To hold a hidden pearl, p.21
To Hold a Hidden Pearl, page 21
Week Eight Without Jay, and despite pretty distractions, my nerves put in a reappearance. What if he’s met someone else? What if my Stallion has forgotten all about me? What if he’s found that naïve cat-owning soccer fan he thought he’d meet? Over several Campari and sodas, I confess all to Heathcliff in halting, rusty French. He’s probably now under the impression I’m in love with an Italian pony because vernacular terms really don’t translate or rhyme well in French. Reuben is a patient if somewhat silent sounding board. When he agreed to the job, I’m sure he had no idea it would involve listening to the tipsy ramblings of a lovesick earl, but he doesn’t seem to mind—those wide green eyes regard me kindly.
Week Nine Without Jay and his name reappears on the rota at work, although our paths don’t cross as he’s allocated a set of nightshifts immediately. I hover in my office early in the mornings with mixed feelings of excitement and apprehension, but he doesn’t come calling. Unable to wear my pearls in a clinical environment, I start carrying them with me everywhere, turning them over in the pocket of my theatre pyjamas, running them through my fingers. I exist on a diet of apples and granola until Heathcliff notices my pallor and rapid weight loss during one of our French lessons and takes it upon himself to do something about it.
He orders me to eat something more substantial and rustles up a plate of scrambled eggs, warning me that he won’t leave until my plate is clean. The scrambled eggs happen late on Sunday afternoon. My nerves are shot to pieces, and I’m slumped at the table in my comfiest white cotton nightie, grasping at my pearls. As a distraction, I’m doing my best to decline the future conditional of the reflexive verb se défenestrer, but gosh, it’s hard to concentrate. If Jay doesn’t put in an appearance soon, I’ll be defenestrating myself. Heathcliff patiently watches me, those knowing green eyes full of concern. By now, he’s fully up to speed with all of my foibles.
Our intensive lesson is interrupted by a loud thud, and on the first occasion, we mildly raise our eyebrows at each other, then continue with the lesson. Perhaps it was one of the stable doors banging, or one of the gardeners being particularly heavy-handed with a wheelbarrow. Another thud follows an instant later, louder, more of a thwack really, followed by a less heavy splintering sort of noise, and then a thwack again. We look at each other, Reuben frowning slightly. Thwack! It almost sounds as if…as if…as if someone has picked up the axe which happens to be lying on the bench by the backdoor and is…chopping firewood.
I’m peripherally aware of Reuben reaching for his coat and getting up out of his chair. A little dizzily, I stand, too, my heart threatening to leap out of my chest.
“Do you think that’s him?” asks Reuben, smiling at me gently. “The guy you’ve been waiting for these past few weeks?”
“Yes,” I reply, hardly daring to hope. “It is. But…”
“Breathe, monsieur, remember to breathe.”
He’d prompted me just in time; the room had started spinning. I gulp in some air.
“The thing is, Reuben, I’m scared. I don’t think I’ve been waiting for him for just these past few weeks. I think I’ve probably been waiting for him my whole life.”
“Well, then you’d better go and see if he wants to come and join your life, don’t you?”
“But what if this is just goodbye?” I wipe my wet palms down the cotton of my nightie before reaching for my pearls. “What if…” I say in a whisper, “What if he’s only come here to ask me to return his hoodie? I don’t think I’ll be able to bear it, Reuben.”
“From what you’ve told me about him, monsieur, he’s no fool. And only a fool would walk away from you. Come on; I have a feeling that he’s waiting for you too.”
Chapter Sixteen
Jay
When I look up, he’s leaning in a familiar pose against the door frame, one narrow hip cocked, his alabaster skin covered head-to-toe in white cotton, a hint of lace and pink satin at the notch of his sternum. After setting down the axe carefully, I straighten, and we regard each other for an instant. The voluminous nightie hides his body completely, but the skin stretched taut over his cheekbones hints at the weight loss since I last saw him; the purple smudges under his eyes show the strain. He seems younger and desperately fragile. He won’t have eaten enough in my absence, he won’t have slept enough, he’ll probably have smoked too much. Can I handle this? Can I handle him and all the baggage that comes with this beautiful, lost man and his unconventional life? Do I really want to take this on?
Too right I fucking do.
There’s a shadow behind him, and another figure appears, squeezing through the doorway past Lucien.
Red mist descends.
“Who the fuck are you?”
The figure has morphed into a bloke dressed up as if he’s about to go on stage at the Globe theatre, and from his handsome features, he’s leading man material. Ignoring my less than effusive greeting, he calmly holds out his hand.
“Hello, you must be the big horse I’ve heard so much about. I’m Reuben, and I’m just leaving.” He turns to Lucien and gives his arm a brief squeeze. “I’ll be here on Tuesday, okay?”
Lucien nods, never taking his eyes away from mine. As the guy retreats, he throws a quick comment in what I think is French over his shoulder, and for the first time, a small smile plays across Lucien’s face.
“What did he say?”
“He says you’ve got a nice arse.”
I sniff the air; there’s an unmistakeable aroma.
“I can smell dope.”
The corner of Lucien’s mouth lifts again in amusement, pointy canines just visible. “I can’t tell if that is a statement, a question, a hint, or disapproval.”
That fluttery, fey voice; he could be reciting from the Oxford Handbook of Anaesthesia, and every syllable would still scream sex.
“All of the above, probably.”
Lucien turns slightly, beckoning me to follow him into the kitchen. “Reuben works here on the estate. He’s helping me to brush up on my French.”
“And giving you weed.”
“That’s a reward for declining my verbs correctly.”
We’re in the familiar kitchen now. Nothing has changed, although I spot a replacement flowery pink butter dish near the fridge. A copy of the Telegraph lies on the long refectory table, open at the crossword page, next to a bowl of shiny green apples. My pale-blue hoodie is neatly folded on the arm of the sofa.
“Is that the only reward he’s giving you?”
Lucien is backed up against the fridge, and I stand so close I can smell his fresh-air, countryside scent when I breathe in. He may need a good square meal, but close up, he’s as stunning as ever. Those limpid blue eyes, with just a hint of eyeliner and framed in golden lashes, gaze up at me from his perfect pale face.
“Yes. On occasion, I’ve wondered if he’d like to give me more, but my heart’s not in it.”
“Where is your heart, Lucien?” I ask, and cage him against the fridge with my arms, leaning down into him so I can feel the puff of air against my lips as he speaks.
“Wherever you are, Dr Sorrentino.”
*
Our first kiss is tentative, chaste, it’s enough just to have him in my arms at last and crush him against my chest. “Fuck, I’ve missed you, Luce.”
He giggles into my sweater. “I’ve missed that sweary mouth.”
We kiss again, a little more firmly this time, his tongue mingling with mine. There’s no rush, he’s waited for me, thank God, and I have all the time in the world. My hands roam across his back, bunching up handfuls of fine cotton, loving the cool sweep of it across his smooth flesh. I reach lower, wanting to lose myself in the same smooth sweep across his delicious pert bum, wanting to drag a handful of cotton all the way up his long legs and rub it across his arse cheeks. With only this need in mind, I encounter what feels like the seam of boxer shorts underneath. Hmm, not what I was expecting at all.
Now, one of the divine pleasures of Lucien Avery dressed in a nightie or sheer negligee is the complete certainty that his entire block and tackle is swinging in the breeze underneath. When I fondle him, I have a perverse kick from the knowledge that the only thing separating us is a very fine layer of cotton, or silk, or satin. And trust me, it gets my dick hard like nothing else; I’ve had two months masturbating daily to exactly that thought.
“You’ve become a smidge prudish in my absence,” I joke as he kisses me. I give the seam of his boxers a little twang against his skin. He hums his agreement and rubs his dick up against mine. Deciding there are far too many layers between us, I raise both sides of the cotton nightie and take it up and over his head.
“What the fuck!”
“Gosh, that sweary mouth again.” He laughs, giving a delightful wiggle of his adorable tush.
I didn’t even know stuff like this existed, let alone ever dreamed of having a gorgeous man modelling it for me. I can’t lie; Lucien stark naked is good, really good, unquestionably good, but Lucien wearing nothing but the palest pink lace boxers, with a little black satin bow just where the tip of his hard cock is straining against the lace, comes a close second. Or maybe joint first place. A matching pale-pink feather dangles from his left nipple, and such a rapid surge of hot pleasure cascades down my dick that I fleetingly wonder if I’ve come in my pants. Sinking to my knees in awe, I run my hands down his sides until they rest at his hips before burying my face into the lace over his lower belly and his erect cock and just…breathe him in. Rubbing my cheek against him, I breathe and breathe and… breathe.
I feel like I’ve completed a steeplechase, not the one the horses do, but the one that those insanely skinny, fit athletes run at the Olympics; the one where they race round and round a track for bloody ever, and just as they find a rhythm, they have to negotiate a hurdle or a water jump without falling or skidding or succumbing to injury, every obstacle seemingly designed to prevent them from safely reaching the finish line. And as I kneel on the cold stone floor of Lucien’s kitchen, at his feet with my arms around his waist, filling my lungs with his musky warm scent, his long fingers softly carding through my mop of hair, I know I’ve surmounted every barrier thrown in my path and finally reached the end.
I have no idea how long I remain that way. Too long, evidently.
“Is this some sort of tantric blow job technique you’ve been honing while you’ve been away, Jay?”
Never let it be said that Dr Lucien Avery is subtle. As he pushes against me, I respond by licking the length of his cock through the lace, coming off at the tip where already I can taste his salty wetness through the delicate holes in his underwear. No doubt I’m developing a wet patch of my own, and I adjust myself through my jeans before giving another firm lick.
“As much as I adore these, they’re coming off.”
I’m much better at blow jobs since my first foray in Spangles. And I have the added advantage of a pat of Lurpak butter nearby. Seconds later, like a pro, I’m sucking on his knob while simultaneously reaching for the butter and palming my own dick. I hear the first heavenly ‘gosh’ as one buttery finger breaches his arse and then another as I twist it and rub against his prostate.
“Jay, Jay, I’m going to…Jay…”
I bring my mouth off him with a wet pop and, regaining my feet, walk him backwards to the sofa, shrugging out of my clothes and toeing off my trainers. “Not until you have me buried inside you, Luce.”
With a groan of pleasure, I sink down on top of him as he spreads wide, welcoming me in. I had imagined our union, after such a length of time apart, would be loving, spiritual, and sensual, but fuck, I’ve missed having my dick in his arse as much as desert plants miss rain. The feeling is mutual; within seconds, we’re rutting like sex-starved cavemen—I’m definitely sounding like one, even if Lucien is keeping his powder dry. He’s limber, and with his legs over my shoulders, I tunnel so deeply that I come with a shriek, and he’s right there with me, accompanied by a mountain of whispery gosh’s. I could drown in his gosh’s.
*
“I was incredibly brave in your absence,” Lucien declares a while later. We’re in the four-poster, limbs wrapped around each other, those ice-block feet tucked into the crook of my knees. I’m naked, but I’ve insisted he put on another pair of those ridiculous lacy things, and he’s humouring me. Honestly, once you get to know him, Dr Avery is a complete softie. Dr Avery-the-softie is currently licking my collarbone like a cat, although I’m trying to ignore it because it’s ticklish.
“I know you were,” I say, “because I tracked down Will and phoned him every few days for an update. There was no way on earth I could have walked away and not known what was going on with you for two months. I’d have been worried sick. So Will agreed he’d have one of his guys visiting the house regularly for me. Of course, I didn’t realise what a gorgeous stud he’d lined up for the job, otherwise I’d have been back like a shot.”
“I even managed to stop smoking,”
“Good. Maybe your sperm count will recover sufficiently for you to have all those albino babies that you want. I’m happy to start trying for one now, if you like.” I give him a quick squeeze, and he snuggles down.
“Did you miss the reproduction lectures at med school, Jay, darling? That’s not how it works.”
“We’re going to keep trying anyway. And we need to get some more meat on these bones. That’s my main priority.”
Will had warned me he didn’t think Lucien was eating much or sleeping well, but it was still a shock when I saw him the first time. Yet, mentally he’s strong, stronger than I’ve ever seen him. He’s full of ideas for the estate, and I happily let him rabbit on. Now that I’m back and filling the fridge, the food thing should be a piece of cake, so to speak. And on the few nights we’ve previously spent together, as long as he does his octopus thing and sprawls all over me, he seems to sleep like the dead. Fortunately, I’m rather fond of octopuses.
“Are you here to stay, darling?” His tone is deliberately light, but I sense an undercurrent of anxiety.
“If I told you a suitcase and three boxes full of my crap are piled up in the car, would that be the correct response?” I ask, and feel him grinning against my skin. “Homeless and penniless. I’m quite the catch, Lord Rossingley.”
*
He wakes me with a kiss at dawn. I’m lying flat on my belly and my first instinct is to check that I’m not tied to something. It’s like living with Cato, Inspector Clouseau’s manservant—I never have a bloody clue what to expect next. Lucien’s delicate fingers trace a line down my spine, and I shiver as he follows them with his tongue. Closing my eyes again, I stretch and relax into the sensation of his hands massaging my muscles and his tongue trailing in their wake. Now this is the sort of wake-up call I could become very used to, and I rub my hardening dick contentedly against the under sheet.
A pleasant waft of vanilla invades my nostrils at the same instant a warm, lubed fingertip invades my arse. Lucien drapes himself over the top of me, leaving his finger just inside. A slight change of position and he adds another, stretching me slightly wider. With an involuntary gasp, I arch my hips back and into him, a silent request for him to give me more.
“Was that a ‘yes please’, darling?” he murmurs into my hair, crooking his fingers just enough to make me groan and push back even further. I’m inelegantly humping the sheet.
“Here, have this.” He shoves a pillow under me, and I continue my pleasurable humping, my hips lifted higher while he finger fucks my arse. I’m so over my initial embarrassment when he first did this; now I can’t get enough. He adds more lube, all the while kissing and nibbling at my neck, his own hard dick grinding against my hip, wet against my skin. He hasn’t explicitly said what’s coming next, but he doesn’t need to. I’ve wanted this for a while, and I’m more than ready. I make to turn over, but he stops me.
“It will be easier this way for your first time, trust me Jay. Spread your legs a little wider.”
I tense as the fingers disappear, and he manoeuvres so that his dick lines up against me. As he blankets me with his body, hot, whispery kisses land on my skin. So when he breaches, I cry out as if I’ve been unexpectedly slapped. It really fucking hurts. He shushes me, and more hot wet kisses land on my shoulders as he drives slowly in, each inch in its turn an agonising stretch and fullness I can’t put into words and am not sure I totally welcome. But it’s bearable because it’s Lucien, and he’s telling me how much he loves me as he inches in further. And when, finally, he’s all the way to the hilt and his balls are squidged up against me, he stills, waiting for me to accommodate the sensation of someone trying to stuff a proverbial camel through the eye of a needle. I use the pause to remind myself that millions of blokes do this all the time and love it—Lucien loves it, and he’s taken it a hell of a lot rougher than this. So instead of screaming at him to ‘take that goddamn thing out of me’, I count to twenty in my head and wait for the sting and burn to pass because Lucien promises me that it will.
When Lucien starts moving, slowly and carefully at first, and I gingerly push back, then, it’s not too bad. Maybe a generous four out of ten. Even my flaccid dick perks up against the stupidly luxurious goose down pillow, and I think to myself that, okay, perhaps maybe not every day, but if it makes Lucien happy and he really, really wants to, then…
“Oh my God, oh my God… Fuck, Lucien that’s good…don’t stop, never stop, please, Luce, Luce, Luce…”
Lucien’s breath is like fire burning into my ear, his sweat-slicked body up against mine, his hands grip my hips, his heavy balls slap hard against my arse.
“That’s right, Jay, come up onto your knees. Just like that, yes, oh…oh Jay, you’re so beautiful, oh gosh…oh gosh…”
