Short Stack

by Lily Morton

  Ivo breaks into peals of laughter.

  An hour later, I tramp behind them, telling myself how lovely it is to take a walk in such a beautiful setting. In reality, my feet have blisters on them from the new golf shoes, and my shoulder is aching from hefting the fucking bag along the ten-mile-route march that Gabe appears to be on.

  I glare at his and Ivo’s backs as they wander along, talking happily and pausing only to make wonderful shots. Ivo has taken to the sport like a duck to water, which shouldn’t surprise me as he does most things well.

  “Have you seen it yet?” I shout, and they stop and look back in surprise as if they’ve forgotten I’m here. “My ball?” I prompt. “We were looking for it.”

  “Yes, it’s here,” Gabe drawls, pointing to the bunker filled with sand.

  “That’s good, right?” I ask.

  Gabe purses his lips and Ivo seems to be pretending to flick fluff off his jumper.

  “Not exactly,” Gabe says with the air of someone who has explained this several times. That’s because he has. “The bunker means it’s a harder shot for you to take.”

  “I don’t think that can be right,” I say judiciously. “Surely you should get lots of points for that.” They stare at me, so I elaborate. “I mean, it’s most people’s goal to have a holiday once a year.”

  “Yes,” Gabe says hesitantly. “And that is relevant, why?”

  “Well, most people’s holidays are on the beach. In a way, this ball has attained its holiday goal in one go, ending up on the beach as the other one did in the lake. So surely extra points?”

  Gabe shakes his head slowly.

  Ivo pats me on the shoulder. “Look on the plus side, Henry,” he says. “You’re rocking that one glove.”

  I strike a pose. “Me and Michael Jackson.”

  We all stare at the lonely little beach-bound ball. “I think that I’ll keep the clothes and you can golf with just Gabe,” I tell Ivo.

  “Oh, no. Why?” Gabe drawls. “Whatever will we do without the fierce element of competition that you’ve introduced?”

  I glare at him. “It would have been more of a competition if you’d allowed my points system.”

  “Yes, I’ll explain to the committee that the lake and the bunkers are now desirable locations because of most people’s desire to go to Torremolinos.”

  Ivo’s laughter floats across the fairway, and I smile. I was right. Exercise and laughter. It’s a potent combination.

  A few days later, Ivo lies on the floor in the lounge in a peculiar position.

  “What are you doing?” I ask him.

  “Stretching,” he says evenly. “Which is what you should be doing.”

  “Why?”

  “To avoid the agony which will be your leg region after a run if you don’t stretch.”

  “Hmm.”

  He shakes his head as he crouches and stretches out his left leg. I tilt my head to one side and try not to look up his shorts. I fail. I’m sure he’s wearing a white jockstrap. My cock plumps up, and I adjust myself discreetly. He’s very lickable in black shorts and a red T-shirt, his hair up in a bun. He looks up, and I immediately attempt an innocent expression.

  “Henry, get stretching,” he orders. He smiles. “Just try it, babe. Copy me, and I’m sure you’ll get the hang of it.”

  Inwardly, I grin widely. Outwardly, I look unsure.

  “Come on,” he encourages kindly.

  “Well, okay, then.” I lie down on the floor next to him, and slowly I stretch myself into the Eight-Angle yoga pose. There’s silence apart from an audible click, which I think is his jaw coming unhinged. “Would this be what you mean?” I ask innocently.

  He kneels next to me. “I feel that you’ve been holding back on me,” he says darkly.

  I chuckle. “The look on your face at the moment.”

  “How are you doing that?” he exclaims, and it might be my imagination, but his voice sounds deeper.

  “Well, do you remember when you encouraged me to do yoga?”

  “Yes. You whinged about it non-stop when you emailed me in Uganda.”

  “I’m sure you weren’t doing much, anyway. You had plenty of time to listen to my problems.”

  He breaks into laughter which I’m hearing more and more lately. I smile and move into the Flying Crow position.

  He’s staring at me intently. “Wow, Henry. You’re so bendy.”

  I snort. “Anyway, I kept at yoga, and obviously I got better.”

  “Better? You’re moving like melting butter.”

  I smile. “I actually really like it. It’s great for fitness and flexibility, and it really de-stresses me.”

  “Well, that answers one question.”

  “What?”

  “Why you’re so fucking fit-looking when you have zero talent in any sport.”

  “Hey,” I say indignantly.

  “You are the Eddie the Eagle of sport.”

  I laugh. “Fair point. Yoga does keep you fit.” I look up at him. “Shall I teach you?” I curl into a headstand with lotus legs. “It’s perfect for stress, and the breathing is brilliant.”

  “Maybe,” he says. His voice is hoarse, and I wonder if I’m pushing too hard. “It’s obviously working for you.” He stands up abruptly. “I think you’re bendy enough, Hen. Let’s get going.”

  I roll up obediently and straighten my black T-shirt and running leggings before following him out.

  My stretching triumph lasts me for about as long as it takes to enjoy the view of his arse bouncing tightly in front of me. Then his backside gets farther and farther away because he actually can run, and eventually all I can hear are my panting breaths in my ear. Finally, convinced that I’m about to die, I stagger to one side and then half-lower, half-throw myself onto the grass verge. I lie there panting for what seems like a long time until I hear the measured thuds of Ivo approaching.

  He comes to a stop beside me, and I hold up my hand. “No, don’t say anything. I can’t go on. Leave me behind. I’ll make my way home eventually.” I pause before saying in a wavering voice, “When the strength returns to my legs.”

  “Henry, you’ve done a mile and a half.” A thread of laughter runs through his voice.

  I open my eyes and look up. He’s standing over me without a trace of sweat and looking as fresh as a whole field of daisies. He raises one eyebrow.

  I sigh pathetically. “No. I can’t do it anymore. My lungs are going to burst into a million pieces.”

  “Spectacular as that sounds, I don’t think it’s an actual thing.”

  “Well, I’ll be the first, then. I’m sort of a pioneer if you think about it.”

  He lowers himself to the grass beside me, and I rest my head on his stomach. His hand comes up, and he strokes my hair.

  “If my hair is wet I think you’ll find it’s just manly sweat,” I say.

  He laughs. “I’ve never stroked such macho hair, Hen.”

  “Thank you.”

  We lie in silence for a few seconds listening to the breeze blowing through the trees, and then I stir. “It’s pretty here, isn’t it? We’re very lucky to have the run of the Royal Parks.”

  “In your case you’ve got the stagger of them.”

  “You’re so funny, you should have a stand-up routine.” He snorts, and I smile. “I can’t believe that we’re only a stone’s throw from lots of taxis.”

  “Is there a hint in that statement?”

  I can hear the smile in his voice, and I purse my lips. “Not really a hint, so much as a declaration that there is no way we’ll be getting home unless it’s in a vehicle. I’m not choosy about what type.”

  “You’re so low-maintenance.”

  “It has been said,” I say modestly, listening to him laugh. “You’re good at jogging,” I finally say. “I suppose it comes in useful in your line of work.”

  “You make me sound like a used-car salesman. When I need to move quickly, I don’t often jog. It’s more a full-on sprint. On a good
day for being threatened, I’m like Usain Bolt.”

  “I wonder if we’d perform better in the Olympics if someone were threatening the athletes’ lives,” I ponder.

  “You’re astonishingly callous, Hen.”

  “Thank you.” I pause. “So, back to the taxi.”

  “What happened to my mental-health problem, and your passionate declaration that you were going to be the one to make a change through the power of exercise?”

  “Then I did some actual exercise,” I say patiently. “And now I’m afraid that you’re on your own.”

  He laughs and seizes my hand. Bringing my fingers up, he kisses them. It’s a quick move, but I wiggle my fingers afterwards, because they’re tingling. “I’ll go and grab a taxi.” He kisses the top of my head. “I’ll even get you a croissant and a cup of coffee for the journey back.”

  “Wow. I need to run more often.”

  He gets to his feet. “Let’s not call what you did running.” He looks down at me, his golden eyes clear and warm. “But I do call it friendship though. Thanks, Henry.”

  “Any time,” I say softly, watching him as he walks away, the long lines of his body moving easily. “Anything for you.”

  The Lost Weekend

  This is set after Henry and Ivo have been together for two years, and three years before the epilogue.

  Henry

  I juggle my briefcase and bags as I struggle to get the key in the lock. “Honey, I’m home,” I shout as I open the door.

  Bertie barks and dances down the stairs towards me, and I dump my briefcase to bend and pet him. “Ivo, Bertie’s downstairs licking me. How is it that you’re not doing the same?”

  “You’re so high-maintenance.” His voice is nearer, and I look up to see him halfway down the stairs and smiling at me. He’s wearing paint-stained ripped jeans and an old green T-shirt which has been washed so many times it clings to his chest. He looks handsome and happy and all mine.

  I leer at him. “You say high-maintenance. I say high-performing.”

  He grins and gestures to me. “Come upstairs for a minute.”

  “A minute?” I sigh. “Everyone said that the sex would deteriorate, but I don’t think even they were talking about a minute. Oof!”

  I laugh and shout out as he rushes towards me and grapples me down to the floor. Bertie barks hysterically and dances around us. I cover my head, laughing at the dog. “How is it that you have just attacked me and Bertie’s staying to bite me to add insult to injury?”

  “We’re a team,” he says smugly, sitting up so he’s now straddling me.

  I slide my hands up his thighs in their faded old denim that’s gone white and thin in all the interesting places like his crotch. “Hmm, this is more of a welcome home.”

  He shakes his head disapprovingly. “You’re insatiable. We had sex this morning, and you actually caught a taxi home in your lunch break for more. I’m starting to feel objectified.”

  “You should start to feel molested,” I growl, curving my fingers around the hard length in his jeans.

  “Mmm,” he moans and is just lowering his head to kiss me when he pauses. “Henry, what’s in those bags?”

  I look guiltily at them. “Oh, hmm. Supplies?” I say questioningly.

  “Supplies for what?”

  “Dinner?”

  “Really?”

  I nod gamely.

  He gives me a wicked grin. “How unusual that Burberry and Ralph Lauren have started to supply food. Now, that’s what I call a real one-stop shop.” I groan, and he laughs. “Henry, what is our spare room?”

  “Our dressing room?”

  “Hmm, our is such a broad term for it. Let’s see. How about we just say it’s your dressing room.”

  “You’ve got a shelf,” I say, trying not to laugh.

  “Oh, my shelf. Yes. It’s funny, but my shelf seems to now have a lot of your stuff on it.”

  I shove his hips. “Listen, your old shit can go anywhere. My stuff is boss.”

  “Boss?” he echoes.

  “And necessary,” I add quickly, smiling widely at him. “Look in the second bag.”

  Leaning over, he snags the bag and pulls it towards him. He opens it and looks up with an arrested expression on his face. “Oh, Henry,” he says, pulling out a cascade of jockstraps in rainbow colours.

  “Like I said. Necessary.”

  He smiles. “I’ll clear my shelf.”

  I laugh. “Want me to model them?”

  His agreement is vocal and enthusiastic and leads to an intense session on the hall floor which ends up with us covered in come.

  Afterwards, I crane my head to look at my arse. “I think you’ve ripped this blue jock.”

  He waves a lordly hand. “I’ll buy you another. I’ll buy you the whole shop.”

  “Thank you, Daddy,” I whisper. “Henry’s been such a good boy.”

  “Ugh, creepy,” he mutters and sits up, shoving me off him and spilling me to the floor.

  “Oh my God.” I laugh. “Romance is dead.” I pause. “Was it the role play?”

  He shakes his head. “You’ve derailed me with your slutty underwear. Come upstairs and shower and pack.”

  “Pack?” I say loudly and somewhat dubiously. “What am I packing for?” I brighten. “Are we going to a hotel in London?”

  “In London?” he asks, mystified.

  “As a nice luxurious change.”

  “From your home in London?” He shakes his head. “Sometimes you can be a bit weird.”

  “What am I packing for?”

  “We’re going away for the weekend.”

  “Why?” I squeak. He stares at me, and I shift tack. “How wonderful, Ivo. Where are we going?”

  Ivo’s lip quirks. “Henry, you are not a traveller. If you’d been a Victorian explorer, we’d have thought the world ended at Hackney.”

  “There is a very nice tailor in Hackney.” I sigh.

  He folds his arms. “I’m taking you away. We’re going to stay in a lovely hotel in the Cotswolds where I can wine and dine you and fuck you senseless.”

  I scratch my head. “Is it our anniversary?”

  He frowns. “No, it isn’t.” He pauses and thinks. “No, it’s definitely not. Can I not just do something nice for you for once?”

  I melt. “Oh, babe, of course, you can. I’m sorry. It’s just that you know what travel and I are like, Ivo. It never ends well.”

  He shakes his head. “I have been aware for a long time that milk travels better than you, but that’s not going to be the case this weekend.”

  “Oh, you’ve done it now,” I say in a dark voice. “You’ve jinxed it.”

  He hugs me. “This weekend we are going to have the perfect romantic weekend away.” He pauses. “When I fuck you through a hotel mattress.”

  I bat my eyelashes. “My hero.”

  “Get packing,” he says, slapping my arse. “I want to set out before the traffic gets too bad.”

  Four hours later, I stir in the car. “So, when you said you wanted to set out before the traffic got bad, did you mean we should have travelled at one in the morning, or invested in a time machine?”

  He snorts and looks at the long traffic jam on the M40. We’d crawled along for a while, entertaining ourselves by playing X-rated I Spy and chatting about his latest commission. Then I’d grabbed the book he was reading and read a bit out loud, doing funny voices, but he’d stopped that because apparently The Lovely Bones isn’t a comedy. Now, we’re both bored.

  He flicks the indicator on and takes the next turn.

  “Where are you going?” I ask. “The sat nav has rather bossily pointed out that we have to keep on this road, which is a trifle ironic as we haven’t moved for two hours.”

  He shakes his head. “I’ll take a detour. This mess isn’t clearing up anytime soon.”

  “I can see why you were so good in foreign countries.”

  “This is the Cotswolds, not Afghanistan. You have some sort of coun
tryside phobia.”

  “Oh, my God, I do,” I say in a tone of wonder. “Wow. There’s a name for it.”

  “There’s definitely a name for it.”

  “Alert the media,” I say dramatically. “Ivo Robinson is trying to be funny.”

  He laughs and focuses back on the isolated stretch of road we’re now on. It’s getting dark, and the fields nearby glow an unearthly yellow and green under the twilight.

  I look over at Ivo and smile. “This is a deserted stretch of road, isn’t it?”

  He shoots me a funny look. “You sound like a creeper. Stop it.”

  I snort and reach across, and he jumps as I unzip his jeans. “Really? You want me to stop?” He groans as I reach in and fist his cock. “Oh, Ivo, no underwear,” I say reverently. “You really are a very special person.”

  He laughs and moans at the same time as I bring my hand up to his mouth. “Get me wet,” I command, and then it’s my turn to moan as he licks my palm with broad strokes before taking my fingers into his mouth and sucking hard. “It feels like my hand’s connected to my cock,” I murmur and smirk. “When I was a teenager, it was.”

  “Ungh,” he groans.

  “Oh, that does it for you, huh? Me when we were teenagers?”

  “So gorgeous,” he mutters, releasing my fingers. “I used to have this dream where…”

  He groans as I grab his cock in my wet hand. “Go on, Ivo,” I urge. “Keep talking.”

  He tightens his grip on the steering wheel, the leather creaking under his fingers. “I used to dream about you coming into my bedroom and crawling under the sheets. You’d take my cock in your hand and put it to your lips, and then you’d suck me in.”

  “Wow, that’s remarkably not dirty. Come on. Surely you can do better.”

  He glares. “Henry, I was fifteen. I quite often didn’t get past the image of my dick in your hand before it was time to clean up.”

  I laugh and, fisting his cock, I start to pump it with one hand while lowering the other one to cup his balls gently. “Oh shit,” he whispers.

  I chuckle as he shifts, and I push my hand farther into his jeans. They’re open and loose, allowing me to send a finger drifting along his balls and underneath.