Short Stack

by Lily Morton

  I look up sharply. I can read people’s tone, and this is telling me he isn’t reminiscing about visiting the Peninsula.

  Ivo shakes his head quickly, looking alarmed. I was right. Max is on the verge of a sex story. “I don’t think Henry…”

  “That threesome with Pierre, the French photographer,” Max continues undeterred. He whistles. “I didn’t think it was possible to have that much sex in one night.” He laughs and throws his drink back. “I can still see your face when Pierre’s boyfriend walked in on us and got in bed too. It was the hottest night of my life.”

  “Well, it wasn’t mine,” Ivo says sharply. “Max, I think you’ve had enough to fucking drink. Henry doesn’t need to hear this.”

  “Oh no, do go on,” I say steadily. “I’d love to know some more details about your sexual escapades, and then maybe if there’s time after dessert I can give you some of mine.”

  “That’s not fucking happening,” Ivo says harshly. “Shut the fuck up, Max. I’m going to spend the rest of my life with Henry, and you decide that now is the right time to tell him the details of a fucking foursome we had years ago.”

  Max makes a scoffing sound. “Jesus, he’s not a delicate bloody flower. So, we fucked. So what? He’s had his share from what I hear.”

  Ivo’s voice goes deadly cold, and his accent is thick. “Shut your fucking mouth. I’m not discussing Henry’s past.” He shakes his head. “It’s not just the sex stories. It’s the constant going on about everything we did together as if it was some amazing time that’s never been bettered.”

  “It was.”

  “Was it? I don’t think so. It was sweat and blood and sights that still have the power to wake me up screaming. Yes, there were good times, but half the reason they were good was because we were living right on the edge.”

  “Would you go back if you could?”

  Ivo stares at him. “What are you trying to say?”

  “I’m thinking of going back. I have a job if you’re interested.”

  Ivo’s attention is fixed on Max like a lighthouse beam. “A job?”

  Max nods. “Pete contacted me the other day and said he’s got a contact in Syria.”

  My hands fist around the edge of the table until the knuckles turn white. Syria. I look at Ivo, and my stomach sinks when I see him eyeing Max contemplatively.

  Max stares back. “Interested? It’d be you and me. Just like old times.” He pauses. “Provided Henry will let you go.”

  I shake my head impatiently. “Stop trying to stir the shit. I have no say over what Ivo does with his work.”

  “Yes, you do,” Ivo says steadily. “You always will.”

  “No, I won’t,” I say sharply. “You’re a grown man and your own person.” I swallow hard. “If you felt that you wanted to do this, that it would make you happy, I would never fucking stand in your way ever.” I stare at him. “I will wait for you. I told you that two years ago. I mean it now, just as much as I did then. You have to know that.”

  He looks at me searchingly, his face drawn in lines of intense concentration, and then incredibly he smiles. “I do know that, but my answer’s the same as it was then. I don’t want to do that anymore. I want more of the life you’ve given me now, Henry. You should never try to go back to the past, and I don’t want to.”

  I look up and find Max’s eyes on me, dark and intense. I expect to see anger, but what I see is a strange yearning.

  “You’re a lucky man, Ivo,” he says steadily. His face suddenly breaks into a smile as if he’s seen the answer to something that’s been puzzling him for a while. “I wish I had a Henry at home.”

  Ivo wraps his arm around me and ruffles my hair. “Get your own. It took me a long time to get this one. I’m not sharing it.”

  “I’m not a truffle,” I say crossly, but he and Max break into laughter, and I settle back into my seat feeling inexplicably comfortable. I look up, and Max smiles at me. A real smile with none of his former caution. He raises his glass in a toast, and I raise my own back, feeling warmth hit me.

  The next day I stand at the window of our hotel room looking down at Stow-on-the-Wold’s high street.

  “Well, I must say you seem a lot happier,” Ivo says smugly.

  I let the curtain fall and turn back to him. He’s lying on the huge four-poster bed, a study in relaxed man. He’s wearing jeans, an old white T-shirt with a stretched neck, and a black jumper. He kicked off his shoes and socks as soon as we got into the room, and I swallow hard because I love his bare feet. I don’t know why. Maybe because it means he’s all mine for a while, or just that no one else gets to see them. Whatever the reason, he’s at his sexiest when he’s rumpled, sleepy, and barefoot.

  He crosses his ankles and stares at me. “I must say, I feel a bit like the last piece of steak in Waitrose.”

  I laugh. “Not that either of us would have any idea what to do with that.”

  Ivo chuckles. “Well, I’m happy to report that we’re eating at the hotel.”

  “Oh, thank God,” I breathe and grin. “It’s probably for the best.”

  He nods solemnly. “They’ve won awards for their food. I know how fucking picky you are about food.”

  I shake my head. “I wasn’t wrong when I pointed out that I didn’t think the omelettes you cooked should have eggshell in them. Please feel free to correct me if I’m wrong.”

  He laughs. “I don’t think Dylan quite appreciated how bad we were until you made him cheese on toast the other day, and then you had to stand outside for an hour until the smoke cleared.”

  I shake my head. “He appreciated the fire engine though. I must say I think I should have roomed with Dylan rather than his lover when we were at uni. Gabe was remarkably unsympathetic when the halls tried to vote me out.”

  “Sleep deprivation brought on by fire alarms because some imbecile can’t cook tends to make even students militant.”

  I laugh and wander around the room. It might be out in the countryside, but he’s picked a beautiful hotel. It’s a former coaching inn made from old Cotswold stone and it’s been superbly renovated. Our room is lovely with a wide four-poster bed and large mullioned windows looking down on the high street with its mix of restaurants, pubs, and antique shops.

  I turn back to Ivo who’s watching me with a smile tipping the corner of his mouth.

  “What?” I ask.

  When his smile forms fully, I recognise it as my smile. The one he gives only to me. Warm and intimate like we’re in a club with two members and only we know the rules. In the past, it also led to me breaking a lot of rules, such is his power over me.

  “Come here,” he says and holds his arm up.

  I’m instantly across the room, sliding onto the bed and into his embrace. My head finds its spot on his shoulder, and I nestle closer. He hugs me tight, giving a sigh of deep contentment, and my heart skips a beat as if he’s run his fingers over the heartstrings.

  We lie for a while, silent but for the faint swish of his fingertips running up and down my jumper-clad back. Finally, he stirs.

  “Ever done it in a four-poster bed?”

  I think hard. “I’ve been under one when someone else did it.”

  “What?”

  I cuddle closer, and his arms tighten. “I was exploring the west wing and saw my father coming down the corridor, so I dived into the nearest room. Unfortunately, I went under the bed. Even more unfortunately, my father picked that bed to have sex with your mother.” I pause. “For a very long time. He had stamina.”

  “Ugh,” he gags. “Never ever tell me that story again.”

  I nod glumly. “It was my go-to to stop an erection for years.”

  “Well, now, you’ve stopped mine. I hope you’re happy, Henry,” he says dryly.

  I run my hand down his stomach, coming to rest on his crotch and feeling him harden. “Really?”

  “Oh, okay then,” he says hoarsely. “You know I like to power through unpleasantness.”

  I c
up and stroke the length behind his jeans, feeling my own cock stiffen. “I’d like you to power through me,” I murmur and he chuckles. I start to unzip his jeans, and he stays my hand. I look up questioningly.

  “What about food?” He pauses and clears his throat. “Don’t you want to go downstairs to eat?”

  I shrug, finishing undoing him and freeing his cock deftly. I run my tongue up the shaft and look up. “I am going downstairs to eat.”

  His moan is my answer.

  A couple of hours later, he shuts the hotel room door and turns back to me. Wearing a hotel robe, he’s carrying a tray heaped with food.

  I sit up and reach for my briefs.

  “Absolutely not,” he says immediately. “You’re staying naked for the rest of the weekend.”

  I pull my hand back. “Won’t that be awkward for the residents of Stow-on-the-Wold?”

  “No, because you won’t be meeting them,” he says cheerfully, dumping the tray on the bed and shedding his own robe.

  I enjoy the ability I have now to stare at him. No more sidelong hurried glances for me, because he’s all mine. Now, I look him over slowly and thoroughly, cataloguing the long legs dusted with golden hair, the deep V of his pelvic muscles and the way his balls bunch as he moves. By the time I’ve finished my study, his cock is stirring again.

  “No,” he says huskily. “First food, then the fucking.”

  “That should be our motto for life,” I say happily, grabbing my halloumi burger and munching happily. “This is lovely,” I say through a mouthful of food.

  He shakes his head at me in an affectionate way and settles down to sit cross-legged next to me. The next ten minutes are spent clearing the tray of all food. When we’ve finished, he pours us each a glass of wine and settles back against the mound of pillows.

  I slide next to him, loving the way his arm automatically comes down to circle my shoulders. I look up at him. “So, to avoid spending all our time fucking like rabbits at home, you have removed us to a hotel where you intend to spend all our time… fucking like rabbits.”

  He laughs and whispers, “I might, just might consent to dress and trawl around the antique shops with you tomorrow.”

  “Oh, my God.” I put my hand to my chest. “Are you ill? Do you have a disease?”

  He nods solemnly. “I’ve been saddled with a Henry. It’s a lifelong condition.”

  “You’d better believe it is,” I say indignantly. “And stop mentioning my name in the same tone that another person might use to talk about prison.”

  He laughs and plays with my hair, scratching his nails gently along my skull in a way that never ceases to make my eyes cross.

  “I love you,” he says affectionately.

  “I love you too.” I pause. “So, we’re definitely going shopping?”

  “Henry, you know very well that I can’t refuse you anything.”

  I smile. “You’re right.”

  “I usually am. You just have to be listening to find that out.”

  “I listen to you. You’re the only person I really listen to.” I pause. “Which, if you consider our past, would have saved me one broken arm, nettle rash, a broken nose, and a bad reaction to hair dye.”

  He snorts and then breaks into loud laughter. “Not all at the same time.”

  I twist my head and grin up at him, and his eyes seem to catch on my smile. He sits up suddenly and fumbles in the bedside table.

  “Are you looking for the lube?” I ask idly. “Because I think it’s still on the floor where you threw it earlier in your rush to fuck me.”

  “Not lube.”

  I look up, caught by something in his voice. He’s holding a red gift bag with gold letters across it that spell Cartier.

  “What’s that?” I ask, sitting up.

  He smiles almost nervously. “This is the real reason we’ve come here.”

  “In that bag?”

  He nods and passes it to me. “I wanted to give you something, Hen. Something just for you.”

  “But I haven’t bought you anything.”

  “You give me enough,” he says steadily. “I saw this in a magazine, and I loved the idea of it. I knew I wanted you to have one.”

  I untie the ribbon on the bag and open it to see a red leather case. “Ivo,” I breathe. “This looks expensive.”

  He shrugs. “I didn’t care how much it cost. Just that you had to have one.”

  I snap the box open and stare at the object inside. “Ivo,” I whisper.

  He comes down next to me and removes two halves of a white gold bracelet from the box.

  “It’s a love bracelet,” he says. “There’s a screwdriver in here, and if you want to, I can screw it together on your wrist. I thought it would be subtle when you’re at work, but you’ll be wearing something that always reminds you of me.”

  “I don’t need anything to do that,” I say hoarsely. “I think of you anyway.”

  He looks up, and I’m caught and held by the golden depths of his eyes. “I know that I said I didn’t want marriage, and you said you were fine with it. But I do want eternity, and that’s what the circle means. It means forever. Do you like it?”

  “I love it,” I say hoarsely, holding out my wrist so he can fasten the bracelet together and admiring the gentle gleam of it next to my Rolex. He puts our arms together so our wrists align, causing the two tattooed men to join their ropes. It’s something he does a lot, particularly when we’re lying in bed together. I smile and look up. “And I love you, and you haven’t got anything.”

  He shrugs. “I got what I wanted when I got you. In all my life I’ve never really wanted anything. Only you. There’s no need for anything else.”

  Oz and Silas

  Ten Minutes’ Peace

  Silas

  The sun-washed hallway of the house is a hive of activity when I walk in. A group of old ladies chatters like magpies as they surround June, the senior tour guide, while Susie on the desk processes payments and hands out guidebooks quicker than an usher at a royal wedding.

  I edge past them trying to be inconspicuous, but that plan is foiled as soon as June sees me. “Lord Ashworth,” she calls. “Can we just have a moment of your time?” Her voice is soft, but it seems to cut through the women’s chatter like a knife through butter. All conversation is immediately suspended, and they turn around, as synchronized as a group of meerkats.

  I hesitate, toying with the idea of making a run for it, but June’s eyes have a gleam I don’t trust, so I don’t bother. “That’s me,” I say heartily and immediately the ladies surround me, getting out their mobile phones to take selfies with me.

  I’m posing with a broad and slightly nervous grin on my face when I hear a familiar chuckle from behind me. Warmth runs through my body like the sunshine is reaching inside, and I turn to face the man I came home early to see.

  He leans against the door to the Great Hall, wearing skinny black jeans with a grey shirt, and his hair is shaggier than it’s ever been. What with that and the bright blue polish on his nails, he looks more like a rock star than someone who manages an old house. His muscles bunch as he holds on to a case of orange juice.

  “What are you doing here?” he asks, giving me the intimate and slightly wicked smile that he reserves for me.

  I blink as a flash goes off in my face. The two old ladies wearing cagoules and trainers issue apologies and make way for another woman. It’s like they’re never-ending.

  “I need a word with you,” I say before he can get distracted. Believe me, it’s necessary. There’s so much demanding his attention around here that I’m surprised he even manages to breathe.

  He smiles as an old woman puts an arm around my waist and pulls me more into the frame.

  “It’s a bit like going out with Fifty Cent,” he muses as more flashes go off.

  “More like loose change,” I mutter, thinking of the latest gas bill.

  He laughs before glancing at the old people who are now gathering back aroun
d June. “I’d say Tom Jones, looking at your fan base,” he whispers.

  I shake my head. “Have you got time to come with me?”

  “Where?”

  “Out for a drive. We can have a chat.”

  He straightens up. “I’ve got to take this case to the tea rooms. Can you walk and talk instead?”

  “Oh.” I falter. “I thought you’d be finished by now for the day.”

  I can’t do this as part of a walk and talk to the tea rooms. It wouldn’t exactly make for a memorable moment. I’ve got a picnic basket in the boot of the car stuffed with food from the local deli that he loves. There’s also a bottle of champagne in a bag of ice. I thought I’d whisk him off to the spot high up on the cliffs around Boscastle that he loves and I’d propose there.

  I swallow hard. I’m ridiculously nervous. I know he loves me. I feel it in my heart every day. But I’m not sure what he’ll think of marriage. He’s never expressed a yearning for it and displays no interest either way. However, I know myself. I want to see the pretty ring I have in my pocket on his finger, where he can look at it every day and know how much I adore him.

  He pauses. “You okay?” he asks with a note of concern in his voice.

  “I’m fine, Pika,” I say automatically. “I just need to talk to you. It’s not urgent,” I finish somewhat unconvincingly.

  He stares at me for a second, his keen gaze probably seeing right through me. Then he inclines his head. “Let me drop this off with Mrs Granger, and we’ll go out.”

  I shoot him a grateful smile, and he winks and turns towards the back door that leads onto the gravel path to the tea rooms.

  I follow him, taking the time to appreciate the sight of his arse in his jeans properly. High and tight, it’s also perfectly rounded, and it makes my mouth water. We have a lot of sex, so it still takes me by surprise how he can make me hard at a glance from him or just catching the scent of ginger from his aftershave.

  The tea rooms are a hive of activity as always. Megan on the counter is busily ringing up orders, while the two girls from the village scurry around delivering food. Mrs Granger has been a huge hit, and the cakes and cream teas at Chi an Mor are becoming well known in the area. Oz employed a girl to help her, and they make a great team. Then last year he added a chef with the remit that he make hearty homemade food. I always try to stop in when I know he’s cooked cottage pie, and sometimes Oz will bring home dishes for me when I’ve been working late.