9

9

Pips

I was still horribly sticky and sweaty. But I'd give Marcus his due: he didn't complain that I was leaving damp butt shapes all over his car seat as he gave me a lift home.

It was only as we were walking in that I thought about how my place would look to Marcus. Don't get me wrong, I keep things neat and clean. I have to, when the place is barely enough for a cat to do a full body stretch, let alone be swung around. But I assumed he'd have a posh address and my bijou little cubbyhole would be a hell of a comedown. However, he came in smiling, making himself at home.

"I like this colour on the walls," he said. "It's bright without being garish. Oh . I'm sorry. How rude to make comments on your flat."

"Well, it won't be like yours."

He shrugged. "I live at my parents' house, remember? I don't even have a place of my own. And they downsized to a smaller house in Essex when I first went to Uni. So, it's not like they've got a lot of space for a fully grown son to be hanging around. I've already asked Tamara if she has any contacts in Kingsmere to look for a flat of my own. I'd love something like this."

He was kidding, right? But I took another look for myself. The room was painted a warm, dusky pink, and I had furniture that was old but comfy. I had some of Lina's digital prints on the walls—she was a bloody talented graphic artist—and Mrs G had made me a rag rug for the living room floor. Where I now stood, a drip of lemonade trailing down my thigh, inside my trousers.

"I've really got to get changed," I started to say.

"I'll put the kettle on," Marcus said in the same breath.

"We keep doing that," I said.

He nodded, still smiling. "We think the same way on a lot of things."

I began wriggling out of the YBB tunic. "This is the first thing to go straight in the—"

"Washing machine," Marcus interrupted quickly, maybe guessing I was in the mood to fling the whole thing out of the bloody window. He glanced into my tiny kitchen. "If you hand me the rest of your clothes, I'll set off a wash. Looks like you have the same model as my parents, just tell me where the detergent is."

I stared at him, his baby-blues full of concern and his jaw set with domestic determination. How helpful; how kind. How bloody gorgeous. My pulse was picking up again, this close to him. Alone with him. Sodden and humiliated, sure, but somehow happier with Marcus' company than with anyone before. It made me feel dizzy; reckless. Did I dare take things further? The day had been such a weird one, surely my quota of bad luck was near empty by now.

I stood in the middle of my living room floor, a small pool of stickiness under my shoes, took a deep breath, and peeled off my shirt as well.

"Oh. I-I thought you'd strip off in the bathroom or bedroom," Marcus said, and cleared his throat. " Oh ." His cheeks were that lovely pink again.

"Are you complaining?"

"Not for one single second," he said in a lower, huskier register. "Please feel free."

I threw the wet shirt towards him and he caught it, never taking his eyes off me. I bent and toed off my boots, yanked off my socks which fell on the floor with a squelch. Then I wriggled my trousers down my legs.

Marcus sucked in a breath.

"Here," I said, passing them over as well. I put my hands on the waistband of my briefs, and paused. They weren't very damp at all. My trousers had soaked up the worst of it all. I could stop right now if I chose.

His eyes went so big he looked like a Disney cartoon.

"Not silk, then," he said softly. There was a definite thread of disappointment there.

"Not on a first date, sweetheart," I said cheekily. "If that's what this is."

"It'd better be," he said.

Oh, joy! I pushed the briefs down as well and stepped out of the fabric, stark bollock naked.

"Oh. Oh . Wow," he gasped.

"Is that a good gasp?" I said, then added quickly, "This only needs to be casual fun, Marcus."

His gaze was fixed on my nakedness. "I-I'm not sure."

No? My heart plummeted. This was the worst mortification of all. Where was a useful crotch-covering cushion when you needed one? "I'm so sorry! I mean, you should report me for harassment. To hell with it, just drop all that wet stuff and make your escape while you can. Look, I can—"

"Pips? Shut the fuck up," he said crisply. I didn't think I'd ever heard him swear so decisively before and I was shocked into unfamiliar speechlessness. He dropped the damp clothes onto my sofa—his hands were shaking a bit—and took a few steps forward. Then he put his hands on my shoulders, leaned in, and kissed me. Hard, with lots of tongue.

When we broke for air, I was panting a lot , and I didn't need to look down to know my excited dick was reaching for the stars.

"So," he said breathlessly. "Now you can report me for harassment too."

"Never," I groaned.

And we both laughed until I pointed to the pile of clothing. "That better go in the washer." His expression said fuck that and I was thinking the same, but I also didn't want the place to smell. Oh, and of course it meant he got a good look at my arse as I flounced past him into the kitchen. I'd thought he might follow—those hot blue eyes said he wanted to—and get his hands all over me when I bent to the machine. But when I returned to the living room he stood in the same place, by the sofa.

"When I said I wasn't sure…" He had that seriously earnest look again. "I meant, I'm not sure I can cope with casual fun. Yes, it'd be fun—Christ, I know it would be—!"

I did some of that preening again.

"—but I like you more than that. I know you're not always serious. That's fine, I like your sass. I love the way you sparkle!"

Sparkle? Wow .

"But I want more with you." He winced. "Is that too heavy? Should I leave now?"

"Don't you dare! It's okay. You're okay." I instinctively felt the same but it was difficult to surrender the banter, wasn't it? I didn't think I'd ever talked seriously to a guy, not like this anyway. Things usually started with a hook-up, meandered into sex, drink, and parties, and…. well, never really moved on from there, until it stopped. Just like with my ex. That had been my MO for years.

This was different. This was scary , I thought, and my gut lurched. "We'll take it as it comes," I said. "But, hell yeah, I'm serious about this too."

He kissed me again, hard and needy, like he couldn't stay away from my mouth. "Mmm. You taste of lemonade."

I seriously doubted that, because the Value-Range of drinks was basically carbonated water with a flavour sachet waved at it from six feet away. But it was nice of him to say it like a compliment.

"I should shower," I murmured in his ear.

"Mmm," he said again. "I could join you?"

"You have too many clothes on," I said coyly.

"Easily remedied." He peeled his soft wool sweater over his head, revealing a delicious stripe of bare belly as his t-shirt rode up over his waistband.

Oh , that was lovely.

"Worst case scenario," he continued hoarsely. "I can stand outside the shower cubicle and hand you a flannel."

"Like fuck, you will." I grabbed him by the neck of his shirt and tugged him closer.

Marcus was laughing, not just his mouth, but his eyes, and even his hands seemed to shiver deliciously across my skin. I slid my hands under his t-shirt and tugged it up and off. His bare skin was warm and flushed, the hair between his nipples ticklish on my smooth chest. The small, brown buds went tight as I ran a fingernail over them. I gasped as he ran his tongue up my neck.

"I'm so glad I met you, Pips. You're such a delight."

"Even if it was in the middle of the Great Gazpacho Disaster?" I was fumbling with the zipper of his trousers, eager to feel the weight of him in my palm. "Even if I currently taste of Better-Value lemonade?"

"Especially that. I need something refreshing," he murmured, and I realised he was lowering himself to the rag rug below us. Oh. My. God . When my desperate, precum-beaded cock slapped against his cheek, I didn't know whether to apologise or pass out with excited anticipation.

He moved his head so the edge of his tongue caught the drop at my tip.

Oh dammit , it was going to be the excited anticipation!

Down, down he went, licking all the way, his tongue rough and his lips whispering sexy shapes onto my flesh. Then he settled on his knees, his hands bracing on my thighs, and he slid his mouth slowly over my cock.

His lips tightened.

Holy fuck, he knew how to give a blowjob. He held me securely as he sucked and licked and bobbed. I was perilously near coming, listening to his gasps and gulps, smelling the mix of bodywash and gentle sweat on his bare skin, and the citrus shampoo in his hair. Grimacing as I tried to restrain the inevitable, I glanced down at his kneeling body rocking back and forth in front of me.

"Oh. God. Sweetheart." I wasn't going to last long.

His eyes flicked up, pupils wide and wild. "I really like you calling me that," he mumbled through his mouthful.

And that was all it took. The climax rolled through me like the fizz in a bottle of prosecco, and way better than the pathetic bubbles in the YBB Value-Range soda. This was all-consuming, all-rolling, all-roaring. I shuddered, let some embarrassing and inarticulate noises escape, then reached down to grab a generous handful of his lovely, kinky hair. I hung on to that silky, smooth stuff for grim death, I can tell you. A little death, as they call it, though I wasn't calling anything coherent at the time.

Marcus was gasping below me as he let my dick slip out, now damp in a whole differently delicious way. I gazed down to see he'd slid his hand in his open fly, stroking his own cock.

"Bed," I said, with an affectionate growl. "Now!"