” He looks me up and down, his eyes catching on my hipbones and the thatch of my pubic hair showing above the very low-slung joggers. “If I were a zombie,” he says slowly, “I think I’ve found where I’d like to nibble first.”

  I eye him. He’s wearing faded old jeans that cling lovingly to the lines of his legs and a denim shirt that’s surely as old as me. I frown at the big white dressing on his chest that’s peeping over the top of his shirt. Apparently, he’d been hit by a sword during shooting last week, and I hate that he was hurt. Then I come back to the conversation. “Maybe you’d like to explain why your zombie arse was rooting around in that cupboard first?”

  He hums, looking a bit shifty. “Just looking for my black dress shoes.”

  “Under the stairs?”

  “Billy,” he says without any need for more explanation.

  “He was playing giants the other day.” I look around. “Speaking of the devil, where is he?”

  That shifty look crosses his face again, but before I can question him, he exclaims and, bending down, he comes up with his shoes. My mouth quirks at the Action Man sitting comfortably in them. “Did he come with the shoes when you bought them?” I ask lightly.

  He sniffs. “They’d probably be more comfortable if I kept him in there while I was wearing them.”

  I grimace sympathetically. My Asa does not like formal dress.

  “Is there a premiere or something you’ve forgotten to tell me about?” I murmur.

  He shakes his head. “No, I just need my grey suit.”

  “Are you in court for soliciting again?” I ask mockingly. “If you’d only go back to acting school you could learn how to do it properly.” I twist away, laughing as he tries to tweak my nipples, and move towards the kitchen. “There is obviously something you’re hiding. I need tea before I start cross-examining you,” I shout.

  I hear a groan. “Not cross-examining, Jude. The way you do it, I can’t keep anything back.”

  I grin. I cross-examine naked. We, therefore, have no secrets between us.

  My grin fades when I go into the kitchen to find it empty. There are cups and plates on the table, and the dishwasher rumbles gently. All the signs of occupation but no people. Okay, this is weird.

  “Asa,” I shout. “Can you come here, please?”

  A few minutes later he appears with two suits hanging from his long fingers, one of which appears to be my charcoal-grey Hugo Boss.

  “What is going on?” I gesture around the kitchen. “It’s like the fucking Mary Celeste in h
ere.”

  He hangs the suits up neatly from the doorjamb and saunters in. “Finished your tea?” he asks, his voice deeper than usual, and something in the tenor of his voice alerts me to his intentions.

  I laugh. “Shit. Here?”

  He nods slowly. “I’ve wanted to fuck you on this table since I first met you. Unfortunately, I thought Peggy might give notice if I tried it at teatime.”

  I throw my head back, laughing, but it dies when my head lowers and I catch the dark look on his face. “Really?”

  He paces towards me, and it’s like being stalked by a huge lion. My cock stiffens immediately, and he smirks. “Looks like one part of you is on board with the idea. Let’s see if we can get the rest to agree.”

  I smirk and back up slowly until my arse hits the kitchen table. Holding his hot gaze, I grab the waistband of my sweats and slowly lower them until the tip of my cock appears, poking impudently over the elastic.

  “Jude,” he whispers, and then he’s on me, his mouth taking mine.

  We kiss fiercely, but then I gather my wits and push him back. “Wait,” I say hoarsely, as he follows my lips like a drunken man. “Wait. We don’t want to hurt your chest.”

  He looks down at his chest, and to my amazement, he smiles.

  “Is there something funny about a work-based injury?” I say tartly. “Please don’t take any workplace training, because they will never understand this sudden humour of yours.”

  “It wasn’t a sword,” he says.

  “What?”

  “It wasn’t a sword that did this.” He peels the bandage back, and I automatically close my eyes. I hate blood. “Look, Jude.” I can hear the laughter in the fucker’s voice, along with something else I can’t grasp.

  I slowly open my eyes and gasp. “Oh, my God. You got a tattoo.”

  He runs his fingers along the edge of the tattoo, which is situated neatly over his heart. “What do you think?”

  “Why didn’t you tell me you were getting one done? I’d have come with you.”

  “Jude, you hate anything to do with blood. It was pretty obvious that you wouldn’t have sat for long in a tattoo parlour. Besides, it was a surprise for you.”

  “What is it?” I ask, and he grins.

  “Come and look.”

  I lean forwards and gasp. “Is that Billy’s handprint?”

  He nods. “I made him do a palmprint on a piece of paper and took it to Len, the tattooist.”

  “It’s beautiful,” I whisper. Done in soft pastel colours, the little boy’s palm reaches over Asa’s heart, the tiny whorls on his fingers done so carefully.

  “That’s so appropriate.” I sniff emotionally. “Because he has your heart.”

  “Not all of it,” he says softly. “Look at the writing.”

  I bend and read the elegant script that flows and circles the palm print. “Isn’t that from the Beatles song, ‘Hey, Jude’?”

  He nods. “It is just you. It always will be. I wanted you and Billy over my heart because it’s full of both of you.”

  I feel tears in my eyes. My Asa. The eternal romantic. I sniff. “If ever I’m cross with you in the future, please take off your shirt and show me this tattoo.”

  “I’m not sure that’ll go down too well in Sainsbury's on a Saturday afternoon.”

  I shrug. “Not sure anything could make that better.” I hug him, listening to the noise his chuckle makes in his chest. “I love you.”

  “I love you too,” he says gravely. “So much, sweetheart.”

  He bends to kiss me, and I smile under his lips.

  “What?” he asks, pulling back.

  “Is it wrong that you branding yourself for me is making me hot?” He pulls out his phone, and I frown. “What are you doing?”

  “Making an appointment for another tattoo.”

  I burst out laughing. “Tattoos and a man bun. I’m a lucky man. Gimme a kiss.”

  He takes my mouth hungrily, and my laughter dies to be replaced by frantic need. He’s been away for too long and last night barely took the edge off. I feel wild and desperate to get my hands on his skin, to feel it against me and take him inside me.

  “Oh fuck,” I choke, pulling back to take a breath. “I need you,” I mutter, tugging at his jeans, and he nods, looking almost drunk.

  “Get those off,” he says, nodding at my sweats, and I obey, pushing them fully off and enjoying the fact that my lack of clothes means that I get the time to watch him strip.

  It’s my own personal show that some people would pay a fortune for – the sight of those broad, tanned shoulders emerging from his denim shirt, the tight belly and the jeans hanging from his hips showing off the taut skin over the blades of his hipbones. He eases them off, and I swallow hard at the sight of him naked, his big balls high and tight and his cock bouncing against his belly slick with pre-come that I can smell in the air.

  “Oh God, I want you," I say desperately, and he nods and comes towards me, the room filling with the sounds of our groans as our bodies meet. “I don’t need much foreplay,” I babble. “In fact, I don’t need any. You breathe wrong, and I’ll come.” He opens his mouth to question that statement, and I shake my head. “No talking,” I say forcefully and his mouth quirks. I nod, satisfied. “Where’s the lube?”

  He thinks hard before biting his lip, miming a zip across it and pointing upstairs.

  “Okay, Marcel Marceau,” I say crossly. “Enough mime. Tell me we have lube because I’m seriously thinking of using just spit.”

  “We’re in the kitchen,” he says. “Grab the olive oil.”

  I grab the green bottle by the sink. “Hmm, produced from rain-fed olives and pressed on the same day,” I say approvingly. “Nothing but the best for my arse.” I snort out a laugh as he shakes his head and shoves me over the table. “Why, Mr Jacobs, you’re looking very impatient.” I wriggle my arse. “In a rush, are we?”

  My voice dies away to a garbled groan as his wet, slippery fingers spread my cheeks and press against the pucker. “Fuck,” I groan. “Do it.” I throw my head back and tense as he inserts his finger slowly, sliding back and forward and drizzling more oil onto his fingers.

  “This reminds me of a barbeque,” he says in a conversational tone of voice.

  “Oh, you’re making jokes. My magic seems to be wearing off.”

  He kisses me deeply. “That’ll never go.” He adds another finger slowly and then another until I’m writhing on the table, all laughter gone and only need left in its place.

  “Oh shit,” I choke out. “Asa, fuck me, please.”

  He rests his face against my back, rubbing his beard slowly over the skin and seeming to light up the nerves underneath. “Yes,” he says deeply. “Going to love you, Jude.”

  “You do,” I say softly. “You do it so well, love.”

  I grip the sides of the table as he slowly pushes his cock into me, the way slick with oil and his own pre-come so he slides in easily. “Oh fuck,” he chokes out. “So fucking good. Why is it always so good with you?”

  I shake my head, pressing my face into the table and raising my arse to push back on him. “It’s the same for me. Oh, shit!” The last is a shout as he shoves into me brutally, banging my prostate until I feel like I could scream. So I do, as he pummels my arse in deep, hard shoves, trying to fuse our bodies together.

  My cock throbs, the thud of my pulse in it feeling huge and loud. My balls draw up tight, and I go hot and cold, the sweat standing out on my body.

  “Going to come,” I slur. “Asa, I’m going to come.”

  “You need my hand?” he says gutturally, ramming into me again and staying to slide his cock over my prostate.

  “No,” I grunt. I strain and reach for it, and at last, it happens. “Oh, fuck, I’m coming.”

  My dick jerks in the air, pulsing white strands of come over the side of the table and onto the floor under my feet.

  Asa gives a loud groan and then presses into me so hard, thrusting frantically, brui
sing me before stilling and giving a low groan. For a long few minutes, we lean against the table drunkenly. I can feel every twitch of his cock as he slowly softens and the gush of fluid that leaves me and drips over the backs of my legs.

  I don’t know how long it takes until our breathing evens out enough to talk, but eventually, I stir. We’re now lying under the kitchen table where we migrated when our legs gave out, and we have sweat and come covering our bodies.

  “Tell me we have wet wipes,” I mutter, and he laughs, his massive chest rising and falling under my head. His fingers play with my curls idly as they always do when we lie together. It’s as if it relaxes him.

  I twist and rest my chin on his chest, carefully avoiding the tattoo and looking up at him. I blow an errant curl away from my eyes and smile as he runs his fingers down my cheek. “Going to tell me what’s going on?”

  He stares at me for a second, thoughts rolling too quickly over his clever face for me to parse. Finally, he smiles almost helplessly. “We’re getting married today.”

  “What?” He winces, and I lower my voice. “Sorry. I mean what the fuck, Asa Jacobs?”

  He laughs but then grows serious as he threads our hands together. “What I meant to say is if it’s okay with you, Jude, I’d really like to marry you today.”

  “Oh my God, you’re serious.” I sit up and promptly bang my head on the underside of the table. “Ow, fuck!” He laughs loudly, and I punch him in the side. “Talk fast, Jacobs, and make it good.”

  He rises up on his elbows. “It’s simple. Today is the day when I want us to take our vows. I’ve booked the Chelsea Registry Office because it’s a really pretty old building.” He shrugs. “I can’t wait any longer.”

  “But what happened to all your grandiose plans for the wedding of the century?”

  He shrugs awkwardly. “I realised that it was for show. What I really want is you and me and our friends and family, and I want forever to start today.”

  I melt inside, and the fucker knows it, judging by the smile that’s ticking at the side of his mouth. I pinch him. “Stop smirking. You know I can’t resist you when you use your words.”