Work for it, p.14
Work for It, page 14
I tell it to settle down, first of all, and then I tighten my hand on Keynes’s hip. Just the tiniest bit, just to catch his attention—but his breath hitches in his throat and his words cut out in the middle. Then those winter fir eyes drill into me, and they’re not saying Stop.
But still, I have to check. “Tell me if I’m doing something—”
“Keep going.” The words are steel and silk all at once. “Keep going, Griff.”
Yes, Sir. Since he’s still holding my arm, and since I don’t want to grab him or drag him or do anything that might make him panic, I limit myself to taking a step backward. One step, hoping he’ll follow. He does. I take another, and another, the two of us connected by touch and a deeper, invisible thread that started out so fine but grows stronger every day.
When my back finally bumps into the nearest tree, he crowds me, his hands gripping my biceps. “Yes,” he breathes.
The word puffs hot against my jaw, dragging me back to Saturday night. I want him so fucking badly it’s starting to give me a headache. I can feel the ghost of his body against mine, the promise of it. If he moved an inch, just an inch, we’d be pressed together from chest to ankle. I want that. I want to rock my dick against his belly as I harden, I want to feel his ribs expanding with every breath. I want that fucking mouth. But Keynes hesitates, his eyes drinking in my face as time stretches. Some small part of me worries about what he sees, because Lord knows I don’t look the way he does. A bigger part of me remembers the moment he said: “If I thought I deserved it, I’d kiss you right now.”
Slowly, my heart pounding right through my chest, I move my hands to cradle Keynes’s face. Sweep my thumbs over those sharp cheekbones, feeling the rasp of stubble he forgot to shave. My head falls forward until my brow bumps his.
I whisper, “You deserve it. Everything you want, you deserve it.”
More thunderous beats of my heart. One. Two. Three. He’s still.
Then he moves like a storm. His hands shackle my wrists, but he doesn’t pull me away. He uses the connection to drag himself closer, so close all I can see or feel or breathe is him, so close he could crawl inside me. I wish he would. The hard length of his dick presses against my own, and I could collapse on the spot, as if this hunger has turned every bone in my body to liquid. Then his mouth takes mine, and the rest of me is liquid too.
His kiss is desperate.
Soft, full lips, a sweetly demanding tongue, a needy insistence that sets me on fire. He grabs me and wants me and owns me and needs me and I let myself fall into him, get lost in him, cling to him, and kiss him back with breathless disbelief. This man is mine. All mine. The way he makes me feel, he couldn’t be anything else.
Keynes breaks the kiss, presses his hot mouth to my jaw and then my throat—like he gives a shit about me, like he wants to make me a horny, reckless mess. He already has, but the feel of his teeth grazing my skin, his tongue flicking over the dizzying bite, makes my erection almost painful. I rock my hips hard against him, and he grunts. My cock throbs. I feel my own pre-come on my lower belly, where the tip peeks out of my briefs. Fuck.
He pulls back suddenly. Looks me in the eye. “I’ve been thinking about this all weekend.”
“Since Saturday?”
“Listen to me,” he says. “All weekend.”
I am fucking volcanic right now.
He kisses my throat again, and my head falls back to rest against the tree. Above me, the forest’s sparse canopy lets in streams of sunlight, and it looks like something holy. This is holy. Keynes slips a hand under my shirt, finds the head of my erection and pauses, looking surprised. I have one second to hope it’s not too much for him, that this won’t make him stop—then the heel of his hand presses hard against my dick, and my whole body jerks, and thoughts fly right out of my head.
“Jesus fucking Christ,” I groan, thrusting against him, helpless and mindless and hungry. I cup his nape with one hand, pushing until he looks at me. His pupils are blown, his mouth wet and swollen, his breaths coming rough and uneven. He meets my eyes and swipes his thumb over the head of my dick. The noise I make isn’t human.
Keynes raises his hand and sucks my pre-come off his thumb.
Oh, holy fucking hell. Need for him takes over me, humming through my blood like whiskey. I hold his jaw in my hands, coax his mouth open like he’s been misbehaving—he has been misbehaving—sweep my tongue inside and taste myself on him. He moans, palms my dick through my jeans, squeezes.
Perfect. So fucking perfect, but— “I want to make you come.” Want to do this for him, not the other way around.
“Do you?” he asks faintly, and I have no idea why he looks so fucking surprised.
“Of course I do,” I say. “If you want me to. I’m about to come all over myself, so it’s only fair.” That’s nothing but the truth, and it turns out Keynes likes the truth, because something about him seems to melt.
He drags his teeth over his bottom lip and groans. Then he says the most hilarious and adorable thing to ever leave his mouth. “I don’t want to make a mess.”
When I laugh, he glares—but his death-stare isn’t as effective when he’s rocking his swollen cock against my hip.
“I’ll clean you up,” I promise him. “But only if you want me to. It’s okay if you don’t. I’m just saying, if you do—”
“Yes,” he growls.
I drop to my knees.
Then he blurts, “Wait,” and my heart stutters. Is he okay? Did I push him too fast?
But he sinks to his knees as well, and kisses me again. Hard, deep, possessive—or maybe that’s just wishful thinking. I don’t care. His tongue battles mine, his teeth catch my bottom lip, and a groan rolls through his chest. He pulls away, panting harder than ever, and says, “I want to, but you’ll get into trouble. If anyone—”
“Shit, yeah.” A fraction of the blood filling my cock returns to my brain, and I remember that I’m at work and strangers are roaming Fernley Farm’s land today. They aren’t supposed to pass through here, but people do things they shouldn’t all the time.
For example, right now I’m grabbing the swell of Keynes’s arse and practically bending him in half as I kiss him again.
When the kiss breaks, he’s laughing, and so am I. He is the purest thing I’ve ever seen in my life, smiling with kiss-swollen lips like a filthy angel, bumping his forehead against mine in a way that screams trust, closeness, a thousand things I never thought I would get from him. But now that I have them, even in the tiniest doses, I’m high. Being with him is like watching seeds slowly germinate, fresh green shoots fighting their way free of the earth. I think he might be sun and air and water. I think I might be hooked on the feeling of having him.
Which could be a serious problem.
I’m breathing hard, still smiling silly, but my thoughts turn cool and concerned in an instant, like spring showers washing away the heat. I lean back on my hands and feel the dirt and debris of the forest floor against my palms, letting it ground me. Sometimes, when she was quiet and pale and exhausted, my mum would lead me along Fernley’s stream and tell me, or maybe herself: If you’re lost, go outside. Everything’s easier under the sky.
That must be how Keynes and I are doing this right now, how we’re making each other feel so good without reservations. Because we’re under the sky.
“Come on,” I say, heaving myself up and holding out a hand to him. When he takes it, accepting my help without a moment’s thought, something soft rises in my chest. I pull him up, keeping hold of his hand as we wander through the trees. The connection makes me feel even taller than usual. I am a forest giant.
“Griff?” he says.
“Yeah?”
“My name is Olu.”
I roll him around on my tongue. He tastes like peach nectar.
Olu
Griff says it over and over throughout the day: my real, my private, my vulnerable name. I think we should start over there, Olu. You’re filling up fast, Olu—look, I got you a spare bag. Olu, could you show this lady to the next field? Every time, he looks at me like he knows me. Every time, I wonder if maybe he does—if maybe he snuck in, under my armour, past every icy defence, and embedded himself into some vital part of me. I don’t know if the idea is blissful or terrifying, but I do know every time those dark eyes caress me, and that fine mouth shapes my name, I shiver. And I remember how it felt, to want somebody for the first time in forever.
No, not somebody. Griff. It’s Griff who makes me feel like myself, Griff who makes everything safe, Griff who’s taking me apart piece by dizzying piece. No-one else. I can still taste that drop of his come on my tongue, sharp and salty, and I want more. I think of him on his knees for me, and the way my body felt—electrified, clean, mine—and then I have to think of something else before I disgrace myself.
Since my feelings toward him are rioting out of control incredibly quickly, I decide it’s time to get to know him better. The more I know, life has taught me, the less I’ll like him. And considering how much I want him, and how reckless it makes me, liking Griff as little as I can seems a sensible precaution.
So, while he makes me feel exposed and delicate with nothing but gentle looks and cheerful company, I try to peel him like fruit. Starting with Henry.
“What are you going to do about the recipes?” I ask.
“I don’t know, Olu. Thank you, Sir, thank you very much.” He nods at an elderly man who’s leaving the fields with a bin bag of elderflower.
“But what do you want to do?” I prod.
“I don’t know, Olu.” Griff sounds exasperated and I don’t blame him—my questions have been never-ending—but he has a soft little smile on his face and a fond sort of light in his eyes, and he won’t stop saying my name.
“Well, you can’t let Henry get away with using you.” This is meant to be reconnaissance in my mission not to get too attached, but I am starting to suspect myself of ulterior motives. It feels disturbingly like I care about this, about Griff, although I cannot fathom why. I’ve liked lots of men, kissed lots of men, found myself tempted by a forest blowjob with lots of men, but I don’t recall ever giving a shit about their daily lives, achievements or disappointments. I can’t even remember what Jean-Pierre’s job was.
Oh, no, I do recall; he never had a job.
Either way, the issue at hand is this: I want to shove my foot up Henry’s arse for the way he manipulated Griffin. I can almost see how it all occurred, can imagine Henry’s easy laughter and fake pity and the disbelieving tone he’d use, a thousand tiny things all designed to add up to, Why are you even here? You don’t matter. Not a bit.
Bullshit. Bull. Shit. Griffin matters more than anything.
To the success of Fernley Farm, I mean. He is a very good production manager.
“I’m not sure what to do,” Griff says, reaching up like the Big Friendly Giant to harvest the very top of the tallest bush in this field. “What can I do?” It should sound like a hopeless lament, but it doesn’t. And when I look at him, at his raised eyebrows and calm interest, I realise he’s not cursing society or capitalism or what have you. He’s asking.
He’s asking me.
For advice.
Twinkling, starlight pleasure hits me, scattered and shy in the dark of my past. I clear my throat and focus on what Griffin’s asking. I want to answer well for him. I want to help.
“Lots of people do what Henry’s doing,” I begin. “They count on their staff not knowing enough to realise that they’re being mistreated. Or on the fact that most people can’t afford legal disputes, especially not with the kind of team I know Henry’s family uses. He’s in control of a huge part of your life, so he’s effectively trapped you. This isn’t my area of expertise, and I have laughably little experience, so don’t take anything I say as legal advice—”
“I thought you were a lawyer?”
“I qualified. Sometimes I draw up contracts for friends or family, usually when they need them for underhanded purposes.”
He gives me a baffled look, his brows drawing together. “Underhanded purposes?”
“For example, my best friend Theo once asked me to draw up a contract for a woman he was trying to sleep with.”
“Uh…” Griff is frowning even harder. It’s a good look on him. Recently, everything seems like a good look on him.
“It’s a long story,” I say, “and it makes Theo sound like an absolute twat, but he’s married to the woman now, so…”
Griff huffs out a laugh and shakes his head. “So, you make good contracts, is what I’m hearing.”
“No, I think the marriage is more to do with him being attractive and successful and a rather nice fellow.”
He grunts. It’s his Uh-huh grunt, a short, sharp noise that manages to sound openly mocking.
“The point here is,” I say severely, steering us back on track, “that I can’t offer you legal advice.”
“So you really are a writer? You don’t work as a solicitor at all?”
I falter, mostly because I keep forgetting that I’m here under false pretences. “I’ve never worked as a solicitor.”
There. I told him the complete truth. And continued to imply a lie.
I feel guilty. Why do I feel so guilty?
“But I’ve never been published, either,” I add. More truth. More implications. Manipulation, really, that’s what this is, which makes me no better than Henry. “I just work for a publisher.” I don’t mention my brother-in-law, or how that position came about, or that it’s now technically over.
I am sick of my own lying mouth. I change the subject.
“My advice, as a friend, would be to stop offering Henry recipes. Hoard them for yourself, and let’s see how the brand fares without new seasonal flavours from you. Because from what I saw while haunting the admin and marketing teams last week, Fernley Farm’s success really kicked in when you started putting out new, seasonal flavours—and those do come from you, don’t they?”
“Yes,” he admits.
Such a simple, quiet word to confirm what he’s done. It seems to me that Griff’s talent and leadership are largely responsible for Fernley Farm’s status as some sort of soft drink rising star, but everyone around here treats him like an irritant at best. I’m so bothered by that, I have to take a deep, green-scented breath to calm down.
After a moment, I attempt humour. “Of course, you should feel free to share the recipes with other people. Such as me.”
Griff gives me an amused, sideways look, still picking the highest flowers. “Hang on—is this that, uh, industrial espionage? Are you here to get my recipes for yourself?” He’s smiling, shaking his head, and I know that was a joke. But does he realise he can’t seem to accept my reason for being here? Does he even notice that he’s secretly, subconsciously convinced I’m bullshitting?
How does he know? How can he tell I’m not me all the way through?
I shove the worries and confusion away. “Maria may have given me some chilli and cranberry cordial last night,” I say, “and I may have pledged my undying love to it.”
He laughs. I drink down the sight greedily: the smile, the eyes, the way his tanned skin shines under the sunlight. I want to run my hands over the roughness of his beard and into the thick mess of his hair. I want to plaster myself against him once more and feel the exhilaration of being fearless and mindless and head over heels in lust, no caveats. I want to gorge.
“You can try more, if you want,” he says. “More of my recipes.”
And more of you? I hope so. “I’d like that.”
“Come over after work?”
I breathe deep, my ribs twinging slightly, my body flooding with the sharp, bright scent of him.
His flush deepens, and he adds, “That’s if you don’t mind. I have to stay later, so you’d have to wait. And—”
I cut him off, and say again, “I’d like that.”
He smiles at me, really smiles, sweeter and more open than I’ve ever seen before. His incisors are unusually sharp, his inky eyes are cradled by fine lines, his crooked nose is charming. This is Griff warm and approving—of me. It’s a striking chime of a moment; it’s brand new. He is shining like the sun, and I think… I think he might be handsome. Oh, God, yes, he is. Without any warning at all, he is.
I narrowly resist the urge to kick him and tell him to stop. My heart is pounding against my ribs, which are still feeling delicate. He really ought to have some consideration for my condition.
God in heaven, hear my prayers. I am in serious trouble.
11
Olu
Griff does indeed have to stay later, but that’s okay. I perch on Fernley Farm’s gate, the same gate he once scolded me over. That’s what he was doing, that first morning; trying to intimidate me with dark looks and harsh words that I’ve since learned don’t suit him. At the time, I was mildly unsettled and reluctantly intrigued. Now I recall the scene with something like arousal. I remember the things I used to want in bed and wonder if I’ll be able to want them again. Then I remember the way Griff touched me earlier, his mouth a brand even as he gave me the dominant position, and I start to think that eventually, I could.
But I’ve spent enough time mooning over the man for one day. My journal is in my hands because writing kills time, and because helping a little fruit farm harvest their elderflower in a tiny village was just as much of an event as I hoped it would be. More, in fact. My hand is cramped from everything I’ve written so far, and images slide through my head, begging to be captured, to be funnelled into words so I’ll never forget. I’ve tried my best, but it’s hard to put down on paper how it feels to be alive.
That’s always been my struggle, the reason why I’ve never bothered to share my writing: I can’t possibly capture how it feels to be alive. Therefore, everything I write is shit. Or something.
