Chapter 3

Chapter

Three

R afferty

I open the door with a sigh of relief, flinging it wide so Stan and Hump can walk past me into the flat. "God, it's good to be home."

Stan's mouth quirks as he takes off his coat. "You say that like you're James Cook."

"I feel like him sometimes. Although he'd have foregone his record-breaking voyages and thrown himself into the Pacific if he'd had to organise a food-tasting session with the Patterson-Barkers."

"Are the Patterson-Barkers demanding?"

"Put it this way, if Zeus himself had descended from Mount Olympus and offered them ambrosia, they'd have told him they'd had better from Nobu."

He laughs, and I take his jacket from him, seeing his smile of thanks and feeling the familiar warmth it gives me. I love to make him happy. After hanging the jacket in the cupboard, I take off my shoes and place them neatly in there too. Everything in our flat has a place. There's good reason for why we keep it as neat as a show home. A few years ago, Stan's old boyfriend had absently taken off his shoes and left them by the sofa. Stan had tripped over them and fallen. He'd needed five fucking stitches in his head. It had made my insides liquid lava with rage, but Stan had been embarrassed and laughed it off. Now I'm incredibly militant when we have visitors. Our friend Leo calls me the Lord of the Loafers.

Stan presses the switch to dim the lights, and I immediately know his eyes are sensitive tonight. He takes off Hump's harness, and the dog tosses his head like a diva and scampers off to see what's in his food bowl now his working day is done.

"If he had a clocking out card, he'd have eaten it," I remark.

Stan gives his usual husky laugh. It's warm and real and makes my chest tight. It makes a few other things tight, but I refuse to think about those. I've got enough trouble lately.

Stan sets his rucksack on the chair and opens it.

My mouth twitches when he pulls out a bag that's a familiar shape. "What is that you've got there, Stanley?"

"Shut up."

I start to laugh, relieved to feel tension ease from my shoulders. Relaxing is something I've struggled with lately. "Tell me you haven't brought more records home. I thought the purpose of a record shop was to engage in commerce—by selling the records."

"It's The Prodigy's The Fat of the Land ," he says, his earnest voice making me want to hug him. "It's a difficult album to get hold of, and you know I can't resist a good find."

"You're like Augustus Gloop trying to step over a chocolate puddle." I stare at the album's boldly coloured sleeve. "Is it from the estate sale we went to in Enfield last weekend?"

He nods. "I had to listen to it first before I sold it."

He turns and walks into the lounge, his gait sure and confident in our home. I follow him, trying hard not to look at the swell of his arse in those Levi's. The denim is soft with age and clings to his bum tighter than a lover.

I say, "I think you mean you want to give it a listen before it vanishes into the record shelves of this flat. I'm going to have to reinforce the floors soon."

The lounge has high ceilings and tall windows that let in lots of light. I painted the walls white when we moved in and have filled them full of artwork I've picked up over the years. A huge green corduroy sectional stuffed with bright cushions is the biggest piece in the warm, vibrant room, but the records are definitely the room's highlight.

Shelves crammed full of vinyl stretch from floor to ceiling on three walls. The shelves themselves are a testament to my adoration of Stan. Buying them, assembling them, and installing them was a three-stage nightmare. First there was a trip to IKEA where, after a ten-minute argument about how to get the boxes home, I almost left Stan in the car park. I'd been consoled by the fact that at least four other couples nearby were having the same hissed argument. Later, I'd lost valuable hours of my life trying to decipher the shelves' assembly instructions. After my first failed attempt—which had left me with a handful of screws and no idea where they were supposed to go—we'd called out the big guns and got Joe's husband to help. His profession is forensic accountant, but he makes an excellent carpenter.

But today as I look at the beautifully filled shelves, a horrible thought occurs to me. If this thing with Bennett is serious, then surely Stan will move in with him at some point.

I look around the room and imagine it empty of Stan's records and, of course, empty of Stan himself. My chest hollows, my stomach clenches, and I suddenly feel like one of the dust motes that's drifting through the sunlit room. As if it's Stan that gives my body life and form.

But I've had these feelings before. Stan is too gorgeous and lovely to remain single forever. It's a state I'm happy to embrace, but Stan likes constancy and craves long-term relationships of all kinds.

"You've gone quiet." His voice interrupts my thoughts. He's putting the record on the deck, his long, artistic fingers trailing over the vinyl, almost caressing. I know how they feel on my skin. Stan sees with his hands, and he's exceptionally thorough.

"It's good," he says into the silence.

"What?" My face flushes. I need to get myself under control.

He cocks his head, and his focus on me is laser precise. "The record feels great. No scratches, and the vinyl is clean. You did a good job, babe."

"Oh." I force a laugh. "I had a good teacher."

Stan likes to go to the estate fairs, which is where he gets a lot of his stock, and his sociable nature soaks them up like a sponge. My job is to examine the records the way he's shown me and assess the wear and tear while he talks shop to the vinyl sales community. There's usually a mix of the same people at those things, and I can always find Stan at the centre of a group of laughing people. He's an unusual and endearing mixture of razor-sharp and sugar-sweet, and it draws people like little moths to his flame.

The needle comes down on the vinyl, and the familiar crackle sounds before Keith Flint's voice screeches through the flat. I wince because The Prodigy is not my idea of a good listening experience, but Stan loves them and dragged me to two of their concerts. I'd stood there wishing for a pair of earplugs, while he'd jumped around screaming like a hyperactive banshee.

Stan listens to the first song intently, his head cocked to one side. And I take a moment to observe him.

He's taller than me, with broad shoulders and long legs. His hair is a mess of dark curls, and his eyes are a warm toffee brown. But it's his face that always gets me. It's high-boned and elegant with a long nose and thick, dark eyebrows that are usually lowered in an expression of concentration. However, he rarely seems sombre, because the puckish twist of his mouth and a dimple give him a cheeky air. It's my favourite face in the world, and I could look at him forever and never grow tired.

"Ready?"

I jump as Stan's voice breaks my thoughts. "S-sorry," I stumble. "What did you say?"

He frowns. "Fuck, you're more out of it than usual."

"I beg your pardon . What do you mean more than usual?"

His lip quirks. "Maybe you should stay home for a while and give your liver a chance at life. And maybe give your cock a break too," he adds in a tone that's not entirely joking.

Before I can respond, he moves towards the kitchen.

"Oh, are you cooking?" I ask hopefully.

He shakes his head. "Are you?"

I follow him like a rat after the Pied Piper. "Well. I suppose I could give it a go."

He shudders. "Please don't. There aren't enough Rennies in the world to cope with your attempts. I still get flashbacks from your trifle. It was like a milkshake."

"That was Leo's fault. It just needed more time in the fridge."

"We could have given it until the End of Days, and it still wouldn't have set."

"Oh, shut up."

He laughs, and I watch as he slips an apron on and ties it around his narrow hips. His dark curls fall around his face.

The kitchen is Stan's domain, as he loves cooking and is very good at it. Pale blue cabinets intermingle with a stainless-steel worktop and appliances, while on the windowsill, a shelf of herbs is a mass of green. Everything is spotless and neat, and woe betide me if I don't put something back properly.

"What are you making?" I ask, hoisting myself up onto the counter and swinging my legs. "Ooh, I hope it's scrambled eggs on toast."

"There's not even a hint of subtlety about you, is there? And that's breakfast food that I'm pretty sure even you can make."

"Not as creamy and lovely as you do. Especially with the ham and peppers. And did you miss the memo about my headache?"

"We pronounce it hangover in these here parts."

I roll my eyes. "Potato or potahto."

"Exactly."

" Please ." I smile as I watch him reach for a bowl in the cupboard. He grabs a whisk and pulls the egg carton towards him, running his finger over the braille label on the lid to check the date. He feels for the bowl, running his finger along the lip, and then quickly cracks six eggs into it. I love watching him anytime, but he's brilliant in the kitchen. His movements have grace and surety because he knows every inch of the room like the back of his hand.

"I can actually feel you staring," he says, reaching for the salt and pepper. He measures the proper amount of each onto his palm before adding them to the bowl.

"I can't help it if you're brilliant."

He smirks. "I'm making scrambled eggs. It's hardly Jamie Oliver."

"He's far too bouncy. I prefer you. At least I know you'll cut the toast into little soldiers for me."

"Oh my god. It's like feeding a toddler."

He goes to move past me, and without thinking, I wrap my legs around his waist, stopping him in his tracks. "You, of all people, know that's not true," I say, resting my hands on his broad shoulders, feeling the heat of his skin and hearing how husky my voice has gone.

He's warm and solid and smells of Byredo cologne. I bought it for him for Christmas last year because the earthy sweet sage, amber, and plum smell reminded me of him, and he's worn it faithfully ever since. It's so very him—like a warm hug—and I squeeze him tighter, wanting and needing to keep him here in my arms. My Stan, in all his clever brilliance.

"Raff?" he says hoarsely.

I suddenly realise he's become completely still, and I swallow hard, emotion popping in my chest like a balloon, letting in the cold air of reason.

Everything I just did was spontaneous—a result of my feelings for him—but I should fucking know better. Once, he'd have laughed about me hugging him and said something sharp, snarky, or both. But that was before the events of six months ago, and now everything is different.

"Sorry," I mutter, letting go and feeling a pang in my heart as he moves quickly to get away from me. I wrap my arms around myself, feeling cold. Until I hugged him, I hadn't realised how empty I've been—starved of his touch.

He hovers. "It's just we can't do that anymore. You know?—"

"I know," I snap, my cheeks flushing at the hint of apology in his voice.

I hate the anxious expression that crosses his face. I can't see him upset or worried. I've never been able to do that.

"I know," I say again, making my voice light. "It was just a hug, Stanley. I give them out quite freely. I wasn't humping your leg. It takes, at the minimum, five Negronis before I do that."

He laughs, his expression clearing, and the relief on his face makes me feel a bit sick. "Are we talking hugging or shagging?"

"I do know the difference," I say, keeping my light tone. "I'd get into enormous trouble if I didn't. I'd be constantly pursued by a legion of bridegrooms with shotguns." I jump down from the counter.

"Where are you going?"

The worry is back in his voice, and I squeeze his shoulder as impersonally as I can. "For a quick shower. I want to wash this day off me."

"Is there enough soap in the world for that?"

"Probably not."

He grins. "Well, you can tell me about it over dinner. Ten minutes?"

I nod. "Perfect. I'm starving."

In the shower, I lean against the tiled wall, feeling the steam fill my lungs. I take a deep breath and then another, feeling my heart rate settle. By the time I come out, I'm Rafferty once more—light and easy.

When I come into the lounge dressed in sweatpants and an old jumper of Stan's, he's waiting on the sofa. Hump is lying on his back, displaying the goods like the jezebel he is. Sleeper's "What Do I Do Now" plays on the stereo, and two plates piled high with food are waiting on the coffee table.

"God, I think I could eat that in ten seconds," I say.

He cocks his head, listening to my approach, and smiles as I settle down next to him. His thigh is against mine, his earlier reservations seemingly gone, and I relish his warmth as we eat and catch each other up on our day.

I savour the sound of his laugh and ham up the day's disasters to chase out more. I'm addicted to his smiles and laughter. I smile at him. This feels more like us. The feeling abruptly vanishes as Stan's phone rings.

"Who is it?" I ask before the phone tells me.

"Bennett calling," it intones in its robotic tone.

I roll my eyes as he answers it. Great, I mouth.

I push the food around on my plate, my earlier hunger vanishing as I listen to his chuckle.

That laugh belongs to me, I think sourly.

I'm not surprised when he turns to me almost apologetically. "Bennett is home from Zurich. Do you mind if I go over to his place?"

My heart sinks. Not tonight, when I have you to myself .

I realise the silence has stretched too long, and his brow is furrowed.

"No," I say quickly, making my voice light and happy. "Of course not."

"You sure?" he checks.

I'm almost positive he'd say no to Bennett in a minute if I asked him to stay with me, but it's the almost part—that slight hesitation now—that makes me saddest because I used to know the fact with absolute solid conviction.

"Positive," I say hollowly.

He grins at me and jumps up from the sofa. My leg feels cold without his against mine.

I listen to him grabbing his stuff. He whistles for Hump, who gives me a startled look as if to say, "Aren't we supposed to be home now?"

I shrug. I can't help him. Lately, Stan's exits seem more like strategic withdrawals. Six months ago, I'd have known what was up. I'd have pushed and prodded until he admitted there was something wrong. Now I can't do that. Our careless actions have changed everything, and now my best friend—the man I used to know better than myself—is like an iceberg, cool and distant, with so much hidden below the surface. And he's drifting away from me.

I return his cheerful goodbye and hear the door slam. The quiet of the flat settles around me like a shroud, and unable to bear it, I put my dishes in the dishwasher and head for the comfort of my bed.

The dream always starts the same way.

The couple kiss torridly on the screen, tongues and hands roaming and clothes starting to come off.

"Lord Billington kisses Jane and then takes off her dress." Stan's audio description comes on, breaking up the sultry atmosphere on the screen like a crowbar on a piece of glass. "He strokes her breasts and then takes off his trousers. He lies atop her, and she opens her legs. They look yearningly at each other as Lord Billington enters her. He thrusts inside her slowly at first and then faster and faster."

"Oh my god," I groan, slumping on the sofa. "This is about as erotic as our old headmaster would have been reading ‘Tropic of Cancer'."

Stan snorts and pauses the Netflix series we're watching. "I'm trying to picture that. Didn't you try to take that book out of the library once?"

"The librarian showed me the door."

"I still can't believe that. Especially after you told her you wanted to read it because you were interested in travelling to Mauritania."

I can't stop my laughter and lean into him. He throws his arm over my shoulders, and I snuggle closer. His body is hot against mine, and I can feel all the tight, lean lines of his torso. I shouldn't pay any attention to it, as this is my best friend, but I can't help myself. It's been happening a lot lately. He'll smile at me, and my heart beats faster. He'll move in a certain way, and my mind will seize on the smooth honey tone of his skin or the sharp line of his jaw. I push the awareness away again determinedly.

"Put it back on," I say, flicking the remote control in his hand. "And do make sure to keep engaging the audio description."

"You were literally just criticising it."

"I'm getting used to his voice. Soon, I won't be able to have sex unless he's narrating it."

"I can't even begin to imagine how he'd manage. The poor man would blush until his head fell off."

"Is that even a thing?" I assume the snooty voice of the audio describer. "‘Rafferty Kendrick's handsome face is set and sexy as he reaches down and unbuttons the footman's breeches.'"

"Wouldn't you aim higher than a footman? What about the butler? You'd have more opportunities to meet. Butlers had their own rooms."

"Stanley, you're managing to be both a snob and almost erotically practical."

"There's no almost about it. I am erotic. And your narration is as far away from literature as I am from shagging Harry Styles. It sounds like bad smut."

"Hush." I continue again in the audio describer's voice. "‘Rafferty tosses back his strawberry-blond hair and lowers himself to his knees. The footman swallows hard, which is coincidental because that's just what Rafferty is about to do.'"

Stan starts to laugh. "The AD man never comments on things. He just states events."

He's close enough that I feel the heat of his breath. With the worst timing in the world, my cock stirs, and I suck in a gasp of air.

"Raff?"

It takes me a second to catch up with the conversation. "Where was I?"

"The AD man never loses his place."

"I'm beginning to hate that paragon of virtue. Now, what was I saying? Oh yes. ‘Rafferty leans in and sniffs at the footman's crotch. A lusty expression crosses his face, and the footman's cock twitches. Rafferty reaches in and draws out the other man's penis. It's hard, with precome slicking the bulbous head.'"

Stan stirs, his breath coming a little faster. I'm unsure if it's my imagination, but the room suddenly seems very hot. I tug at my collar.

"Go on," Stan says. His voice is low and hoarse, and I shudder. What the fuck is the matter with me? "What happens next?" he whispers.

"‘Rafferty…'" I stop and clear my throat. "‘Rafferty licks up the shaft, tasting the tartness of his seed.'" I wait for him to piss take about the use of the word seed, but the room is silent apart from the sounds of our raspy breathing. "‘The footman groans, and Rafferty puts his hand over his mouth to silence him. His other hand cups the man's sac, rolling the orbs gently. The man groans again, his breath wet and hot on Rafferty's palm.'"

Stan strokes my arm in tiny motions, and I'm pretty sure he's unaware of it. I wish I could say the same. It's like each digit is trailing sparks across my skin, and now my cock has become as stiff as a board. Because of Stan. My best friend, I remind myself frantically, but it does no good, and I can't stop myself.

As if from a distance, I see myself nestling closer, pushing the side of my body into his. I wonder wildly if there's been a chemical leak in London where some kind of erotic gas has been released. It's got to explain why Stan is leaning into me instead of pulling away.

"Go on," he says in a low voice.

I know I shouldn't. I should be sitting up and making a joke instead of racking my brains for the words to describe the erotic story. I was never any good at listening to my conscience, so it's understandable that just when I need it most, it appears to have gone on holiday.

"‘Rafferty takes the head of the penis into his mouth. He sucks on it, his cheeks hollowing with the force.'"

Stan's fingers are now stroking deliberately down my arm, and when they reach my hand, he turns it over and trails his fingers over my palm, tracing the lifeline. I swallow a moan. I've been having sex since I was seventeen with a lot of men, but I never realised that such a simple touch could get me so hard.

"Stan?" I whisper.

"Go on," he orders, and the command in his voice makes me move before I can think twice. I arch into him, and he groans. His hand moves in and brushes across the stiff length of my dick.

"Oh god," I groan.

He freezes for a second and my brain returns online for a brief moment.

"What are we doing?" I manage before crying out. He begins to stroke my cock with a firmer, rougher touch. The soft material of my sweatpants might as well be made of tissue paper for all the protection they offer. I reach down to grab his arm, and he stops again.

"No?" he says hoarsely. His cheekbones are dusted with red, and his lips are full and look so soft. He blanches. "God, you're right."

He goes to move away. It's what I should be doing, too. I know it, and he knows it, which is why I'm surprised to find myself reaching to stop him.

"Raff?" he breathes.

I pull down my sweatpants and put his hand on my bare cock.

The pleasure is so extreme that I cry out, arching into his touch, and he moans. It's a shockingly intimate sound, and I have a moment of fear as he releases his hold on my dick. But then he feels for my face, clasping it and pulling me closer.

When his lips touch mine, I expect one or both of us to pull away, to freeze, to snap back into reality.

It's the first time we've kissed. We've never, ever gone down this path. But our mouths move together with shocking familiarity. It feels like we've done this many times in many ways.

His lips are full and soft, and he kisses how he approaches life—full of passion and determination, tangling his tongue with mine and holding my face to an angle that suits him.

Before I know it, I'm lying flat on my back, and Stan is moving on top of me. We both groan as our cocks touch. The soft fabric of his sweatpants rubs against my bare cock, and the pleasure is so extreme that I arch into him. I try to wrap my legs around him, but my sweatpants are at my knees, stopping me, and I reach down, pushing at the fabric. His hand joins mine while he kisses me, and in a flurry of limbs and hot lips, we get my briefs and joggers off. I immediately wrap my legs around his narrow hips, arching up into him and rubbing against him, trying to find some relief.

He levers back, and I groan.

"Stop moving," he orders, his voice thick and rough as he searches for my hands. I clasp his fingers, and he raises our joined hands over my head, pressing them into the sofa cushion. "Stay still."

The command is so hot that I close my eyes, counting backwards as my balls tighten. I knew he'd be like this. We've always spoken easily about sex, and while I know he's vers, he prefers to top. I also know he likes control, which is hardly surprising. What is stunning to me is how much I like it. It makes my skin feel tight, and my head swim.

He grins down at me and releasing one hand, he traces the contours of my face. His finger trails over my lips, and I open my mouth, sucking it in, making him shudder.

"Suck it," he instructs.

I groan before sucking on that finger as if it's a dick, letting my tongue move as my cheeks hollow.

He moans, and using our joined hands for balance, he grinds into me. He replaces his finger with his tongue, sucking on mine for a moment before thrusting into my mouth. The room fills with our groans.

I free my hand and tug at his sweatpants. "Off," I mutter. "Get them off. I need you naked."

He pulls back, and in a mess of movement, we tear our clothes off. Items of clothing fly around the room, and one of his trainers hits the TV, but we don't pay attention as, finally naked, we come together on the sofa.

"Tell me to stop," he gasps as he rubs into me.

I stare up at him. His eyes are closed, but mine have never been more open. I've seen him naked before, but never with the eyes of a lover, and he's stunning. Broad shoulders and a muscled torso dusted with dark hair, tight abs and long legs all covered in golden skin. He's beautiful.

"God," he mutters, twisting his hips in a way that puts a wonderful pressure on my cock. "I can't believe how good it is to kiss you."

I wrap my arms over his broad back, pulling him tighter against me, never wanting to let him go. Our cocks continue to slide and rub together, friction eased by the precome we're leaking. The sofa creaks as our movements get wilder, and Stan's choked grunts get louder as he ruts harder against me.

"More," I gasp, grabbing his arse and resting my feet on his buttocks, urging him on. "More, please. Make me come." The last is a desperate whine.

His head lowers, and I feel his breath against my neck before he grunts, biting into my shoulder. The slight bite of pain lights me up, and I arch, throwing my head back and moaning low and long as I come in spurts over his groin. His breath hitches, and he raises his head, his face set as he searches for his pleasure.

"Come on," I groan. "Come on me, Stan."

He squeezes his eyes shut, and I'm mesmerised as his face contorts and come shoots, hot and wet, over my spent cock and balls. For a second, we're immobile, but then he collapses into me, pushing his face into my neck and breathing in jerky pants. I band my arms around him.

Silence takes the place of our groans and heavy breathing, the atmosphere slowly becoming less content and more anxious. I prod him gently. "Stan?"

He moans pitifully, like a child who doesn't want to wake up and face the day.

Against my will, I grin. "I know you're in there." I hesitate. "We need to talk."

He stays stock still for a second and then sits up. Even when I'm anxious, I can't stop my eyes from greedily travelling over his beautiful body.

He sits back on his heels, seemingly unconcerned about the come streaking his body and his nakedness. He licks his lips. "Raff?"

I grab his hand. "I know. I'm here."

He squeezes my fingers. "What have we done?" he whispers.

I grimace. "I'm not entirely sure, babe. Either something brilliantly clever or ridiculously stupid."

He snorts, his expression becoming lighter. For the first time in my life, I don't give in to the urge to hug him. He cocks his head to one side, and with that eerie knowledge we have of each other, he smiles. "You need a hug?"

"So much," I say fervently, sighing as I move into his arms and we snuggle together. His hug is tight and warm and so familiar. Except for one thing. "Well, this is novel," I say. "It's the first time we've ever done naked cuddling."

He groans. "And you're still talking."

"I can't help it." I stroke his face. "Do you think this was a mistake?" I hold my breath.

If he says it was, I know it's true. He's my behaviour barometer and always has been. He hesitates, and the novelty of it worries me. "Stan?"

He rubs his face and then lowers his hand to trace my collarbone. I shiver, and his head comes up like an animal sensing danger.

"I don't know," he says.

"Well, that's a lot of help, Stanley. Thank you so much."

"I almost want it to have been a mistake that we can dismiss. Because this has the power to ruin everything."

"But?" I ask, my voice wavering.

He shakes his head, looking cross, and I know it's with himself. "I can't say it was a mistake," he finally says.

"Why?"

"Because I'm covered with come and just came harder than I have in years, and I want to do it again." His cock twitches and I feel it in my own, as if they're linked in some way. "Raff?" he says hoarsely.

"Me too."

He slumps in relief. "But what do we do?"

I draw on my knowledge of all things hook-up, which is pretty wide-reaching. In this area, I am more knowledgeable than Stan, who, after his wild patch, gravitates to relationships. The only thought that arrives is to do it again. To feel those feelings over and over.

"We could always just keep doing it," I say brightly.

"Really? Are you actually Satan?"

I snort. "You want me, and I want you," I say, my tone becoming serious. "Does it have to be so complicated?"

"It's always complicated. You know that."

"And so…what? We never do that again? Can you say that now, Stan? The rabbit is out of the hat."

"Not the genie?"

"I don't like the thought of anyone in a bottle. Hat fabric is a lot more forgiving, and the rabbit escapes."

"Don't change the subject. Do you actually want to do this again?"

"And again, and again . Did you miss that bit?" I trace the broad shoulders that had been above me a few minutes ago. "It doesn't have to be difficult, Stan."

I nestle into him, feeling his sweat and hot skin. My cock rises, prodding his arm, and he reaches down almost absentmindedly and grips it, shuttling his hand up and down.

I gasp and rise on my knees, pushing into that tight, hot grip. "God," I whisper. "I want you again. So fucking much." I push his head back, holding his face in my palms as I move against him. "Let's fuck," I whisper.

"But what does it mean?"

"Does it have to mean anything? How can it mean anything more than what we already have?" I say hoarsely. "I know the most important fact, and that's you're the best person I know, Stan. I will never hurt you."

"I won't ever hurt you either."

"Then let's do this," I urge, batting his hand away and climbing into his lap. His hands immediately lower to my arse, settling me against him so our cocks clash and nudge each other.

He takes my mouth in a feverish kiss, his face set in lines of stark arousal. "God, I want to fuck you," he mutters.

I shudder. "Then let's do this." I kiss his lips before pulling back. "We'll do this until you meet someone."

He stills. "What about you?"

I roll my eyes. "That will never happen. You're the most important person to me, and that's the way it will always be. It's how I know that this is all we can have." I suck in a breath. "You know my history, Stan."

"Shh," he says, dropping gentle kisses onto my face. "I know. Shh. I know what keeps you awake each night."

"We'll do this until you meet someone." I caress his lips, my fingers pressing gently at his skin before sliding down his throat and chest. When I pinch his nipples, he gasps. I say in a slow, hazy voice, "Until you meet someone special."

"We. Don't miss yourself out."

"We," I say breathily.

He drops kisses onto my lips, and I open them, letting his tongue inside, and then we're a flurry of motion as we kiss and grope, breathing heavily. I grind down into him, my legs open and wrapped around him, my hole aching.

His fingers slide down the crack of my arse and tap knowledgeably against the pucker.

"Yes," I groan and?—

I wake with a gasp, my cock throbbing like a toothache.

"Shit," I mutter, palming my balls and giving the shaft a rough tug. I arch into my touch, and it only takes a few strokes before I come over my hand.

I subside back onto the bed, breathing hard. I wipe my hand on the sheet and lie there, feeling my breaths slowly steady.

The dream was so vivid. Not surprising, as the memory of our first time together has never lost its clarity. I can't push it away, just like I can't forget how it felt to have him push into my body later on, the feel of his arms pulling me close so that we seemed one person and not two.

It had been so fucking good—the best I've ever had.

Our connection made everything seem hotter and more intense. And so, we kept fucking, telling ourselves that we weren't doing any harm, kidding ourselves that it wouldn't change us. We'd always had the solemnly voiced vow hanging between us. We'll do it until one of us meets someone special.

That potential hadn't worried me. I've never had any intention of meeting that special someone. In fact, I'd run a mile if I did. Idiotically, I'd never realised that Stan already was that person. Not until Bennett came on the scene like a posh, very opinionated wrecking ball and changed everything.

My mind shies away from the conversation I'd had with Stan a few months ago.

I roll onto my back and rub eyes that are suddenly hot. I need Stan back. It's a deep-seated ache that's always there, making my heart hurt.

But I don't know how to get him back. It feels like all our old paths that led to each other are overgrown and covered in thorns.